Did you see the Jarawas?
(Did you toss them a banana?)
(Were they naked?)
Road to ruin.
Mr. S, whom we met on the ferry back from Mount Harriet, is here as part of a package arranged for him back in Ranchi. The package has covered Port Blair, Ross Island, snorkelling, Havelock island and a trip through tribal land. Mr. S saw three Jarawa children, who stepped out onto the road. He was lucky, he says, and recommends we take a trip through the forest as well, because it is worth taking the chance to see the tribals. The caves, that are ostensibly the reason people take the path that carves through the forest, are not too bad-looking either.
Traffic has apparently tripled along the road, since 2001. See here.
Showing posts with label Travel musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel musings. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Stranger on a train - 1
Hunsur-Mysore, January, 2008
When a middle-aged man alerts you to the fact that you're ticket jumping and should actually move from the cool greyness of the lonely three-tier compartment you have comfortably ensconced yourself in, to the hard wooden benches of the unreserved compartment instead, as per your ticket; follows you there; takes his seat opposite you on a two-seater and then proceeds to tell you how glad he is to have made a good friend to chat with on this three-hour journey, you're pretty much doomed to three of the longest hours of your life.
**
The journey began promisingly enough, with a story of a stick up and a death by gunshot at headpoint, in Lucknow.
It was a crowded restaurant in one of the more affluent commercial districts of the city. Tables were filling and emptying quickly and harried waiters rushed around, doling out orders and handing across bills.
At one such table two men were finishing up lunch when the waiter handed them their bill. They scrounged around in their pockets briefly and handed him the money, while continuing to finish up their meal. The waiter returned to them a few moments later, pointing out that they had paid two rupees short of the bill amount.
Within seconds, the customers turned violent. Their tempers flared. They asked how he dared to question them. They asked what difference two rupees would make. He stammered that he was only pointing out a genuine mistake and that they should be tipping him a couple rupees extra, if anything, and not undercutting him.
One of the men pulled a gun out of his pocket and shot the waiter dead. Then, in broad daylight, in full view of tens of stunned customers whose activities had ground to an abrupt and deafeningly silent halt, the men walked out, got into their car, and left.
There were more stories.
Stories of hurrying home in the insurgency in Punjab, stories of pilgrimages undertaken in the freezing cold of a Jammu winter, stories of loyalty and assiduity from Calcutta.
But gradually the tenuous thread hanging these unlikely and disparate strands of storytelling magic together, begins to fray.
**
A peanut-seller enters the compartment and dashes in and out of each berth cluster throwing a few peanuts onto our laps, for free. In a few minutes he is done and goes down the same route, but this time much slower, with his paper cones and warm bag of brown nuts. Ensnared by the quick testers, people dig for change and the adolescent peanut-seller does brisk business.
Outside the sky darkens and the wind gathers speed as we leave Mysore further and further behind.
The fraying threads have fallen apart to reveal gaping holes now – the storyteller opposite me is taking on the bulky form of a real person: a man consumed by his work, unable to communicate with his wife. Determined not to share his sorrows and hardships with her, he turns instead to a polite stranger on a train; a stranger whose eyes are constantly drawn to the moving black shapes outside the iron bars, pupils returning to him – tedious storyteller - in later and later intervals, with weary politeness: the barest indication that he still has some semblance of an audience.
Stories of colour and texture, from the corners of India have been overshadowed by the monumental confessions of personal trajectory. Long hours slaved, dedication and sincerity overlooked, increasing work loads, growing responsibility, the draw of more money – all eating angrily into personal solitude. And from initial conversation punctuated by self doubt and negation, now the story teller's tempo rises, his hands weave up and away and he speaks with renewed vigour: this time about heroes, about beacons of hope in this dismal rut of middle-class aspiration and mundanity.
Hitler! He adores (no, too fawning a word), he idolises Hitler.
“His determination! His ability to set a goal and achieve it, whatever the cost; his single-minded purpose!”
I mutter something about war crimes.
He leans forward to remind me of Bush. Triumphantly he mentions hundreds dead in Iraq – like a sparring partner who has been secretly practising overtime, he stops any pretence of accommodating my interjections, and indulges instead in an unstoppable eulogy to the majestic heroes who dared to punish those they believed had done wrong.
“Rapists? Should be murdered! Their hands should be chopped off!” He leans across and grabs me by the wrist. “They should be made to remember! Their executions should be public. People should watch and be afraid. There should be no doubt that thievery will lead to DEATH!”
My wrist is released.
His verbal sparring has outdone any partner who might have risen to meet his defiance and daring suggestions. He pushes each barrier of resistance, each seed of criticism with more and more confidence. “War crimes... Saudi Arabia... dictatorship...?”; the mild protests from the polite Listener are brushed aside with the confidence of a first time speaker-storyteller who has just succeeded in enchanting his virgin audience. His words are louder, more enunciated; definitive pronouncements now, listen to them - “Death! Hanging! Execution! Public shaming! Mass killing!”
The tirade continues. Earlier mild confessions and retorts, “... but although I am not a History or Geography student, I think...” have been overtaken by bold declarations of justice and revenge.
The night thickens. The compartment thins out. I draw my hands into my lap.
My story teller is now possessed by ghosts from a past that was not mentioned in the stories of the Lucknow shootout, the Amarnath trek or the Calcutta file-clearings. These are stories from a history that precedes my entry, stage left to the ticket counter where I stood before him and bought a cheap wooden bench ticket - “Unreserved, Madam! A fine of Rs. 150, or maybe more, depending on how the TC likes you!” - from Mysore to Bangalore, and he bought the same after me, asking the same question I did: Which platform? To which the irascible ticket vendor, nearing the end of a shift, dreaming of hot tiffin brought to him in a shiny scrubbed carrier, told him to just “follow the lady”.
He talks of persipacity and boldness; of capital punishment, of death camps; of grit, determination and resolve; of blinkered progress without a second thought.
**
Suddenly there is a scramble as the train starts to slow down. Crowds of people who materialise suddenly swell up at both exits; squeezed young men appear like toothpaste blobs, large head and then, painfully eked out, a visible thin rest-of-the-body coming around the corner of the berth, diving for a window seat – the train goes on, after this brief halt, down south to Tuticorin.
We hurry out, story teller and once-listener and suddenly the suspension of disbelief in the dimly lit compartment with the two curious ladies (wondering why the young girl was talking, so closely, to a stranger), the staring man from the berth across (who was fascinated by a certain point between the young lady's chin and the base of her neck), the farmer-turned-land owner men (wondering where the two ladies were going)... is shattered. The station is patchy with pools of white light and shallows of darkness hiding sleeping coolies and hungry old ladies and suddenly, scurrying out together, past long corridors smelling of tin-urine-sweat-hurry, up stairs where people scramble confused up and down along the same side of the banister, past unquestioning ticket checkers, we emerge into the night.
**
They live in the same neighbourhood, three streets away. He had asked her (earlier on, whilst they were still friends) how she was going to get home - “pre-paid auto,” she said, and he had said he would take one too.
They reach the station entrance and are ejected out into the sudden darkness of the night outside.
“Goodbye Madam,” he says briefly, raising a hand cursorily in a half wave, hurrying into the confusion of the street.
When a middle-aged man alerts you to the fact that you're ticket jumping and should actually move from the cool greyness of the lonely three-tier compartment you have comfortably ensconced yourself in, to the hard wooden benches of the unreserved compartment instead, as per your ticket; follows you there; takes his seat opposite you on a two-seater and then proceeds to tell you how glad he is to have made a good friend to chat with on this three-hour journey, you're pretty much doomed to three of the longest hours of your life.
**
The journey began promisingly enough, with a story of a stick up and a death by gunshot at headpoint, in Lucknow.
It was a crowded restaurant in one of the more affluent commercial districts of the city. Tables were filling and emptying quickly and harried waiters rushed around, doling out orders and handing across bills.
At one such table two men were finishing up lunch when the waiter handed them their bill. They scrounged around in their pockets briefly and handed him the money, while continuing to finish up their meal. The waiter returned to them a few moments later, pointing out that they had paid two rupees short of the bill amount.
Within seconds, the customers turned violent. Their tempers flared. They asked how he dared to question them. They asked what difference two rupees would make. He stammered that he was only pointing out a genuine mistake and that they should be tipping him a couple rupees extra, if anything, and not undercutting him.
One of the men pulled a gun out of his pocket and shot the waiter dead. Then, in broad daylight, in full view of tens of stunned customers whose activities had ground to an abrupt and deafeningly silent halt, the men walked out, got into their car, and left.
There were more stories.
Stories of hurrying home in the insurgency in Punjab, stories of pilgrimages undertaken in the freezing cold of a Jammu winter, stories of loyalty and assiduity from Calcutta.
But gradually the tenuous thread hanging these unlikely and disparate strands of storytelling magic together, begins to fray.
**
A peanut-seller enters the compartment and dashes in and out of each berth cluster throwing a few peanuts onto our laps, for free. In a few minutes he is done and goes down the same route, but this time much slower, with his paper cones and warm bag of brown nuts. Ensnared by the quick testers, people dig for change and the adolescent peanut-seller does brisk business.
Outside the sky darkens and the wind gathers speed as we leave Mysore further and further behind.
The fraying threads have fallen apart to reveal gaping holes now – the storyteller opposite me is taking on the bulky form of a real person: a man consumed by his work, unable to communicate with his wife. Determined not to share his sorrows and hardships with her, he turns instead to a polite stranger on a train; a stranger whose eyes are constantly drawn to the moving black shapes outside the iron bars, pupils returning to him – tedious storyteller - in later and later intervals, with weary politeness: the barest indication that he still has some semblance of an audience.
Stories of colour and texture, from the corners of India have been overshadowed by the monumental confessions of personal trajectory. Long hours slaved, dedication and sincerity overlooked, increasing work loads, growing responsibility, the draw of more money – all eating angrily into personal solitude. And from initial conversation punctuated by self doubt and negation, now the story teller's tempo rises, his hands weave up and away and he speaks with renewed vigour: this time about heroes, about beacons of hope in this dismal rut of middle-class aspiration and mundanity.
Hitler! He adores (no, too fawning a word), he idolises Hitler.
“His determination! His ability to set a goal and achieve it, whatever the cost; his single-minded purpose!”
I mutter something about war crimes.
He leans forward to remind me of Bush. Triumphantly he mentions hundreds dead in Iraq – like a sparring partner who has been secretly practising overtime, he stops any pretence of accommodating my interjections, and indulges instead in an unstoppable eulogy to the majestic heroes who dared to punish those they believed had done wrong.
“Rapists? Should be murdered! Their hands should be chopped off!” He leans across and grabs me by the wrist. “They should be made to remember! Their executions should be public. People should watch and be afraid. There should be no doubt that thievery will lead to DEATH!”
My wrist is released.
His verbal sparring has outdone any partner who might have risen to meet his defiance and daring suggestions. He pushes each barrier of resistance, each seed of criticism with more and more confidence. “War crimes... Saudi Arabia... dictatorship...?”; the mild protests from the polite Listener are brushed aside with the confidence of a first time speaker-storyteller who has just succeeded in enchanting his virgin audience. His words are louder, more enunciated; definitive pronouncements now, listen to them - “Death! Hanging! Execution! Public shaming! Mass killing!”
The tirade continues. Earlier mild confessions and retorts, “... but although I am not a History or Geography student, I think...” have been overtaken by bold declarations of justice and revenge.
The night thickens. The compartment thins out. I draw my hands into my lap.
My story teller is now possessed by ghosts from a past that was not mentioned in the stories of the Lucknow shootout, the Amarnath trek or the Calcutta file-clearings. These are stories from a history that precedes my entry, stage left to the ticket counter where I stood before him and bought a cheap wooden bench ticket - “Unreserved, Madam! A fine of Rs. 150, or maybe more, depending on how the TC likes you!” - from Mysore to Bangalore, and he bought the same after me, asking the same question I did: Which platform? To which the irascible ticket vendor, nearing the end of a shift, dreaming of hot tiffin brought to him in a shiny scrubbed carrier, told him to just “follow the lady”.
He talks of persipacity and boldness; of capital punishment, of death camps; of grit, determination and resolve; of blinkered progress without a second thought.
**
Suddenly there is a scramble as the train starts to slow down. Crowds of people who materialise suddenly swell up at both exits; squeezed young men appear like toothpaste blobs, large head and then, painfully eked out, a visible thin rest-of-the-body coming around the corner of the berth, diving for a window seat – the train goes on, after this brief halt, down south to Tuticorin.
We hurry out, story teller and once-listener and suddenly the suspension of disbelief in the dimly lit compartment with the two curious ladies (wondering why the young girl was talking, so closely, to a stranger), the staring man from the berth across (who was fascinated by a certain point between the young lady's chin and the base of her neck), the farmer-turned-land owner men (wondering where the two ladies were going)... is shattered. The station is patchy with pools of white light and shallows of darkness hiding sleeping coolies and hungry old ladies and suddenly, scurrying out together, past long corridors smelling of tin-urine-sweat-hurry, up stairs where people scramble confused up and down along the same side of the banister, past unquestioning ticket checkers, we emerge into the night.
**
They live in the same neighbourhood, three streets away. He had asked her (earlier on, whilst they were still friends) how she was going to get home - “pre-paid auto,” she said, and he had said he would take one too.
They reach the station entrance and are ejected out into the sudden darkness of the night outside.
“Goodbye Madam,” he says briefly, raising a hand cursorily in a half wave, hurrying into the confusion of the street.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Some newness
In today's Sunday Herald, on a road trip:
"The first sign that things are going wrong is when the people disappear."
and last week's Sunday Magazine, on a climate change walk.
"The first sign that things are going wrong is when the people disappear."
and last week's Sunday Magazine, on a climate change walk.
Monday, December 17, 2007
8th cross
jasmine sellers, glass bangle sellers, beads and baubles strung on wooden crucifixes along the pavement by men who are constantly on the move, away from police whistles. kaaju barfi, hardware on the street, shoe repair, family temple, Bata stores. Nothing much changes on this street, but there are more jewellery stores here than ever before and obnoxious ads which there never used to be.
the other side of the djemaa
random photu --->
It's well past midnight at the Marrakech bus stand. Shawled men form sleeping humps along the base of the bus stand's walls - gently-heaving, hooded figures snoring through arrivals and departures. Just off a bus from the exuberant sea side town of Essaouira we are already overwhelmed by Marrakech's night-time unfamiliarity. Its aggressive traffic, its insistent touts, its magnanimous big-city character that overlooks our foreignness and tourist-status. The city makes no exceptions for faltering explorers. No buses have been found to our particular tiny destination: Ait Ben Haddou, six hours by road from here, across the Atlas mountains. No ebullient taxi driver has quoted an even near-reasonable rate. No fellow confounded tourist has been found to share the cost.
We do not stop trying. There must be a way to get to Ait Ben Haddou. Despite being a speck on the map, the tiny dark blotch that is this dry and dusty town holds promises of ruined kasbahs amidst parched landscapes, deserted winding roads branching off into a lonely village now and again and the understated fame it has gained by being in the neighbourhood of film studios linked to Lawrence of Arabia and Gladiator. Film-maker David Lean has stayed here. We have even identified the tiny resort we will unwind at, where friends have stayed before us, swimming in an open pool surrounded by ruptured parched earth, under cooling blue skies.
As the night wears on, our persistence in trying to find a bus route eastwards that doesn't seem to exist helps us shake off the coterie of touts that was following us. Nearing one a.m., we find ourselves wedged into a tiny room lined with big maps, three foldable chairs and the chatty proprietor of a bus company. Leisurely, he tells us about his business, his studies in France, the changing city of Marrakech. We nod in agreement to his near-universal moan about a big city's morphing character.
“Tourists have changed it,” he says. “Foreigners have come in, buying houses with their big money and taken away the city I knew”.
We nod in sympathy. We offer him our paprika chips. Every sentiment sympathised with, every chip offered, every strand of culture understood as shared (we are two Indians and one half-Berber, half-Argentine) is inching us closer to a possible bus ticket procured on a full bus. Finally after an hour of crucial small talk, he offers us the modern day tourist equivalent of a signed deal - his gmail address: “to chat”. With it come the three bus tickets.
And now we are free to wander around. Four hours to kill in one of Morocco's best-loved cities and we faithfully follow repeated advice to visit the city's main square – the Djemaa el-Fna. One of us is half-Moroccan and has been here before, ten years ago. Stumbling along, part by instinct, part fading memory, we follow her through tiny winding streets, shuttered tiny shops, suddenly empty, dark, narrow stretches of road till, like a fairy tale glinting out at us from amidst the grime we have gingerly been picking our way through, Morocco's historic centre square beckons us.
From its outskirts it appears magical. It rises from the darkness around it, a gossamer construction of fairylights fed by the robust aromas of street food whirling within it. Hunger, exhaustion and anticipation surge together, urging us onward into the maze of food stalls. Yet the minute we break into the magical circle of light and shade, aroma and smoke, like a mirage, petulant and hard-to-please, the maya shatters. We are greeted, no, not greeted, veritably intruded upon by aggressive touts. “Shah Rukh Khan,” rasps the first and we know our night could only slide downward here on.
This greeting was familiar to us by now, as it would be to any group in Morocco that included an even reasonably good -looking Indian man. A slew of actor names will be offered to you, each one brimming with the possibilities of an entirely different persona from the previous – the chant to the Indian male tourist could be as varied as, “Raj Kapoor, Shah Rukh Khan, Amitabh Bachchan”! It begins as a heckle, then the words wrap themselves around you, visible to vendors and hawkers down the streets you walk and each will conjure up more names of his own or play around with those whose echoes are still swirling around you. The chorus of “Shah Rukh Khan, Amitabh Bachchan” that has dutifully followed us through our travels in Morocco is magnified through the lanes of this vast open square that hosts the Marrakech International Film Festival every year. The festival routinely fetes Bollywood: big stars such as Aamir Khan and Kajol have been paid tribute and attendees have included the Big B. Their apparently impactful presence coupled with the Moroccan's long-standing love of Indian pop culture has resulted in an ironic casting of the Indian tourist as naiive victim: a part we Indians usually associate, in amusement, with the Western tourist bravely navigating our own country. But the stereotype hits closer home than is comfortable in Morocco, as Indian tourists are constantly bantered with, quizzed and typecast – usually in reverse order.
“Namaste, namaste,” said the man, warming up to his act. The historic square was quickly losing its charm. At each step, a new man awaited us, and like hapless prey, we stumbled from the suddenly blinding light of one stall to the next, riding upon a chant that strung together Bollywood star names with broken Hindi.
Being very late at night, most tables have emptied out. The remaining few stalls seat gregarious tourists making absurd requests to the stall chefs – asking for action shots, an extra flourish while tossing the omelette here, a group picture against the tajine pot there. And streaming around us all is a constant stream of poverty and disability, young children wheeling around crippled siblings, begging for a bottle of water, some left-over scraps of food.
Nausea overwhelms us as do the enormous contradictions contained in this vast square. Its ribbon of sudden squalor and misery threaded through the hue of fairy lights and delicate smoke swirls. Our familiarity with poverty in India but our complete discomfort with it here. The cumulative effect of many assertive aromas wears us thin.
After a distracted meal at one of the stalls, half-mindful of the fact that digestion would be affected by a long journey along winding roads in just a few hours, we make our way out of the Djemaa el-Fna. Its lights have dimmed now and morning is breaking overhead, but in these Post-Tourist hours the sordid clamour of the square continues unfolding behind us even as we leave it.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
On photography
Koln, September 30, 2007
constructing koln
My camera is hopelessly underequipped to capture the fleeting, the random, the ambiguous, the implied. Not surprisingly so. It seems pointless to even attempt to capture within its frame what are often moments that the mind can align perfectly into a mental frame, complete with irony and metaphor, but that the lens will struggle with.
Random moments in Koln stack themselves up in postcard clarity. A bunch of kids dressed all in black: Goth, and seriously so, sprawled along a long set of stairs, Koln's own Gothic masterpiece, the cathedral, rising up in sombre silence behind them. Ironic, but too tall, all of it, to smudge into one frame.
Then around the corner, stomping through the drizzle, a Turkish wedding party unfolds itself. Everybody immaculately dressed and made up. Boys' hair gelled, girls in bronzed make up, everybody exuding exotic scents. I wish I had the looks on the boys' faces - a sort of aggressive sexuality mixed with the confidence of good clothes and post-adolescence. But it would be strange to stop in their midst and photograph them.
And finally walking down the road, picking their way through the rubble of one of Koln's many construction sites, a row of black-hooded nuns, trailing melancholia and sombriety in their path - or maybe it was just the grey weather - but it is a lasting image, their bobbing weave of black and white. It's a mind image though: still fresh. My camera was safely dry in my bag.
constructing koln
My camera is hopelessly underequipped to capture the fleeting, the random, the ambiguous, the implied. Not surprisingly so. It seems pointless to even attempt to capture within its frame what are often moments that the mind can align perfectly into a mental frame, complete with irony and metaphor, but that the lens will struggle with.
Random moments in Koln stack themselves up in postcard clarity. A bunch of kids dressed all in black: Goth, and seriously so, sprawled along a long set of stairs, Koln's own Gothic masterpiece, the cathedral, rising up in sombre silence behind them. Ironic, but too tall, all of it, to smudge into one frame.
Then around the corner, stomping through the drizzle, a Turkish wedding party unfolds itself. Everybody immaculately dressed and made up. Boys' hair gelled, girls in bronzed make up, everybody exuding exotic scents. I wish I had the looks on the boys' faces - a sort of aggressive sexuality mixed with the confidence of good clothes and post-adolescence. But it would be strange to stop in their midst and photograph them.
And finally walking down the road, picking their way through the rubble of one of Koln's many construction sites, a row of black-hooded nuns, trailing melancholia and sombriety in their path - or maybe it was just the grey weather - but it is a lasting image, their bobbing weave of black and white. It's a mind image though: still fresh. My camera was safely dry in my bag.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Morocco - 1
... and then we were back. English everywhere, people staring on the tube and pretending they weren't, legs closely kept near themselves, polite distances on the escalators. It was cold, restaurants on Upper Street were full.
And the past month was something in a parallel universe: inexplicable, now just a memory I was trying to save, afraid its fragility would be shattered by London.
When we set off twelve days ago, I was scared. That people who hadn't met before wouldn't get along, that hotels would be full up, that we had no proper plan, just some good maps, a guide book, advice from friends and our own wishlists.
We landed in Fez and felt like colonial invaders - our plane was tiny on the tarmac and all around us, dusty flat plains with mountains tracing a faint line along the horizon. Unable to imagine the French, we leant on our imagination, shaped by films watched and books read, to imagine the English. We imagined Lawrence of Arabia and Casablanca.
---
Somewhere beyond the Bab Bou Jeloud (above) off a tiny winding lane, at a house that was dragged kicking and screaming into guesthouse status, Arjun negotiated with a high cheekboned Native American tout and a bulky middle aged landlord -who didn't lock the door of the subterranean loo he used- for a garish room with a large bed, a small bed, a couch and the use of two tiny shared bathrooms all the way up on the terrace. Sitting downstairs we heard screaming, silences, shuffling and a rush of activity as the bargaining adopted natural, universal rhythms: rise, fall - offer, persuasion, rejection.
Awkward downstairs we struck up conversation with the receptionist/general help, Omar. Asked what he was reading, Omar showed us a French book and then informed us (somewhat incongruous in the tiny dark room off a street in the old city) in English that: When you read you absorb power, but when you speak you give it away.
His reticence melted that night as we brought a bottle of wine home to kill a few hours before the night train to Marrakesh. He fiddled on his computer to find a music sourcing site and then regaled with music from across the world, attempting to please each of our tastes - guessing what we would like and then modifying genres slightly so he could hone in on it. We offered him wine sceptically but he accepted it, reminding us that this was 2007 and that Morocco had to "move forward". An hour later, after humming and singing to Amadou and Mariam, Bon Jovi, Whitney Houston, Khaled and Rachid Taha, Omar's wine lay untouched. "My heart hurts to drink it," he explained and so we took it back. The music was bond enough.
And the past month was something in a parallel universe: inexplicable, now just a memory I was trying to save, afraid its fragility would be shattered by London.
When we set off twelve days ago, I was scared. That people who hadn't met before wouldn't get along, that hotels would be full up, that we had no proper plan, just some good maps, a guide book, advice from friends and our own wishlists.
We landed in Fez and felt like colonial invaders - our plane was tiny on the tarmac and all around us, dusty flat plains with mountains tracing a faint line along the horizon. Unable to imagine the French, we leant on our imagination, shaped by films watched and books read, to imagine the English. We imagined Lawrence of Arabia and Casablanca.
---
Somewhere beyond the Bab Bou Jeloud (above) off a tiny winding lane, at a house that was dragged kicking and screaming into guesthouse status, Arjun negotiated with a high cheekboned Native American tout and a bulky middle aged landlord -who didn't lock the door of the subterranean loo he used- for a garish room with a large bed, a small bed, a couch and the use of two tiny shared bathrooms all the way up on the terrace. Sitting downstairs we heard screaming, silences, shuffling and a rush of activity as the bargaining adopted natural, universal rhythms: rise, fall - offer, persuasion, rejection.
Awkward downstairs we struck up conversation with the receptionist/general help, Omar. Asked what he was reading, Omar showed us a French book and then informed us (somewhat incongruous in the tiny dark room off a street in the old city) in English that: When you read you absorb power, but when you speak you give it away.
His reticence melted that night as we brought a bottle of wine home to kill a few hours before the night train to Marrakesh. He fiddled on his computer to find a music sourcing site and then regaled with music from across the world, attempting to please each of our tastes - guessing what we would like and then modifying genres slightly so he could hone in on it. We offered him wine sceptically but he accepted it, reminding us that this was 2007 and that Morocco had to "move forward". An hour later, after humming and singing to Amadou and Mariam, Bon Jovi, Whitney Houston, Khaled and Rachid Taha, Omar's wine lay untouched. "My heart hurts to drink it," he explained and so we took it back. The music was bond enough.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
2 - Essaouira
And in the grand scheme, when you consider that you've rented an apartment, there are beaches to lie on, bazaars to explore, Berber knives to bargain over, ripped men playing football on the beach to engage in conversation with, mint tea to drink and the genetic North African is in a cyber cafe finishing a paper on sanctions and Libya, in this grand scheme of things, cous cous is actually just no different from upma.
Arjun's haute cuisine:
North African-South Indian fusion speciality, tangy rice flour with peas
North African-South Indian fusion speciality, tangy rice flour with peas
Saturday, April 07, 2007
3 - ourzazate, ait ben hadou
It's the bus ride from hell. Firstly, the bus counter where we bought our tickets east toward the desert is empty. No sign of passengers, touts, sellers, drivers. Just one cat.
And then two hours behind schedule at 2:30 a.m., the bus arrives, already full. We are divided up, Arjun in front (to later regale a Berber woman all night with his stories and share tapioca chips with) and Anna and I scrunched unhappy and apprehensive at the back, in between two men.
As the ride begins, jasmine water is splashed from a bottle onto the aisle. The passengers get a little less restless.Black plastic bags are handed out to contain puke.For someone severely bus sick, my position is unfavourable at the moment. I'm on the last seat, the drive is a winding one into the valley, I have barely enough space for me and my sleeping bag and am disastrously far from the window.
At four a.m. the man next to me begins to fidget. At four fifteen he wakes the people in front of him up and extracts a pile of plastic bags from them. By four thirty all I hear from him are heaving, rustling plastic and wretching sounds.
This is the journey from hell. But atleast it got us somewhere really special, where I had one of the best dinner experiences of my life... and the walks and the silences and the abandoned kasbahs were bonus...
And then two hours behind schedule at 2:30 a.m., the bus arrives, already full. We are divided up, Arjun in front (to later regale a Berber woman all night with his stories and share tapioca chips with) and Anna and I scrunched unhappy and apprehensive at the back, in between two men.
As the ride begins, jasmine water is splashed from a bottle onto the aisle. The passengers get a little less restless.Black plastic bags are handed out to contain puke.For someone severely bus sick, my position is unfavourable at the moment. I'm on the last seat, the drive is a winding one into the valley, I have barely enough space for me and my sleeping bag and am disastrously far from the window.
At four a.m. the man next to me begins to fidget. At four fifteen he wakes the people in front of him up and extracts a pile of plastic bags from them. By four thirty all I hear from him are heaving, rustling plastic and wretching sounds.
This is the journey from hell. But atleast it got us somewhere really special, where I had one of the best dinner experiences of my life... and the walks and the silences and the abandoned kasbahs were bonus...
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Random pics
Summer becomes sort of the season thanks to tourists
This little girl kept pushing the boundaries of what her mum would allow her to explore!
This man, playing for money, in the subway. "If I was a rich man" whilst his daughter scribbled with her crayons.
Lazy afternoon
Auction house
ammunition for a rainy day!
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