Krocrawls

Na na na tasshey shun

2009-02-07T04:23:00.000-08:00

This is just an account of one of my fondest memories of the North East Tour 2008.

We are the only occupants of a tiny, little local "bar" in one of the bylanes of Bomdila town, Arunachal Pradesh. Tibetan "rock" in the background and a gallon jug of the local brew [called lo-paani, made by distilling rice water or something like that ]on the table in front. The bar owner is telling Rao about the greatness of the Dalai Lama while his friend is dancing to the music, shouting out the words and drumming the tune on the table.

A few hours ago Rao and me had booked our return tickets from Guwahati on a super slow net connection and the next morning we were off to Nameri National Park, the final leg of this North East Tour. We were leaving the mystical state of Arunachal Pradesh and heading to what the mountain people called "the plains" with much disdain.

A dinner off steaming, hot thupka was followed by a casual conversation with the restaurant owner. A round-faced, cute little man. Asked him whether we could taste some of the local booze. He took us to the local bar opposite his restaurant. Run by a friend of his.

[Thats a photo of the Bomdila monastery]

Over the next few hours, we all became the best of friends. Never before have I met a people who are so open and trusting. Turns out the restaurant owner was a lama who had quit the religious life. Too hard a life and not the one he would choose for himself.

The bar owner was a former Border Force soldier, a Tibetan refugee who still dreams of returning home. He still had photos of his army colleauges. Smart, incredibly fit young men dressed in fatigues and over-size sunglasses, looking like they owned the world.

We discussed love, life, the Chinese army and God. We danced to songs we did not understand and we talked about all the things in the world. They told us all the times when one was carried home by the other, too piss drunk to walk. How they would get yelled at by their wives, forbidden to drink anymore only to find themselves in the bar once again.

We were joined by two other gentlemen and we danced again, shouting out the few words we had learned by now [na na na tasshey shun]. One of them walked us back to our hotel rooms, the rice-based alcohol making us feel powerful.

It was one of the best nights of the entire trip.

The "trip" consisted of Shillong, Tawang, Bomdila, Nameri and one night in Guwahati. It was the North East Tour of 2008 and we had a bloody good time.

Oh and one last thing: all the booze we had, not a single rupee was taken. Not a single frikkin rupee.

Them mountains still call me once in a while

2008-12-06T12:58:00.000-08:00

Its roughly four in the morning and Dandy and me are slowly trudging our way towards the bus stop from Kaku's place. We had reached Shimla the previous night to a fantastically warm reception; it was our first taste of a hospitality which has to be experienced to be believed. We were now taking the 14 hour bus ride to Negi's place: a tiny village called Speelow in Kinnaur district.

Earlier, we had taken a bus from Delhi to Shimla through HP's simple and effective bus ticketing site. Earlier still, I had watched a IPL match in Jaipur and gotten my wallet stolen. Frantic phone calls answered by supremely stupid people who asked whether you could recite your 14-digit personal code, sir? But that is a sad tale for another time.

The original plan was to spend a night in Shimla and then leave the next morning but, as Dandy pointed out, now that we had made it so far we may as well go the distance. So there we were, shivering in the morning and waiting for the bus. Which came. We sat in. And it moved.

Roughly 11 hours later we were in the District HQ of Rekong Peo or Poh. Funnily named place with a market set up against this brilliant backdrop of slow splashed mountains. The sky is of a blue which you can only see in the mountains and the air smells like good air. Clean and cold and filled with life. This is where a lot of the trekkers stock up on supplies and porters and stuff.

Another bus took us to Speelow and from then on we were the super special guests of the Negi. Which means unlimited amounts of butter tea, specially made food and strolls through orchards of apples and dry fruits.

A bit about Negi's food. Bloody amazing but I think one has to take towards it. Either you like it or you don't. There is this one dish: balls made of flour which you dip in bowls of home made butter. Brilliant. And the meat tastes like proper meat. Negi's made these superb mutton-momos and we had it around the fire. And in the night, before you sleep, one big glass of hot, fresh milk. Like FRESH. Like, "see yonder cow?" that fresh! Superb.

As I write, I realise that it is impossible to put it all in words.

Down the valley, the river flows and in the early mornings that is all you can hear. High above, on the other side you get glimpses of tall, tall mountains covered with patches of snow. Negi's home is so old, his parents cant recollect when it was built. Made of wood, it has this giant pillar in the centre of the living room/kitchen/parents room. The pillar is smooth, ageless and I like to lean on it as Negi's father starts the fire. The stove is fired with wood, and its all warm inside and the butter tea tastes so good.

We go for a couple of walks through Negi's fields. He points out this fruit, and that flower and I am again reminded of how little I know. We pluck dry fruits off the branches and put them in our pockets, munch on them along the way. Dandy struggles through the moutaineous region and extra-mean Negi purposely takes the longest route.

One day we go to Nako lake, about three hours away and pretty close to the Chinese border. Nako is this tiny village pretty bloody high up. The landscape is like a dessert, dry and barren. The wind cuts into you and the roads wind through countless hairpin bends. Over here, the roads are cut through mountains and they are real narrow and twisty. On one side the valley falls steeply towards the river. That's a photo of Nako lake on the top. Here is another one:

Nako is pretty enough to make you breathless. No really. The lake itself is so high up that I had a bit of a tough time breathing. A few steps and you have to take a break. But its just so pretty. There is this one photo taken by Negi; the lake against the mountains and the prayer flags fluttering in the cold wind. Gorgeous.

Here, one shits in fields of green. As you sit, the crops sway and you can hear the silence. Like really hear it.

Another day we walk to the orchards high above. There is a tiny hut at the top for the times when planting season comes along. The workers stay here. For now this is where the dogs are fed. We sit on a ledge and look at the valley down below. High, high above this eagle glides in circles. I am happy and I am alive.

A few nights later, we leave. This time Negi is accompanying us to Sangla valley and his mama's place at Jhakari (or something like that). Along the way we pass by humongous hydro-electric projects. Large trucks carrying away rubble and roads ruined by over-use. Sangla valley is gorgeous and the people there especially so. Ms. Worlds' all over the place. And the babies have those red cheeks and its all you can do to avoid pulling at them.

From Jhakri, dandy and me head back to Shimla. He leaves immediately, while I spend a couple of nights in Shimla, walking around, staring at the Delhi/Chandigarh crowd which invades this place over the weekend. Shimla has still not been completely tourist-fkd and there are a couple of places which are super-peaceful and nice. On the main road [Mall road i think] there are these benches where you can simply sit and watch the world stroll by. Brilliant concept.

My money is fast depleting and I am forced to be super careful about where I eat. Which sucks ass. Take the night bus to Delhi [terrible idea since driver wanted to play catch-catch with other buses] and crash at friend's place. Have lunch with Sonoo [who is in Delhi for a vacation to Hrishikesh] and her friends, revel in how "socially connected" I am and then take a Delhi Metro ride to the station.

My first Rajdhani train ride takes me to Howrah station and then a couple of nights in the city I love. Scooby's mom makes this brillaint dish of this veggi stuffed with minced mutton. A few days later, Comte and me are off to explore the North East. Or that was the plan.

Yeah I know this is a bit of an abrupt ending but those mountains still call me once in a while. I want to hear them again.

Have posted the pictures in two separate FB albums: here and here. Or you can view the non-commented pics here:

Negi land

Of islands and other things

2008-09-27T09:55:00.000-07:00

I lost my puny little manual camera during this trip so no I do not have any photos and no I was not very happy on learning the fact that the said camera with ALL my pics had been lost.

It had been raining intermittently for the last two days now, ever since I had reached this island in fact. The rain jacket Doris [my dear adorable Doris] had given me was a couple of sizes too small. It was cold outside and I had been cycling since morning. I was sitting inside this wonderfully warm cafe where they gave these little glasses of whipped cream and Baileys free with every dish you ordered. Nothing would ever taste that good. The meaty breakfast and the local beer did come a close second though.

The island of Texel [pronounced Tes-sel] is a half hour ferry ride from Den Helder which is a two hour train ride from Amsterdam. As far as "islands" go, I had seen nothing like it; its quite cold, there are tons of birds and the cows are massive. Passed by this one giant specimen and reminded me of a bloody yak. Right next to it these kids were jumping on a trampoline.

How did I choose Texel? By a method that has served me remarkably well over the years: look at map, point figure in random direction, go where finger be pointed.

No regrets. Spending about 16 euros per night at a really cool youth hostel, I rented a cyle and was off. Texel has this gorgeous stretch of road which runs along the shoreline for about five km. So right by the cycling track there is this slope towards the sea and then the sea itself. The "slope" itself reminds me of those high-speed cycling tracks. Saw these families flying kites from there; probably one of the easiest things to do there. Just chuck the kite up and watch the strong winds carry it away.

Looking back, thats pretty much what I did for two nights: an early free breakfast, cycle along the island, meat filled lunch, cycle some more and then a cheap dinner. No museums to visit or no picnic spots to laze around in. Yeah, it did have its own particular charm.

Like most places though, the best part was the people I met along the way. Right from the train from Amsterdam to my return leg, inevitably there would be someone interesting to meet and talk to. So I met this adorable little kid and her proud father, a college student who found Amsterdam fit for potheads only, two charming backpackers who played this really confusing and hi-paced card game in the youth hostel and a bunch of swiss backpackers who were just having fun. Real helpful and some of them were born entertainers.

The swiss kids and me, for example, had an entire conversation based on rock bands. I would say "Coldplay", and they would go "hmmm" or "naaa" and then they would throw a name at me. We did this for half an hour. Great fun. Then the man who gave me a lift to the ferry, he tried to teach me some basic Dutch. Don't think I was too good a student.

Or the sweet old man who ran a chocolate shop in Texel who lent me his umbrella without even knowing who I am. Didnt even tell me when he wanted it back!

All in all it was definitely something I would do again, this time though I would probably be off to another island of the Dutch north. And keep me a bigger rain jacket.

Gopalpur Blues

2008-07-27T10:26:00.001-07:00

As far as travel writing go, this is a pretty crap attempt. But atleast I put up some pics!

Its five a.m. and once again I am drawn to the beauty of the sea. Its terrible beauty with angry waves and heaving swells. Jumped the gate of my "hotel" about half an hour ago and had been walking aimlessly since then. Btw those quotes before hotel are quite apt, at 40 bucks a night with an "attached" yet strangely broken bathroom......Anyway I sit on the beach and I am happy. I can hear the gentle humming of the sea and I am happy.

Had left the night before, dropped off at Howrah by a potty mouth with a bike. The train drops you off at Behrampur [whose station code is a curious BAM] sometime in the morning and from there its a half hour bus ride to Gopalpur at Sea. Yes that is the real name, I kid you not. A name which has given scholars many sleepless nights, especially when they are googling.

For instance is it
a) Gopalpur @ Sea?; or
b) Gopalpur at C?; or
c)Gopalpur @ C

No. Seriously. I am not making this shit up. Someone actually did type the above.

Anyway the ten hour train ride takes you through some of the cleanest stations I have ever seen and a huge. huge lake with tons of greenery. And the chackas on the train were probably some of the sweetest I have ever met. Quite polite too.

Gopalpur is so far down south, most people speak Telugu here. You can even spot those handsome hunks of the south, tight t-shirts, bristling moustaches and that killer set of shades. Its a bit of a ruined town, must have been popular a while ago but is clearly down in the dumps by now. Has this resigned air about it.

Started raining the moment I reached. Wonderful. Sat on the beach, munching on freshly fried shrimp, beer bottle in hand. The waves are apparently quite dangerous here, which means that you wont really find Uncle, Aunty, Bunny and Sunny doing the sea-dance over here. Preferable.

Saw the fishermen mending their nets and generally stared around for quite some time. Found this beautiful temple; one of those rare specimens which actually brings some peace of mind. The village itself is this tiny, tiny collection of streets with houses jutting over on either side. The word "picturesque" springs to the mind.

Crashed quite early on the first day. Which explains the early morning stroll the next day. It has often been observed that a sun rise on the beach has a certain degree of romance to it. The sky slowly turning pink with the sun, boats returning back with their sails blowing in the wind.

The fishermen at Gopalpur shit in the sea. Like on the beach. Then they wait for the waves to wash their bums. In the early morning. So if one was to walk down said beach at said time, one would see a string of people squatting on the beach with their bums facing the sea. Very romantic.

Observable ablutions over, I am once again left free to stare and think. Over to the left, an old man is throwing his line into the sea, catching tiny fish every now and then. Like the way he throws the line, quite grace to it which I find interesting.

I wander around till lunch and then leave for part two of this journey. Off to Mandarmani to meet the other monkeys. Monkeys with bikes. Logically I should have reached there in about 8 hours. Thirty hours later, I descend onto Digha station. One hour after that I am looking at three policemen while my fellow bike riders are hastily covering their semi-nakedness. Trying my best not to smile and desperately searching for that apologetic look.

Gopalpur Blues

Road Trippin

2008-06-24T10:54:00.000-07:00

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of this particular post. I just really liked it. The post below is an account of a road trip made somtime in early 2007.

Road trip

Road Trip. The words conjure up a pretty picture: long winding roads, wind in your hair, cruising down new worlds. Just you, your pretty machine and the wide open spaces. Making your way into new lands; part Indiana Jones and part James Bond. Oh, the romance of it all.

As I lay panting on the road side, I wondered how I could possibly have been so wrong. It was a road trip alright, except the chosen mode of transportation was a cycle. Well the word “chosen” would imply choice but for us poor students its not really too wide a choice [Dad, I hope you are reading this] And as for the long winding road, well on a bicycle you tend to hope that the roads remain short and straight. And preferably downhill.

Fighting another set of cramps which had chosen to attack my left leg, I continued to remain in awe of my sheer stupidity. With nearly non-existent levels of fitness and a supremely existent paunch, I was forced to confront myself with the questions which are best left to one’s dying moments: Have I lived a fruitful life? Will my loved ones be able to carry on? Does a tiny goblin really turn off the lights when you close the fridge door? And so on and so forth.

This is where a lanky, generally soft-spoken Mallu comes into the picture. Slightly demented in the head as well, he had decided to be the other crazy bastard. Immensely fit, this fellow was the only reason why I did not simply collapse and hitch a ride back home that painful day. Out of courtesy I shall call him Gens, courtesy since all the other names I called him were hardly of the polite variety. But I must admit that, with the correct mixture of encouragement and abuses, he somehow managed to get my rear off the road and onto the cycle.

The plan was to cycle to the beaches of Digha which lay about a hundred and forty kilometers away. Leaving our prestigious institution at five in the morning, we cycled through the lanes of Calcutta, through the broad roads of Chittaranjan Avenue and crossing the Howrah bridge just as the city was awakening. It was beautiful. Oh yeah and we also made a fantastic breakfast stop at Poddar Court for some brilliant momos and pork dumpling soup. There are few things better than some steaming pao [Chinese bread] and pork soup to cheer you up in the morning.

Across the Howrah Bridge, through Howrah and then on to the Grand Trunk Road. This was, for me, a pretty special moment. It was after all the centuries-old Grand Trunk Road. It was like traveling through a piece of history, a different time.

Progress was made at a pretty decent pace; we stopped every now and then for some fresh ganna [sugar cane] juice or some coconut water. Lunch was at a roadside dhaba: hot rotis and dal. I don’t recall ever eating something which tasted that good.

It was probably an hour later that the problems started. What was initially a slight pain in my toes managed to engulf half my bloody leg! And that is how I ended up lying on the side of the road, staring at the sky and wondering how I could have thought that I would have made it in the first place.

Like I said, it was due to Gens that I managed to get up and we moved on. This time the stops were more frequent. We managed to hit Digha road a few hours later and from then on it became easier. Thought I was pretty sure that the cycle seat had made a permanent imprint on my butt, I think it was too numb to be much of a bother. Of course the maniacal bus drivers and their rather loud horns did not help but it was not that bad anymore. Dinner was again at a road side place but this time I could not really taste the food. Pretty tired.

As for where we spent that night, that tale is for another time. Suffice to say that the next morning I was completely taken over by the hospitable nature of the people of West Bengal.

The next morning we started off with breakfast in a nearby town. The next few hours were probably the best part of the entire journey. This is when I started to look around, observe the people and the sights and the smells which always make me think of my village. We knew we were going to meet the sea and it did not matter how much time we took to get there.

The land still showed signs of the monsoon and everything just seemed to be so green and so filled with life. We met some interesting people and I was quite surprised to see the amount of attention our cycles would receive in every village we stopped at. Sipping hot chai at one shack, one old lady told us how she had a relative in Calcutta who lived on Airport Road, would we know her by any chance? It was so sincere and innocent I could barely stop laughing.

And then we hit the beach. It was not Digha but by then it just did not matter. We had made it! There was a fair near the beach which made it even more special. People from the nearby villages had all come to visit and it was a real festive occasion. There were toys to be bought, sweets to be eaten and rides to go to.

But it was the beach which got me. Those final meters when we hit the sand and we could see the waves. That was real special.

We spent a couple of hours lazing around on the beach. And then it was time to head back. The plan was to cycle to the nearest town, haul our cycles onto a bus and then head back to Calcutta. Which is what we did. Nearly.

You see, Gens in a moment of utter brilliance, suggested spending even more time with the cycles. Preferably on top of a bus. A bus which was driven by an individual who apparently did not really understand the meaning of “speed limit”. While at the same time being cut by the cold winter wind. Yup the man does have his moments of true genius.

On top of a speeding bus. That’s where we spent the last few hours of our journey. It was evening when we boarded the bus and night by the time we cruised into Kolkata. Frozen stiff and with that numb butt showing signs of life, we cycled our way back to college. The streets were quiet in the night and we were tired. Or rather I was, don’t know about the maniac Gens.

We rolled into campus late at night which was a pity since there was no audience to show off to. But we had made it: a crazy journey with a crazy friend. I guess you could call it a road trip.

The one on the left is the crazy bastard.