SHIMLA, INDIA -1

Part 1

In November 2013 we spent 8 days in Shimla, Himachal Pradesh, India.

Shimla

Everywhere we went there were Ram Leela posters. I could not resist the temptation to pose with one

Leela Flavour

Shimla the capital of Himachal Pradesh was once known as Simla, the summer capital of the Raj. Steeped in history both Indian and British, Shimla is a gracious city. It is smoke free, plastic free and boasts 94.14 percent literacy rate.

At 2,200 metres (7,234ft) above sea level it seldom gets hot and enjoys snow in winter. A Camelot for me. We were in Shimla for 8 days at the end of November 2013. But alas no snow fell while we were there and there was no skating and skiing.

Sunny cool days, and chilly nights, temperatures ranging from 10c to 18c made November weather magical, but being dry it was a little too dusty, not quite right for body-warmed woolens that caught every mote.

And everywhere is bright and brilliant and colourful, more colour is added by the women in saris and other traditional clothes.

Girls

Garlands for Temple

Citizens of Shimla are kind, helpful, polite and amazingly generous. There are also a great number of dignified elderly people, calm and leisurely. At school break hordes of smartly uniformed students are seen everywhere. Shimla is also packed with local tourists, a haven for Indians from the south and other warm regions. We encountered very few overseas tourists. One thing that really stood out about the local tourists was when we were aiming our cameras at some scene they’d stroll right into our camera view and dawdle, fully aware of what was going on, so unlike Hong Kongers who are always extremely polite and accommodating when they see someone trying to take a photo.

The Ridge and the Mall are reminiscent of the Mall in Darjeeling. The area dominates social life of residents and tourists. It overlooks a ring of snow-capped mountains, and is lined by amazingly beautiful heritage buildings, an eclectic assortment of pleasing architecture many more than a 100 years old, some in ruins, others have aged well and are still in use.

Snow-capped

Mall Homes

Viceregal Lodge

Many of the very busy banks are tiny places, really old and sagging with the weight of Internet traffic. Only US dollars are welcome at the money exchange counters.
See Part 2

SHIMLA, INDIA – 2

Part 2

The wide Ridge, clean and with no through vehicular traffic, is where all tourists and locals with nothing to do but people watch spend their time; sitting on tiered benches all around or standing about chatting, snacking and, of course, people watching. At the end of the Ridge and where the old mall begins are horses for hire.

Horse for Hire

Children and a few adults get to sit on horses that are led up and down a short stretch. The horses do foul up the mall at times but sweepers are quick at hand and immediately clean up.

Here too are Monkeys.

Indifferent Model

Monkeys in the whole of Shimla range from tiny babies to many as large as medium sized fluffy dogs. It is interesting to see many residents caged in by bars and barbwire fencing, keeping inmates safe in and monkeys out. The monkeys on the Ridge are a cheeky and daring lot but seem harmless. They dislike people pointing cameras at them; they make faces, scold threateningly baring their teeth or turn away.

Most leave you alone, but a few snatch bags, sunglasses and food from unwary tourists and vendors.

Veering off and going down the path of any slope brings one into a warren of activity. Shops, stalls, restaurants, temples and dwellings balance precariously, built and supported on slopes and narrow steep ledges. They line the rocky and very narrow crowded pedestrian paths. A big pleasure of walking through the crowded lanes and stopping at times to admire and feel the scene is that no one tries to sell you anything. There are hardly any beggars pestering one unlike in other big cities of India. In the time we spent there we encountered only three disabled beggars.

SHIMLA, INDIA – 3

Part 3

Choice of Wool

The old mall consists of small shops and restaurants, vendors with a variety of goods and homegrown vegetables all on mats on the ground.

Veg Vendor

The route lead down a tortuous path to one of the largest hospitals, Tenzin Hospital.

In the Mist[/caption]

The rest of the city, the lower parts, consists of narrow paved roads that carry heavy horn blowing motor traffic. The congested roads choke with dust and exhaust. We were amazed at the skill of drivers who are able to squeeze through the narrowest of lanes with oncoming traffic, cyclists, pedestrians and parked vehicles. Hotels, office buildings and homes cling to the steep cliffs of mountains. Paths meander through the mazes of mansions and forestry of pine and deodar.

Shimla’s very similar to Darjeeling. Twisting, narrow roads and lanes are lined with stalls and shops some brightly lit and others dark as night. They stock local and foreign goods. We loved walking up and down these lanes until we were ready to collapse. Snack shops abound, hundreds of beautifully packaged snacks. And stands with cauldrons of hot oils frying samosas, pakoras and interesting savories, smelling delicious and warm.

Big Wok

Lots of dhaba style eateries offered freshly made hot parathas, and pickles.

Parathas and Pickles

Food was not too exciting for us – the usual North Indian stuff and some poor imitation Southern food.
We found Baljees Resaurant on the mall one of the best.

Baljees

Mo-mo (dumpling) stalls, especially in the cold nights, are inviting but there was a definite lack of vegetarian mo-mos.

Nothing available like the delicious chilli-cheese and spinach mo-mos of Bhutan, Sikkim, and Nepal.

P.S.
Warning: Avoid public toilets unless you plan on committing hara-kiri whilst in there and so not return to civilization. Restaurant toilets are bearable.

BEIJING ART VILLAGE 798

798 Beijing Art Village

Ballerina

Chinese contemporary art began to emerge in the early 70’s. Since then art zones have sprouted all over China, especially near large cities. The Blue Roof in Chengdu, Sichuan; The Stonehouse Art District in Chongching, Shanghai; and Art Village 798 in Chaoyang, Beijing are the better known ones.

Chinese art is now very much in world focus. Before this art connoisseurs inside China or outside China had not seen much contemporary work. Now Chinese art is considered ‘intriguing and provocative’ and paintings and sculptures have created a world hunger. Chinese art now fetch billions of dollars and China recognizes the dollar value of these artists. Majority of the work is from living artists.

Hong Kong is a venue for high-end sales of contemporary art. Last week in the April Spring Sale a 20th century Chinese art of Zao Wou-ki drew a top bid of HK$37 million (US$ 4.77 million).

Into the Village

Beijing 798 Art District is located in the northeast in Chaoyang District. This large factory area opened up when studio operators found it difficult to afford city rents. A few galleries, foreign and local, moved in 2002 to this discarded old ammunitions factory site. Soon, attracted by the cheap rent more contemporary artists, sculptors and designers have filtered in making this hub, an art colony. The attraction of the place to local and foreign tourists has also given rise to interesting cafes and restaurants, avant-garde boutiques, souvenir shops and stationary and art supply shops.

It is not only a district of Art but has taken on an atmosphere of a place of international village community.

No visit to Beijing should be considered complete without a visit to ‘Art Village 798.’ After having thrust yourself into the daring dusty traffic, having absorbed the landmarks and suffered the chaos of the great wall and the penance and torture of the forbidden city this is a place to retire to in contemplation.

Contemplation in Red

A tangle of lanes and streets of galleries

Lane

Nothing architecturally aesthetic or cohesive but a lovely mish-mash of galleries, design studios and allied small businesses, art suppliers, stationary shops, publishers, book shops, gift stores and kitch boutiques, Mau mementos, souvenirs and art deco cafes and restaurants

Walking though the lanes one comes across galleries of varying sizes of paintings, Chinese designs complementing Western, and indoor and outdoor sculptures and exhibits and wall paintings.

She dances Liberty

Gazing Men

Music Wall Art

Small gardens, seating and play areas offer plenty of down time. Spend the day strolling and people-watching. Simple small restaurants cafes offer community spirit

More Peace Inside

Cafe Time

Sit About

Stamped ‘Made in China’. The giant toys pay tribute to China as the toy factory of the world.
The artist Sui Jianguo, Jurassic Age, 2006 designed these enormous toys highlighting the economic boom
Dinosaur toys are designed and made in China for the world.

Dinasaurs

Super Toys

A cavernous concrete Communist factory of East German Design converted into a gallery with high ceiling and plenty of light and workspace. Red calligraphy on walls reminiscent of political art.

Gallery

Chill out. Whisper to a tree.

Whisper to a Tree

Knock on a Door

In a very small Sichuan restaurant, yellow note-paper showing message that I am a vegetarian.

The whole kitchen staff came to take a look with much love before setting to prepare my small feast.

Loft Living Nude Tanning

Post Script: Zao Wou-ki passed away on 9th April 2013 at the age of 93 on the day this blog was posted.

PENANG STREET ART

Street Art – Making A Scene

Art for the people has changed Penang in a big way. Interactive art on peeling, crumbling facades have made the city more alive. Old walls are canvases for a 25 year-old artist, animator, photographer, and filmmaker. Lithuanian Ernest Zacharevic from Middlesex University of London came to Penang for a short visit ended up staying and painting for more than a year. Working in collaboration with the small art community of Penang he has turned city walls of Georgetown into canvases, blending art with organic landscapes. The brilliant ideas that give rise to these murals bring tradition and culture to the present with humour.

Titles “Kopi O, Tok Tok Mee, Trishaw” evoke nostalgic memories.
Kopi O = black sweet coffee with thick coffee sediment at the bottom
Tok Tok Mee = welcome sound of striking bamboo clappers of the noodle cart arriving round the corner
Trishaw = favourite means of transport for short distances.

A Jimmy Choo mural shows the famous shoe-man from Penang. He learnt his trade from his father. Penangites view these aptly titled murals, whimsically portrayed on walls, with great pride. Joyful visitors crowd before them with families and friends posing for photographs.

Little Children on a Bicycle
Armenian Street, Penang

Photographers

This amazing painting on the sidewall of an old home reminded me of my own youth. Of wild times when I did the much-forbidden-thing of tearing around the side lanes of our village on my bicycle carrying friends’ young sisters and brothers. The faster I went, the sharper I turned the corners, the louder the little pillion passengers screamed and laughed. Here the children have been painted on the wall and old bicycle placed below them. With no worries of vandalism or theft this ‘sculpture art’ affords much fun. Ernest does the same with a motorcyclist. Painted on an old unused entrance is a rider with an old helmet and placed below him is an old real motorcycle, not too rusty.

Boys reaching up!
Boy on Chair Mural
Canon Street, Penang

In this painting a boy is reaching up to get a real coke bottle from an air-vent and below him a real chair. Next to the chair conveniently situated a wooden ladder to walk up to the wooden bench that entices exuberant interaction. Children and adults jump on the bench and reach up to the next air-vent on the wall. Family, friends, strangers step back to take photographs.

Reaching Mother and Son

Inaccessible, high walls too have their share of paintings. The most prominent one on Penang Road. Working from a high crane, and scaffolding Ernest painted a resting trishaw man right above where my business, a fashion outlet, ‘The Peacock Boutique’ used to be.

Trishaw Man
Penang Road Penang

These witty and fascinating murals portray Penang culture. Evocative, humorous and clever messages abound too. One about using fewer plastic bags and another says ‘drive less’. Cars have begun to choke the streets of Penang and frustrated drivers trying to get parking spaces in the city are common sights. A new awareness for all to be more organic is taking place.

Drive Less Cycle More
Bishop Street Penang

Other black and white graffiti have sprung up too.

Kwan Yin Temple
Pitt Street Penang

Window

The graffiti I love Penang is no understatement

I’m in Love with Penang

George Town, a Unesco World Heritage Site, with an inner city population of less than 750,000 throbs with laid-back energy.

Penang 01
Leela Panikar

THE SNAKE TEMPLE – PENANG

The Snake Temple

Temple of Azure Clous

Penang

The Temple of Azure Cloud built in 1850 perches on a small hill in a lush setting with a magnificent back drop of trees and a tropical sky.
Later the temple was dedicated to the Buddhist monk Tan Chiau-eng (Hokkien name), honorific title of Chor Soo Kong. He was born in southern China on the 6th day of the Chinese Lunar calendar, some time during the Song Dynasty (960 – 1279). He dedicated most of his life as a healer in Penang and was ordained as spiritual leader at the age of 65.

Compasion

In central position at the temple is his statue, built in China and brought to Penang. He is portrayed with a black face, some believe his face turned black on eating poisonous herbs and others that he escaped from demons that tried to burn him. But his black face has now become a symbol of his compassion.

What is unique about this temple is it’s the abode of pit vipers. In his life time the monk gave shelter to snakes and when the temple was dedicated the snakes from the nearby forest and hills moved in.

Pit Viper

Everywhere one looks one sees green and yellow diamond headed pit vipers coiled around images, incense burners, offerings and lamps and furniture.

It is often said the snakes are drugged by the joss stick smoke but whatever the reason there has been no report of anyone having been bitten by any of these venomous snakes in the temple.

Much of the offering consist of fresh chicken eggs food for the snakes

For a time when the temple was being renovated the snakes left the place and came back later, no doubt unhappy about the new concrete and paint.

Spirituality

Chanting of sutras begins at dawn but by late morning the nuns, monks and worshippers are out-numbered by other visitors who flock to the temple more interested in snakes than in worship or spirituality. The interest of tourists has given rise to souvenir and soft drink stalls.
Behind the temple lies a garden of herbs and lush fruit trees and here too snakes abound, coiled in the branches and around garden ornaments.

Garden Snake

To the side separated from the temple, a hall houses other snakes and large pythons. And for a small fee at the snake hall one can have a sad python weighing close to one’s own weight wrapped around shoulders for photo opportunity.

Visitor Information: The Snake Temple is open from 6 am to 7 pm.
From the city George Town one can get to Sungei Kluang which is not far from the Penang Airport in Bayan Lepas. It takes about 25 minutes by taxi. Buses are available from Komtar.
No entrance fee is charged. The temple is run on donations.

Onam in Penang

Onam

‘What is Onam?’ a Chinese friend asked me.

Onam, a festival celebrated by people who come from Kerala, a state south west of India. People who come from Kerala are called Malayalees or Keralites, and their native language is Malayalam.

This Hindu festival celebrated by Malayalees falls between August and early September on a waning moon. The ten-day celebration takes place in the month of Chingam of the Malayalee calendar. A prehistoric harvest festival but it is also steeped in folklore, celebrated to mark the mythical homecoming of King Mahabali. He is revered for his wise ruling of Kerala, a time that brought much peace and wealth to the country, a golden era.

Kerala — the long turquoise strip on the southwest coast of India — is known as ‘God’s Own Country’.

Onam observed by Malayalees whether the community is large or just a small cluster in some remote part of the world. The festival has religious origins but is celebrated by Hindus, Christians, Muslims and by Malayalees who practice other religions.

My clearest memory of this celebration comes from the age of ten when my family lived in Penang. My parents observed first nine days on a minor scale. Days before the tenth day preparations started. Servants rushed about endlessly, it seemed, cleaning the home, changing upholstery and curtains and all things that could be changed to new, or washed, cleaned and polished. Silver shone, brass became gold. Our small family altar filled with flowers and offerings. In the very early hours of day a special feast, vegetarian feast, was prepared for family and hordes of friends of different nationalities who would visit us. People of Penang in those days were very cosmopolitan.

We children stayed up late to the constant mantra ‘time for bed’ from every adult in the household. Finally and reluctantly, we went to bed and slept fitfully, dreaming of new clothes, usually pretty flashy, and new shoes and all the good food, though I do not remember ever being short of food at that time.

We were up early to see the home decorated and warm and lit up with many lamps, flowers everywhere. Scent of joss sticks and incense filled the air and each time the kitchen door was flung open the smell of delicious food. A carpet of fresh flowers lay out the front door welcoming the day. New mango leaves were strung up auspiciously above the front door.

The only painful thing I remember is the cold shower we had to take at dawn before we could don our new clothes. Some of the older girls received gold jewellery too. Wait, sorry no food yet. We had to pray first at the home altar. Papa and Mama would bless us and thank ‘the gods’ for all good things bestowed on us while we could only think of food and fun and games that awaited us. We speedily and fervently mouthed our prayers, and I, ‘bless mama, bless papa, make them buy me a new bicycle soon and I want a camera, and I want a new pen, what else, oh yes …’ was my prayer.

Now that I am grown up, well almost, and an elderly adult in Hong Kong I go with the flow, celebrate all that comes my way. It was Eid a couple of weeks ago. After Onam we are into mid Autumn Festival. This is a full harvest moon Chinese festival that falls on 12 Sept in 2011. It is the one I love best in Hong Kong. Homes, parks, public venues and shops are decorated with colourful and interesting lanterns and children walk about carrying them too. Come evening streams of lit lanterns float like fire flies as people make their way to the beaches and hills and mountaintops to view the full moon. We also get to eat tons of Moon-cake, once a year treat.

And then along will come a frenetic Christmas to round off the year.

Let’s Stay Connected

Let’s all stay connected, yippee yay!

Peaceful air travel is at an end. After all the hassles of getting to the airport on time, dealing with cancelled flights, changed boarding gates, immigration formalities and customs checks don’t look forward to sitting back and relaxing to the droning throb of your flight. Try not to switch off for you are going to be switched on in a big way. Forget the reading, contemplating, sleeping. All this will soon be of the past with plans for the new kind of travel.

The importance of connectivity is here. Flying three hours, or fifteen hours does not make a difference. Above 10,000 feet? Not a problem. We shall be moving with the times. Singapore Airlines will the first with this great connection innovation and Cathay Pacific Airlines is soon to follow. Access to wifi, internet and mobile, yes, mobile telephone service, not just texting or sending and receiving of emails but real life calls.

Just lean back, stay connected, talk, talk, talk. A mobile phone stuck to the ear and multi-tasking – eating, drinking, filling up forms or anything else one does on the plane. One might have to bring two or three mobile phones for those urgent calls that come in while you are on one. Of course, the airline company will take into consideration the other passengers like me, who will be slowly sliding into total insanity with a talking passenger next me. To minimize my discomfort a code of conduct will be introduced. Travellers will be asked to follow the new flying etiquette – consideration for fellow passengers. The staff will be trained to help everyone in this respect.

‘Please set your phone to silent mode and talk at a normal level.’ Note the key word here is normal. And more etiquette bonus. During night-time flights, voice function of the mobile phone will be disabled. Wow!

Flying days with innovative airlines will soon come to an end for some passengers. I am saving up for a private jet or maybe grow a pair of wings in my garden along with herbs, potatoes, papaya and banana.

Kerala 2

Part 2 of 2

Travelling with Aunty

The next day we go for gold. The hotel concierge tells us where to shop, the best places for gold. A couple of men escort us, unsolicited, take us to a jewellery shop not far. It is as large as a warehouse. We walk up to the impressive frontage, grab the brass elephant-head handle and tug at the glass door. It’s locked. The tall Sikh guard looks down on us indifferently. Our escorts scatter. We wait. Handsome mustachioed young men stare at us from within. No one makes a move. Eventually a lazy buzzer goes off and the door opens.

We sail in. We get ‘vip’ treatment. Several men jump to attention and pull out stools for us. A scruffy chai-boy appears carrying a wire cage with tall glasses of hot milky tea. Having slopped two glasses of tea on the polished counter he stands close to me, inches away, hands behind his back, breathing sweaty steam on to my cheek. My nostrils flare taking in his alien scent. My peripheral vision registers him staring unblinking at my profile and feel my right ear scorch with hot breath.

AG makes herself comfortable. She asks if she could have a diet coke. The men look lost. ‘My figure, you know,’ she says. They don’t know, they look doubtful. Then she gets her little note book out and asks to borrow a pen. One of the young men whips out his pen. It does not work. He’s hurt by his unfulfilled chivalry. He examines the pen for too long, confusion and anger evident. Another man offers her one, a Parker Pen. AG takes it, admires and says, ‘Eh, not bad.’ She asks intelligent questions, makes copious notes about fluctuating world gold prices, international markets, methods of weighing gold, and jewellery trends. She studies diamond cuts carefully with an eye-glass and notes countries they come from and is surprised by the news of a thriving Indian diamond industry. I enjoy this secession too.

AG examines the workmanship of the gold bangles, and finger, ear, nose and toe rings with the eye glass. She moves on to examine a large variety of gold chains that hang in glass wall-cabinets in the interior. A vast cavern manned by more men, handsome, mustachioed, old spiced and roving eyed.

I wait by the counter, by now tired and bored. I stand for a while, I shift from foot to foot like a tired flamingo. Having left greasy smudges on the counter tops I study my reflection, angles and poses, in the many mirrored walls. Then I retire to the threadbare, maroon, velveteen sofa at one end of the cavern. Several pairs of eyes are on me. Today I am wearing a short dress, I tug at my skirt, pull it over my knees. It falls four inches short of gold-shop modesty.

AG comes back from her inspection tour. She rummages in her bag and returns the Parker Pen. We leave the shop having purchased an incredibly cheap pair of inferior ruby ear-rings.

The next day we buy genuine second cut Hindi movie videos and original Malayalam movies though we both know no Hindi, and understand only a smattering of Malayalam. We purchase CDs of Ravi Shankar and ethnic drum music. We buy many recycled paper-back Indian novels and out-of-print books.

I remind AG of our mission. It’s close to the end of our week here. We need to go to Travancore to look for our grand-parents’ home. We need to trudge through vast expanses of muddy paddy fields and coconut plantations and locate that practically unknown postal address – Mathavan Charveel Veedu, our ancestral home.

AG says, ‘Plenty of time.’

The day before the end of our trip AG decides that she has had enough of Kerala. She says after all she is only 27, we are young, there’s plenty of time. We will come back. We still have temples to visit.

Homeward trip is a disaster, wrong choice of airline. The plane arrives half full from Mumbai. I am claustrophobic and overcome by the odour, a cocktail of chemical air freshener, spicy Indian airline food, stale floral hair oil and urine.

We are overrun by three to four year-old-shrieking thugs from only-child families. One thug reigns supreme, hits me on the head from behind my seat with an airline vomit bag of his toys, miniature metal cars. Mother and father look on indulgent. Another monster slams port-hole shades up and down. He catches his fingers and howls his head off. I am kind, I refrain from saying ‘good show!’

Things look up for AG. She is sitting next to a proverbial tall, dark, handsome man in a smart suit. A man about 20, either leaving his family for the first time or suffering from a bad cold. He sniffles. AG takes pity on him and hands him tissue after tissue paper insisting he blow his nose. He squirms with embarrassment. He dabs his eyes and nose and does not know what to do with his wads of soggy integrating tissue. He stuffs them in his trouser pocket. She gives him more tissues. She whispers to me above the drone of the plane, ‘The poor baby. Must be upset at having to leave his parents.’

Meals and another big sleep and we are over Hong Kong. Bumpy landing. A few mumble prayers. An elderly couple furiously thumb through prayer beads. Cabin pressure drops quickly, the children scream with earache. We’ve arrived. Parents scramble about calling after their little ones tear stained and trying to get out before them. Some men and women tug at briefcases in overhead lockers with one hand and dial calls on their mobile phones with the other. The passengers pull and push, carrying children and tons of hand luggage, and try to get through smiles and choruses of airplane attendants:

‘Thank you for flying with us, have a pleasant stay in Hong Kong.’

Outside an electric storm rages. I am happy to be back.

End

Kerala 1

Travelling with Aunty Geeta

Village children call her Aunty Geeta, we call her AG. Aunty Geeta is five years older than me, and not my aunty.

We are friends. Our parents, hers and mine, are from Kerala, a place known as ‘God’s Own Country’. Our grand parents had shared the same village. AG wants to visit the ancestral home, our ‘Motherland’. She feels she must go now while still young, a robust, healthy 27 year old.

We make the pilgrimage together.

Normally I travel light but knowing AG’s penchant for shopping I take an extra large suitcase, almost empty.

We are to meet at the departure lounge. AG is late as usual. She sweeps in, full apology, breathless and flustered followed by a group of friends, carrying various pieces of her luggage. They’ve come to see her off on this one-week trip to motherland. After long drawn-out hugging and kissing and goodbyes the friends leave. We gather our stuff and check in. We have back-packs as carry on luggage. We request special diet, she fish, and I vegetarian.

Security clearance becomes difficult. AG’s many jangling bangles and hair pins set off alarms. She has to remove and put them in a plastic tray. She obeys reluctantly, angry with the metal detectors. She mouths obscenities at the staff, whispers: the ‘s.o.b.s’ can’t tell the difference between a genuine traveller and a terrorist. All done, lips pursed, looks searing, she marches past the security team and electronic machine-operators.

Formalities cleared, we trawl the airport mall. The designer boutiques beckon us screaming out ‘Duty Free’. The first thing AG spots and must have is a designer back-pack. She’s generous and insists on getting one for me too. We now have four back-packs between us. We move on. We buy perfume and eye-shadow and ‘ageless’ creams. Then we get nuts and chocolates to snack on, and magazines to read on our flight. We board the plane on time, happy and purchase laden.

Our six hour flight is peaceful reading time for me. AG needs to chat. With her earphones plugged into the in-flight movie she does not realize she is shouting. When lunch comes she forgets her fish diet and insists on chicken. After lunch we relax, and AG takes stock of fellow travellers. She needs to connect. Finding we are surrounded by passengers asleep or watching movies, she sits back, sighs and soon falls asleep quietly snoring.

When we land in Cochin, Kerala, she is in a huge hurry to get out. She has had enough of plane and passengers. Anyway we want to be first in the queue she says. We rush out pushing aside those trying to get their luggage from the overhead compartments. In trying to keep up with her I trip over children. In the arrival hall we are the last in a long queue of about a hundred passengers who’d alighted before us from other planes.

To allay her cultural shock AG immediately starts questioning a Keralan in the queue about shopping malls. She gets all the gen from the woman. Behind me a fat, oily man keeps ‘accidentally’ bumping into me while talking to his rangy, red eyed companion. The latter has me in his radar too. I move away a little, I get more sweaty body contact. I turn round and hiss, “If you touch me one more time…’ rest of my threat goes unuttered. AG, embarrassed by my outburst, puts her finger to her lips. ‘Shoo’ she utters in a loud theatrical whisper. Lewd there-you-go gleam light up the men’s faces.

All goes well after this, except at the immigration counter the man wants to know what kind of Indian I am not having born or lived in India. He smiles through my explanation and lets me through. We have to hurry. In our hotel we have a quick wash, leave our luggage unpacked and head out to the shops. As we reach the foyer of the hotel the bellman suggests he gets a taxi for us. AG tells him to ‘p… off’. ‘These thieving lot are always ready to make a quick buck’, she says.

We step off the kerb into the klaxon of two interstate truckers. We pull back having come within seconds of meeting our ‘Hindu Maker in Motherland’. Crossing the street becomes a 20 minute ordeal. Belching black fumes of weaving motorbikes, horn-blowing cars consume us. Bicyclists, ringing their bells, pass us grinning red teethed. We, sweating, decide to shop on our side of the street. There are throngs of people everywhere. It is nearly Deepavali, the Festival of Lights. Families are stocking up on clothes, presents and food. We are consumed by a shopping carnival.

AG is in seam-splitting jeans that hug the lower half of her rotund figure. Perhaps a little unsuitable in conservative motherland I think, but it’s her tee shirt that gets all the attention. Emblazoned across her ample chest ‘Don’t sweat the petty things. Pet the sweaty things’. The meaning of this wise saying obviously eludes her but not all who look at her chest. Some stare, others look and take a second look. A young man of a group passing points us out to his friends. They turn back, serious. They read AG’s message; raucous and lewd laughter follows.

I am wearing a long dress and a sun hat and look every inch a tourist. I want to kill the next man who asks me where I am from. I do not get the chance since AG is proud to help the curious young men, relates to them her and my family history. Her friendliness has groups of louts trailing us. They’re all coin collectors and want foreign coins, especially US coins. For a small fee they want to show us the best bargain shops. AG is delighted. She says she has never met such kind people.

Over the next few days we shop. We load up with eye catching sequined sarees, Punjabi suits one-size-fits all, trailing Kashmiri shawls, frilly long synthetic house-dresses, fray edged table mats, gilt effigies of made in China Indian gods, fake sandal wood carvings, and portent perfumes from mogul days.

End part 1 of 2

Hong Kong – Beijing by Train T97/T98

There and back

Large curtained picture window, upholstered armchair and table covered in white lacy cloth. Blue and white potted philodendron (money plant ) alive on the table, blue and white carpet underfoot. Clean, white linen, soft pillows and quilt on bed. En-suite toilet, shower facilities, toiletries and long mirror on door. Air-conditioning, T.V. and Public Address system with separate controls. Luxury hotel suite? No, Deluxe Soft Sleeper on the Hong Kong/Beijing Train.

Jingjiu Railway compartments come in Soft Sleeper (two berth) which I had all to myself on return trip, Hard Sleeper (four berth), six berth room. Prices go from about US$180 to under US$100.

The T97 Hong Kong Beijing train leaves from Hung Hom Station (Hong Kong) at 15.15 and reaches Beijing West Railway station about 24 hours later. The trip back T98, leaves from the same station Beijingxi, (Beijing West, not Beijing Station) about 12:00 and arrives in Hung Hom mid-day, the next day. The ticket if purchased in Beijing will be issued for Jiulong (Kowloon). Trains depart on alternate days from both ends.
At least an hour allowance should be made for security check, health check and immigration.

On approaching the Hong Kong China border at Lowu passengers surrender their passports to train staff. These are returned when almost in Beijing.

Along the route the express train picks up no passengers except at Lowu. At limited stops at stations in Changsha, Wuhan and Zhengzhou passengers travelling from Guangzhou are allowed to get off and at these stations laundry and rubbish are unloaded and things needed on the train picked up. When stopping at stations train staff request passengers draw the curtains on windows, for privacy perhaps.

It is a ‘no smoking’ train but happy addicts light up in the passages between coaches and vicarious smokers can often enjoy tobacco smoke coming in through the vents near the doors. The non-smoking rule does not apply to the male train-staff and chefs and others in uniform light up even in the buffet carriage every spare moment they get.

Staff speak Mandarin and some Cantonese, no staff speak English. Only Yuan, no foreign money, is accepted in the buffet coach. Buffet coach is open only at meal times. The one page laminated Chinese menu consists of limited selection.

It is easy to navigate but pictures of dishes look similar except for a fish shaped dish and a yellow one (ham and eggs). No vegetarian dishes, time to fast, detoxify. No requests for noodles in hot water will be accepted.

Hot and cold water are available at the end of carriages.

Extra toilets between carriages are both pedestal and squat. Spotlessly clean and smelling strongly of disinfectant as the train leaves Hong Kong but as the hours pass get progressively smelly and are quite evil by the time you reach your destination.

When the buffet carriage is closed train staff carry big baskets of China version of fake lacquer ‘Bento Boxes’ of rice dishes and other interesting food for sale, and they walk through the corridor at times calling out their wares. This lovely sing-song calling-out has a quaint ring to it, reminiscent of calls in other languages in other trains elsewhere.

Reading 'End to Sufferng' by Pankaj Mishra

The day-long meditative trip from Hong Kong, almost yogic in quality, does not quite prepare passengers when spewed out at the Beijing West Station. Immediately after security check and immigration you are on your own. The vast station of seething mass of humanity shouting, walking, running, pushing; or squatting relaxed and smoking or stretched out asleep with luggage for pillows. It is pretty confusing and difficult to contend with if you are not a Beijinger. When trying to seek out transport it is not wise not to try out your English, go for Mandarin, or have the address of your hotel written down in Chinese. All taxis run on meters, but might be useful to remind the driver to have it running.

Curiosity on their part at seeing a dark-skinned person and a good dose of nodding, grinning, and ‘xie xie’ on my part worked for me.

I would do this trip again and this time would be armed with champagne and carrot sticks for breakfast and packets of crisps, packet noodles, and green tea for the rest of the meals.

more at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beijing-Kowloon_Through_Train

Flying Business Class

He called me ‘Sir’

It is not often I fly business class these days.

When I ran my antique business it was a viable proposition, besides the fact I had more luggage allowance I could also freight suitcases unaccompanied.

Some progress has been made over the years with regards to single women travelling. It is good to see that women business class passengers, especially me, a 5th. class citizen, do not get the ‘you-have-no-business-in-this-class’ look, or a quick once over, to see, which man was foolish enough to have picked me up. Here I must explain how I’m 5th class – priority-wise there is white man, coloured man, white woman, other, and then me, the dark one. But these days I get the same lovely charming smile and welcome as the other species, and good service.

Of all the trips I have made over the years the recent one stands out as quite unique. In a two seat arrangement I settle in comfortably next to a Chinese gentleman with the aura of an iceberg and the look of an active volcano. A beautiful young stewardess comes over and kneels by me, looks lovingly at Mr. IcebergVolcano and me as if we are a honeymoon couple and says ‘Welcome aboard Mr. and Mrs. Panikar’. Noticing my look of surprise that both my deceased parents are travelling unknown to me, and the scowl from the male passenger next to me, she quickly glances down her clipboard. She says, ‘Oh, Ms. Panikar, what would you like to have to drink.’ I order my standard champagne. Note no shock registered, no hidden smirk. She stands up with much grace and walks away, not bothering with my fellow passenger. The stewardess on the other isle would serve him.

When it is time for lunch, we have starters served individually with the flourish of a Michelin standard restaurant. Main course. A tall, handsome steward, collapses down to my sitting height with a tray for my selection, ‘Your Food Sir’ he says. I look at tray offered, three dishes: Chicken and rice, Seafood and pasta, Beef and noodles. And I say ‘Vegetarian’. And he says ‘Yes, Sir,’ and walks away not saluting. Everyone is extremely courteous and the staff rustle up a vegetarian meal. Quite inedible, but that’s not the point.

After lunch I settle down to reading my Kindle, there’s a bit of a turbulence and an airhostess rushes up to me and tells me I am not allowed to use my computer (Kindle not connected and lighter than a paperback).

Plane landed, trip over, we file out. One hostess hangs on to the dividing curtain with one hand preventing economy passengers charging out. She clutches her mobile phone with the other and is furiously chatting while the passengers squeeze past her.

In my many years of air-travel I was of the opinion in-flight magazines are complimentary. I could be wrong about this. From time to time I have taken my copy home. This time as I exit the plane the other stewardess at the gate thanks me for flying with them and then snatches the magazine off my hand. I am stunned, stop short in my tracks, smile and ask, ‘May have it’. She is sweet, smiling too. She gives it to me, ‘Sure’.

Wonder what creative changes I can expect on my next trip.
Guess flying could be boring without these incidents, my mini adventures.

Ash Fallout and Red Shirt Fallout

Sunset over S. China Sea

Ash Fallout and Red Shirt Fallout

I had spent more than three fabulous but very hot weeks in Penang when Don joined me on a surprise holiday for nine days more.

Penang to Hong Kong is a mere four and a half hour flight. Having changed my return-flight I was on standby on Saturday 17th April, 2010.

We left our hotel at five am for the airport. The dark drive in thunder and lightning and pouring rain took twenty five minutes. At the airport we found within an hour or so all flights fully booked and we were told there were no seats available on flights the next few days, we could try and get on one perhaps on Thursday 22nd April, five days away and only maybe. With much help from the Penang airport staff we managed to buy another set of tickets for another airline to take us to Kuala Lumpur and then late evening to Hong Kong.

It had never occurred to us we would be thwarted by two fallouts – Eyjafjallajoekull Volcano in Iceland and the Red Shirts Bangkok. Several flights to Bangkok were cancelled but nothing on the scale of those going to Europe. Though not close to the hub of any of the disaster-affected areas we found ourselves locked in with a few groups, of the millions stranded globally in airports. But both Penang Airport and Kuala Lumpur International Airport were reasonably quiet, not crowded out by stranded passengers.

Relaxed and waiting

If one chooses to be stranded let it be KLIA, spacious with a feel of calm and green view all around, and internal clump of tropical trees and a waterfall.

Bamboo Grove in Airport

Waterfall in Airport

From Beijing across east and west no flights; and air passengers – tourists to professionals and business men and women camped about with limited access to food and water and comforts of a home. With disastrous effect air-freight trade has come crashing – no fresh fish, fresh vegetables and fruit, fresh flowers and other perishables. Farms and farm animals and productions and services abandoned and workers sent home even in countries not directly affected by the volcanic ash. The economic effect globally unimaginable.

A Dunkirk-style evacuation is being mounted by Britain and some planes have resumed flight to the echoes of a new spew of ash – a mixture of glass, sand and rock particles – from the Volcano.

Having experienced the 2004 Tsunami in Khao Lac, Phuket we knew a little of what it was like to be stranded for a day, a night and morning in swimsuits with no food and water, no bed and overflowing toilets. But five days at an airport with no proper toilet and shower facilities, no change of clothing, not much food and drink, and many sick running out of medication was difficult to imagine.

With much sympathy for the few pockets of airport refugees we met at the KLIA we arrived home at midnight, weary and grateful. We will never fully comprehend or feel the enormity of this disaster that now has a global domino effect.

A Lamma Book Signing

Sunday. Ferry arrives and a mass of people emerges, fans out from Yung Shue Wan pier. Human tentacles spread, move into main street, slide up side streets and paths and into hives of homes, exploring. The more vigorous, armed with sticks and water bottles and hatted, veer off. They strip outer layers of clothing, too hot for December sun on their backs. They hike across the island, over the hump and head to Sok Kwu Wan, focused on seafood lunch. Fish, prawns, crabs, lobsters and sea creatures frantically wait, swimming in no-escape aquariums.

Overnighters study holiday chalet window vacancy notices.

City people seeking crucial country experience photograph dogs with their mobile phones. Many stop to admire and pat them. Free and business-like dusty dogs are everywhere: in the streets, in the alleys, in the restaurants, running back and forth quenching their thirst from plastic bowls set out by dog-loving shop owners. Other dogs, lap dogs, sophisticated and on expensive leashes, heads held high, lead owners through the crowd. The dogs, those island dogs, they have seen it all before.

Bicyclists, Lamma belongers, impatiently ringing bells, pedal past, avoid hitting the throng. Narrow trucks, on roads narrow, carry stone cement and steel rods to pile more homes upon homes. Mini-ambulances and mini-fire trucks pass by, keep watch. Policemen on bicycles greet Kailash Vernon, Gung the Zine, and Nick the Bookman, long beard lifted by breeze.

Trendy artists, photographers, writers and Da-da duos frequent bars, restaurants, craft shops and pavement cafes. Spicy Island, Deli Lamma, Island Bar, Banyan Bay, Bookworm and Just Green.

Shopkeepers wait, try on ideas, catch browsers with attitude, talk them into buying nothing needed – clothes on racks, casual and neglected chic, organic foods, potpourri, handicraft, candles and oils essential.

Town dwellers seek an alternate style, connect to their soul.

End of day. Visitors, having found themselves, leave. They thread their tired way like a sad song towards the pier and home. The last ferry moves away, diminished enthusiasm.

Lammaites, islanders who stayed solid, pulsing, dreading, waiting, through the day, now affectionately settle back, their lives returned.

Sun sets.

High tide rhythmic, no stars, was there a moon?

Old friendships renewed, new island friends made, Floating Petals signed.

Thank you, Sharon and Dan.