Third time lucky

Part Uno: Transiting through Redland


Aeroflot rocks!Since rock is also from the 70s. We had grown up with the Air India treatment. Jet is new. Indigo is new. The Kingfisher swimsuit calendar is new. But at the end of the day, I guess every Indian yearns for the old world Air India motherly treatment. That is why we cry for attention - whether that is the extra cup of coffee that we ask for (or 2 or 3 until the correct airhostess brings it) in the request to turn down the air-conditioning even though you can control the fan, in the silent treatment hoping that they warm up to  your innocuousness. All this, because of Air India. When I stepped on to the Aeroflot flight, I expected the same. And there were signs. The absence of in-flight entertainment, the drab 70s minimalist bullshit buttons, the rexine in blue. We knew that the women would sing us lullabys. And then it turned wierd.

For instead of women, the flights are filled with motherly fatherly stewards. There is a reason why its called motherly and not fatherly. You cannot ever imagine a 50-year-old man asking you if you would like some extra milk in your tea. Even in this politically correct world, these are matters that scar you for life. Men are men. Women are women. Even if you're gay.

Everything else is perfect. There was no glitch in the service, because there was no service. The broccoli tasted infinitely better than the fish for a change. The flight was as relaxing as a boat, mainly because it was bobbing up and down mid-air. It also reminds you of the finer elements of life, elements that we had taken for granted - like a flight landing without crashing. At the end of it, I think Aeroflot is Air India's marketing ploy, to make itself look better. Commuunism came to India on this ?! No wonder it is doing so well.

Part Dos: La Capital


Madrid is supposed to inspire you. After all, it inspired Cervantes, Goya, Hemmingway and almost everyone else. In the Cafe Solos, the Mantacedos, the Vino Tintos, the Vino Blancos, the Patchinas, the Churos, the Jamon, the Museo del Prado, the La Latina and the Lavapies, in Sol or even on the Gran Via. Sadly, it didnt -  well until I decided enough is enough. I was done searching for the party. I was done begging for the perfect Croissant. I was done with the Bernabeu. And I was done with the meetings. On a cold, rainy, Saturday morning, I stretched out, opened up and almost shouted out - "Where the Fuck are you Madrid ?!!"

In answer, the city brought me to El Botanico, the perfect breakfast place for the perfectly cold weather with the perfectly cold waitress. Some Churos and some Cafe Solos later, I would have loved to say that I felt like taking on Saturday. But to say that would be quite stupid and ironical. Saturdays in Spain give themselves over to you. If you want to take on Saturday in Madrid, you might as well shoot a goal on an open field at the Bernabeu (or against the entire team sans Casillas) and say that you have won the Champions' League.

The good parts about Madrid, Barca and Cape Town are that they embrace modernity and mix it with the old paintings to create the perfect scotch. Warsaw is still stuck in the cold war. Joburg is still stuck with the apartheid and Delhi is, well, stuck. But Madrid is moving, and it is best symbolised by the El Botanico. It 10 in the morning in a cold rainy Madrid. No wonder the waitress is like Elizabeth II. Let this not ruin your impression of Spanish women.

For when she smiled, the rain stopped and the sun came out - quite literally. And though it was time to pay the cheque and leave, there was a sudden necessity of un cafe solo mas (please refer to the reflections on Aeroflot).

Madrid, in itself, is quite similar to Delhi. Being the corporate headquarters, you expect the main roads to be quite broad and laden with trees and Spanish Goth buildings. The poverty is well-hidden in the subway or singing "My funny valentine" in front of the del Prado.

Although bad in many ways, it is good in one way though. It is human - unlike Goteborg. The women have more to them than Prada and Hermes. There is Prada and Hermes of course. But thats not all. And while the legs are not everything, they are quite important.

Saturdays are nice. The sun comes out, the autumn leaves come out, the vermut tastes good, and the madrilenos come out. It is also good that the world has Spanish as a language. It makes things nice and noisy - even if you are exploring Renoir's work.

Its a shame that I have to go to Barcelona already. I do need a little more time sipping vermut and writing - like Hemingway. Bottled vermut tastes so good that I can imagine how nice it must be, when from the tap. Madrid is the quiet time you spend before the party in Barca and there is the flamenco still.

And thus the tale of Madrid ends - in a coffee shop on Atocha Sants sipping cafe solo while listening to Akon. Whatever happened to the Flamenco ? It is so much better! That night at Anton Martin reminds you of everything.

In a bar smaller than the roll shops in Calcutta, was fitted in one place for Cervesas, one small platform, eight members of a flamenco octet and a crowd of around forty.

While smoke fulled the room (including you-know-what - its legal to smoke but illegal to buy) and the beer flowed from the taps and the women turned up in their Friday best by Bombay standards on a Wednesday, the octet conjured magic like I had never seen before.

The sax oozed sex while the guitar and the piano made my beer more potent than Absynth and the flute made everyone fall for it. Anton Martin passed by while the small street with cobble stones came alive and apart from the usual omnipresent idiot, there was nothing much to bother you.

People philosophised on how the flamenco was quite based on the taal (it apparently was influenced by the tribes of Rajasthan) and one woman actually did the Kathak in perfect sync with the beats. The more robust material shall be left out of this dialogue.

And thus ends the tale of Madrid. Barcelona with Gaudi and one-night-stands, should be a lot of fun. And when the usual gang of idiots meet up, sparks will fly. After all, apart from Cape Town and JoBurg, Barca has made for one of the best nights outside India.

Part tres: La otro ciudad

And so it was. Gaudi is bewildering. Its like giving a million dollars  to a kid in a missionary school and telling him to play with clay. Of course what you get will send people climbing up trees ans running for cover. Gaudi did exactly that. The Sagrada Familia is the Mad Hatter's home, except that it is Christ's. The entry would be perfect for Wonderland, except that it is for religion instead. It might as well have impressed upon the works of Lewis Carol and Steve Jobs. And after more than a hundred years, this is still under construction. Someone said 2030 is the magic year. Or was it 2130 ? Well so much happy, and so were the other kids. The adults cringed.

From there, we moved on to the Botafumerio. When in Spain, eat your heart out. Luis said that for the Spanish, eating was a ceremony. We finish a regular meal in 20 minutes. The Soanish finish the same in 2 hours. There is the entre, the mains, and the postre and coffee. So much for food, that must see places included restaurants or tapas bars or roadside food (although there is not much of it). I thought Barca would be more robust than Madrid. But everything is quite Tra la la.

Prawns and oysters with noodles. The need of desert. Ceylon tea and cigarettes. The bong in me is going to be the end of me. But you cannot help it. I am not gorging on KFC or McDee's or roti and tadka. This is fine dining, by waiters who put water in ice buckets for you. Among gorgeous glamorous heiresses and heads of state. Well, I might as well speculate on the bit about the heads of state.


Part Quatro: Epilogical ramblings


And like that, 2 weeks whizzed by. Of course the last 3 days were spent in a large room comprising of people, people and airhostesses. Of course the evenings were spent in small bars, a lot of ham, a lot of cava, a lot of wine, one South African and a lot of French.

It is what you imagine. Spain for one, and Europe in general has been in action for quite some time. And like any place in action for quite some time, has its own little secrets that are just waiting to be unravelled. But you need friends, or someone who knows the streets - the small alleys that would be difficult to find and would direct you somewhere else unless you have the people who know it. And moreover, who wants to brood over a beer alone ?

Paris was too short. While you walk along the Champ-Ulysses after the perfect croissant and before the perfect Touloise sausage, while you ogle at the the women entering Louis Vuitton or wait in line for a Macaroon, while you stare in wonder at the Eiffel Tower - you realise a lot more money and a lot more time to enjoy Paris. Audrey Hepburn knew. Sophia Coppola knows. Douglas Kennedy does too.

Walks down the Ramblas, the Gran Via or the Champs Ulysses notwithstanding, the main cities or Europe are not to be seen for what they are known by, but what they are known by. The small pub in the unmarked street, the waitress's smile, the match watched with folks who have no clue about who you are. I have seen the Bernabeu enough. But I have not seen the Spanish or the French enough. All this nonsense before I take the Air India flight back. Wish I was in Cannes.

Greenland

The only light in Dhel

I am here. I am living. And at 3.7, there is no other place that I would much rather be. These are the only thoughts that come to ming when you sit and write where I am sitting and writing. Fuck the 7-hour excruciating straight climb up 3 mountains. Fuck the fact that you virtually put your life at risk (sic!) when you go down slippery slopes and fallen trees. Fuck the fact that you were supposed to be in Spiti and ended up here. Fuck everything. Dhel is where you should be.


It does take 3 days - from Neuli to Lapa to Shakti to here. But then this is probably one of the best experiences that you would ever have. The Great Himalayan National Parkhas just opened. You are the only human (along with your guides and cooks and porters) in the entire park. Walkways have been covered by dried maple leaves and pine needles. Wild strawberries that taste better than the nonsense we get in Delhi are all along the route. Once in a while there is a feather of a falcon or a Munar. You would, in all probability, be following the tracks of a brown bear with loose motion. Such highlights make a journey. Not the bloody Taj.

The view at Shangarh

After a couple of days in Manali with little hope of going to Kiato, we ended up at Sairopa in the middle of the night  - somewhere between Kullu and... Delhi. A small jungle lodge to crash in, some chai and breakfast with eggs and off we were on what we had imagined to be a cakewalk. An hour later, our thoughts weren't exactly the same. Neuli to Shangarh is all uphill - with Deodars to hang on to while it rained. Shangarh itself was something else though. Once a clearing area for the Pandavas, it is now a meadow with a small village by the side and a brilliant temple in the center. While we seesawed on 2 logs criss-cossed, we did seem perfectly at peace with the rain.


However, the Gods had different ideas. Apparently Lapa was supposed to be better than Shangarh. Apparently Shakti was supposed to be better than Lapa. Apparently Dhel was supposed to be better than everything else. Apparently. Never had apparently been so true. Past the villages and the lazy cow; past the laughing Buddhas and the stubborn guides; past supple mutton and Divisional Forest Officers, life did seem like a stroll. The unusual phone network did bother a little. And although we were happy to know that Germany had been beaten by Serbia, we werent exactly happy about office emails. Shakti took care of that. The bonfires took away all the muscle pain and the "plum ka daru" took away all worldly tensions. As we breezed through marijuana and poppy plantations, things did seem to finally fall in place. The world did seem round and life did seem to be good.

Paul at Dhel

It was sylvan. The climb jerked us our of it. Our leader had been building it up for 3 days. Dhel is at 3700m. From Lapa its just a straight cimb of 5000ft along a mountatin ridge. We did 3 climbs up and 2 downhills balancing ourselves over rocky surfaces covered with moss and a fallen maze of deodars. At one point,licking glucose gave us two steps only. The rest was just a combination of the quest to see exactly what we were fighting for and the jealousy that we felt for our guide and porters who incessantly took us up gruelling straight "shortcuts". When we did finally reach, it took us a while to get over the shoulder aches, the horsefly bites, and the cuts and actually stare at what lay ahead of us. And was it stunning!  Surrounded by peaks and ranges on all sides and flowers and grass in our immediate vicinity, we were open-mouthed enough to let those itsy bitsy mosquitoes in. Dhel is at 3.7 and a true glimpse of how the spectacle that we call the Himalayas.


 I had thought life would be monotonous after Dhel. Once you have reached what should be the highlight of the trip, everything afterwards should just connect you to the road. That should be the only purpose of places like Gumthrao, Shilt, Rola etc.


I could not be more wrong. The places are as magnificent as the routes are difficult. From Dhel, after and introdution of a meadow with Munals all around, we were shocked out of our wits with a route that primarily involves a 3-inch wide track with a rock wall on one side and a 1000m drop on the other. This continues for more than an hour and a half with us getting bored of hanging on for our dear lives. We were rewarded by a view of the ibex running across cliff faces that we would not dare to touch. Gumthrao itself was ok. We were a bit disappointed by the rain and the constancy of it. At one point the next morning we were contemplating staying over for one more night - something that would put a strain on our resources and our moods. Anywayds, we did start and were glad that we did.


For we saw the musk deer and it was apparent that there was a leopard on the other side of the hill. For we could not have come to this place called the Shilt where we saw the Langur and the Mountain Hawk Eagle. As Paul went off to do his business among the nettles, these were my last thoughts.

Generally we (you and me) would not trek for the difficulties. As stupid as it may sound, we would not trek for the views either. We would trek simply to feel alone, to discover places that the road has not and never will, to feel the chill of the breeze or the wild, to live as part of the system that we generally believe we are kings of. In such circumstances, all treks are great. Walking to villages is great and we should remain connected to people without having to save their numbers or add them as friends on facebook. All that is great. But to be all alone. To have absolutely no one come up to you in the day, and to sleep under the stars with a slight worry that the bear might come sniffing... well that is something else. Peace.

of thunder and dragons - through Darjeeling and Bhutan

We all remember that time in the bar when people are drunk enough to disclose their past lives. Some were daughters of Persian kings. Some were sons of Persian kings. Some were Persian kings. Most of the others were either Einstein or James Dean. Well, I have recently realised that I was the last dragon. There is something about Bhutan that is so much better than erstwhile Persia or the US. I couldnt have been anywhere else. And the fact that I was born and settled in the plains is simply God's way of saying "fuck you".

A land locked away and kept a mystery to most who cannot afford it, Bhutan has been my preferred Shangri La after Ladakh. The water is pure. The people are pure. The alcohol is cheap. The cigarettes are illegal. Its how life should be. The fact that I love it is cliched and quite an understatement. After you have somehow escaped Assam, Bhutan feels like one of those lost paradises that movies keep talking about. A four-hour journey from Agra to Delhi felt taxing. A 6-hour journey from Gelephu to Wangdue felt like a dream.

The people have their priorities right. The king has his priorities right. To match the abstract notion of Gross National Happiness in such a way that you see the tangibility on the people's faces... I dont believe that even the most famous address on Janpath could do that.

I started off in Gelephu. The border town is just waking up. No one really knows about it. None of the drivers at the Guwahati airport knew where it was. I was in love with it already. A 6-hour drive through villages where women wore their Sarees like the latest Chanel evening gowns, and I was in. The mystery was backed by this elaborate gateway in the middle of no-where and with the hills just rising beyond it. It is only in Gelephu that you can see some of the smaller factors that contribute to the happiness - the Druk and army distilleries. A Black label here and I am ready for whatever Bhutan throws at me.

The next day was reserved for Wangdue. Another 6 hours and I was finally at a place where the only sound I could hear is of the river, where there is no mobile network and where "no wireless networks found" is a very prompt message that has undertones of "wtf are you thinking!!". This considering the fact that the place I am staying at is only 5 min away from the road. And this is not my vacation. A walk through the old dzong brings out laughing novices, stern monks and a walk outside brings out the colourful bazaars. Wangdue is where the heart is. Do you remember the old worn posters stuck behind the back of autos, the ones that you chuckled on and considered cliches just because it was virutally impossible to find such a place ? Well, this is what I saw from my balcony . The green river roared and tumbled. Behind it, a hill rises that is covered by creepers and trees that I have to say are lush and green for lack of creativity in finding a better description. I was home, and there is no other place that I would rather be.

From Wangdue, I headed towards el capitol... probably the biggest city in Bhutan. Thimphu is known for a lot - for the dzong, for the king, for the medicine, for the crafts, for a lot. But Thimphu is incomplete without the night. It is only then that the oysters and the oyster bazaars come out. It is only then that you can get to clubs called Ombar that boast of Thimphu's budding and awesome nightlife. While you spend the night on blues and druk 11000, it is only now that you realise that the whole issue about Bhutan fighting its past with its present is not really a fight, but a gradual blend. The same women looking so homely in their kiras do let their hair down and groove to Joplin and CSNY. What would life be without drinking under the stars listening to Clapton in a land known more for not being known about that much.

Thimphu also opens the gates to Paro - where they built a monastery in a crack on the mountain face more than 200 years ago. With such names as the tiger's nest and the whole buildup to the nest (you can only hike up to the place... a hike of 3-4 hours), you can see the glamour that stems from the mystery. And it all seems worth it. When the monastery does unfold in front of you, you do not miss the lost fat or the fact that you had to wake up early. All you realise is that it is not hard to gain enlightenment if you stay in a place like this.

Phuntsoeling turned out to be my last stop in Bhutan. The gateway city again humiliates you. On this side is a bit of Europe, except that the theme for the day is Himalayan Buddhism. Clean roads, smart places for beef and red rice, ordered gardens, prayer wheels.... on the other side is a an absolute mess, with too many people and too many paan stains.

Darjeeling turned out to be better than usual. The killing and the apprehension of a strike helped take all the Mr. Bannerjees and their chunnu munnus out of Darjeeling, leaving the place very British and very likeable - the way it should have been. It is only when you dont have to see where you are going that you can actually lift your head and check out the former movie theater that is now the municipality building and the post office.

It is only then that you thank god that Bhutan is not an Indian state and realise that West Bengal does not deserve Darjeeling. As I follow my route again, I am reminded of the discussion that I was having with the editor of NGT-ZA. We were discussing why two sides of the border were so different and I said that it is because of the number of people. Bhutan had only 934000 people to manage compared to India's 1.1 billion. "It might seem like a very good reason, but it isnt", was her reply."Its the reason alright. Its just not a good enough excuse", observed her photographer. These were the opening statements while we dived back into the land of the thunder dragon.

It is very wierd. The other day I was reading this article by someone from somewhere who said that the environment was not his primary problem as he was bothered with bigger issues like poverty etc. The only difference between Bhutan and India is that we have not yet realised that all the problems are interconnected.

As I move to Spiti, Sri Lanka and South Africa next, I have come to realise that we would have had a more effective government only if politicians travelled more.

An ode to women - through Sweden and Poland

Introduction and main body of God knows what

You must have heard of women from the Amazon - strong, vivacious, gorgeous, tall - the cougars that every 24 year old hopes for. What we heard of was legend - possibly a rumour. But every rumour has a miniscule amount of truth that actually triggers the rumour. And so it is in this case. It is true that such women exist. and it is true that our fantasies have some base. But whichever loser wrote about it, was as confused with his geography as Columbus. The women do exist, but not in Amazonian rainforests, but the snow-laden hills of Sweden and Poland.

A glimpse through Goteborg and Stockholm would give you an idea of what I am talking about. In almost every article that I have written, I have stressed on how the women of the region have been beautiful. But things just keep getting better. And this is different. This is on a totally different level altogether. There is no way that such Venusian beauty can be compared to any other region.

Theyre tall. Theyve got great legs. And theyre awesome to talk to. These were my main deducations while on a recon trip for market possibilities in Sweden. Given this fact, I would definitely push for Sweden as a target market and more sales visits to this amazing land of women. Whatever time you spend here is too little. And I spent only 3 days.

Moreover, the women here know that they are beautiful. They know that they are what all men look forward to. Calls from the office have mainly been about blondes rather than work.

And so be it. The next time around, hopefully there will be a little more time at hand to explore this wonderful land that not many people visit since its quite pointless otherwise. The food sucks. The traffic does not exist. It is cold as hell. But these are minor discomforts in our ultimate quest. Thus closes the chapter of my ode to Sweden. Poland promises to be a lot more and uncharted for that matter.

And then I thought that Sweden was the pinnacle. But its a pity that not many of us travel to Poland. As it was once said, "The world is a book, and if you havent traveled to Poland you have not read the steamiest pages". And so it is. The city itself is just coming out of communism. You can still see the matchbox houses among the victorian ones. But the city has something to boast about - in fact a lot of that. And that pertains to the subject at hand. But otherwise as well, the city is just opening itself and showing what it is truly made of.

With an excellent nightlife even at 6 in the morning, the city promises everything. Moreover, its an easy place to be. Not too many people are bothered about the drudgery of life. They are more obsessed with the vodka, their partners and the fact that life is more important than investment banks. A strong jazz culture prevails, probably a reminder of the times past and you can almost imagine yourself in a spy movie - quaint bars with jazz playing, the entry of the lady in red, the small beretta she hides underneath her dress, the wailing of police sirens outside, the man in the panama hat, the huge man smoking on the side noticing everyone's movements, the jazz. This is probably the only evidence that the cold war days were absolutely fabulous.

Warsaw is a place that should be walked through. Don't take a metro, not a stupid merc, not even the cute little trams. Don't even cycle. In Warsaw, you just walk. It is the only way to discover without being late for your appointment. It is also then, that you may see a car chase in action. A casino was looted in Switzerland while I was watching TV while sitting in my room (waiting for my next assignment ;)) - typically Warsawa. It is probably the most James-Bond-ish place in Europe. While Goteborg is spic and span and structured, Warsaw is spic and span without intending to be so. As a result, it is not structured. And you cannot attempt at making sense of the structure, for you would be busy making sense of the street names. I just matched the first 3 letters with the map and went ahead. With 1 million people, it has too many streets for the number of people. Apparently there is a Kopernica street that has only one house.

But back to the music. The cafe I am now in has acid jazz playing. The waitress looks like she could make you spend half your money if she wanted to. My friend had a similar encounter in Barcelona and trust me, it doesn't feel good when you wake up the next day next to an empty wallet instead of a hot woman. All I need now is a white suit and a panama hat. Should have been to Cuba before coming here ;)

Top top things off, I found the office to the secret service in Poland. It is quite close to the Slade Miasto or the Old Town - an area with old buildings and Sherlock Holmes-style cobblestone streets. You can easily get lost in one of the lanes, and as someone told me, walk for hours discovering new pubs and places to eat.

The guide book given to me at the hotel has 3 great paragraphs among various logistical and boring text.

The first was concerning smoking: "Smokers tired of relentless persecution in the West will be delighted to know that few countries boast of such a fierce commitment to the habit as Poland. Although the number of male smokers has plunged from 70% of the population to 38% in recent years, it is still a very tobacco friendly country. Poland is fast becoming the major European production center for leading brands with Phillip Morris, Imperial Tobacco and British American Tobacco all being major investors in the economy." Love it!!

The second is on prostitution: "Those who visited warsaw at the start of the decade may have memories of a mucky city. With an estimated 1500 brothels, the city was giving the likes of Prague a run for its money, and establishing itself as a destination for hair-palmed perverts. then came Mayor Kaczynski a one-man anti sleaze machine......"

The third is on the drunk tank: "Be warned. Polish beer and vodka have been rocket fuel, and have been the ruin of more than a few good men. If you plan on making a prat out of yourself make sure its not in front of a policeman; if there is one thing these guys hate, its a pissed up foreigner swaggering around like Charlie Big Potatoes. If you're lucky you'll get a good ticking off and a cuff around the ear. Those less fortunate will find themselves in the back of a black Maria, and screeching off in the direction of ul. Kolska 2/4. Known as the drunk tank, its here you'll be charged 250zl, be subject to a strip search and find yur garb exchanged for a blue smock..... Don't expect to be handed the chance of a phone call, this is instant justice Polski style, and those resisting arrest will find themselves strapped to a bed, possibly even forcefully injected with sedatives...."

But to be in winter will not let you have the best of Warsaw. The trees are barren and the cars are mucky. Warsaw and Poznan take on a subdued hue of their spring avatars. The best time would probably be summer.

And so it is. Poland shows how a country can get back together after being destroyed by Hitler and then taken over by communism. The country is thriving and the people take care of their cities, the public transport system is active and more efficient than the Rajdhani express and the women are bellisima. It is sure to develop into a very important city if given a little time. Things look good and the cold winters cant really take anything away from it. Warsawazzzaaa is an excellent place for a quick shot of strong vodka, excellent stroganoffs, for the palace of science and culture, for the impossible-to-pronounce names, for the lust and for the life.

Random stories of minimal importance

The Turkish flight is always delayed. He aways had problems connecting to Istanbul And he has always lost his book on the way. There are 500 different ways of getting back from Warsaw. But by far, Turkish comes a close second to walking as being the slowest means of transportation. And the worst part is people get pissed off - or worse - bored. Only the obnoxious ones seem to be doing the talking. On Good Friday when most people are at home, watching a movie with their family, he has to wait at the departure lounge of an airport waiting for his plane that shows no signs of arriving. From 1340 to 1420 while he writes - as he has nothing better to do (cant play brickbreaker for the phone is out of charge, cant read as he doesnt have a book anymore, doesnt have a computer as he packed away everything to make space in his hand baggage for shot glasses. A steady stream of arrivees on the landing above him gives him some hope. Maybe 1420 wont run into 1500 after all. A good night almost always leads to a bad day.

Epilogue

It is wierd how you miss a place the most on the flight out of there. There are always 10 other things that you could have done. There are so many other people that you had to meet. There are so many other places where you could have spent drinking Wyborowa and talking. No matter how long you've stayed tere, you always feel as if you had to leave when you were just warming up to the place. These last words as I see the lights of Delhi.

As I move to Bhutan and South Africa next, I hope that this feeling of unfulfillment, if I may say so, is reduced.

Mazdrovia