Friday, June 26, 2009

THE KULLU VALLEY

While Abigail and Kierahn were still in Canada I took a weekend away from scorching, 40 degree Delhi, and flew north to the Himalayan states of Himachal Pradesh early one Saturday morning, taking a packed 50 minute flight and landing in the picturesque Kullu Valley.

I chose to stay in Naggar village which boasts a centuries old wood and stone castle converted into a decent government run hotel where I booked a chilly but pleasant room with gorgeous views. The castle clings to the edge of the mountain side, towering over the Beas River and valley below. The valley is protected on each side by massive mountains, their snow capped peaks clearly visible against the clear blue sky. Indeed, the sky and mountains, along with the clean air and friendly people are the principal reasons for visiting Naggar, a fairly quiet town, especially when compared to notorious Manali, the nearby haunt of backpackers, hippies and hash, another hour north along the valley.

Although peaceful by Indian standards, Naggar does attract a strange mix of visitors: Indian families and honeymooners, stopping by to snap photos of the views and castle, sometimes with rowdy children in tow sucking on popsicles; Russians attracted by the Nicholas Roerich museum, devoted to the Russian painter and mystic who made his home in Naggar and died there; and the occasional backpacker, perhaps lost on the way to Manali, too stoned to care. On the first day I arrived, the town was extremely quiet and I happily wandered through the narrow streets and surrounding fields, snapping pictures with the smiling locals, with both young and old happily posing. Kids played cricket in the apple orchards, women washed pots and and plates, and old men with scraggly beards and colorful hats smoked peacefully by the windows in their homes. These dwellings were mostly constructed of wood and stone, keeping with local tradition, making Naggar one of the few towns in India that has not been overrun by hideous concrete structures.

I also visited the Roerich museum, devoted to the painter and his family, who made India their home. Nicholas Roerich was a fascinating figure: a celebrated artist and mysterious mystic, who explored much of Central Asia and Tibet. He attracted devout followers and may have been a double-agent, managing to stay on friendly terms with both the British and Russians, arch-rivals in the quest for influence and empire in Central Asia. The museum contained some of his paintings of the Himalayas, as well as old photos of himself and his son, Svetoslav, who also lived in India, marrying one of the country's first movie stars.

That evening, I decided to have a beer in one of the local rooftop restaurants. Entering the terrace, I was presented with the comical image - surprisingly common in India - of two middle-aged white women dancing enthusiastically to an Indian electronica groove. They were dressed in traditional backpacker attire - scarves, cheap baggy "Aladdin" pants and loose cotton tops. They were soon joined, however, by a large group of their colleagues, Russians it turned out, about 20 in all. After about an hour of chatting amongst themselves, the group leader, a rugged type with a pony-tail and weathered face, began speaking authoritatively while the others listened, nodding their heads and closing their eyes. I began to feel uncomfortable, so I finished my beer and hopped over to the next restaurant.

There, I chatted pleasantly with two brothers who explained that they had just opened the restaurant/hotel one month before. It was a dream fulfilled, they said. The family owned apple orchards, but the hotel belonged to the brothers and they had financed its construction themselves. They were optimistic for the future of tourism in Naggar, though also expressed the desire for it to maintain its peaceful air. Needless to say, I wholeheartedly agreed.

We talked of the weather, and like almost anyone you talk to these days in any part of the world, they commented on its unpredictability in recent years. It was cold as we spoke, unusual for this time of year. In January, almost no snow had fallen for the first time in memory.

The next morning I awoke to a spectacular view of the brilliantly lit peaks, perfect in the morning light. After a potassium-overload breakfast of banana pancakes (with an unfortunate oniony undertone) and banana porridge, I set out on a hike, the route helpfully traced out by Abishek, one of the Naggar hotelier brothers. It was to take me to a Krishna temple and then two local villages, climbing most of the way before returning on a steep downhill road. I set off with the village names scribbled on a peace of paper, my camera and more bananas. A few minutes into my walk, I encountered three ancient, bent figures climbing slowly up the forested path with the aid of walking sticks. Like almost everyone else I encountered, they happily posed for photos and asked where I was headed - turns out they were on their way to the temple as well. I walked off ahead of them, but missed my turnoff. When I finally reached the temple, I could hear drumming and singing; the old men, impressively, had already arrived, though were far from alone.

Dancing and clapping to the music were members of the Russian group. They had taken over a portion of the courtyard and were happily snapping photos and taking video of the event. I asked their Russian-speaking Indian guide what exactly the deal was with this strange scene: many of the men were topless and a woman walked around in spandex pants and a bikini top - not the usual attire seen in Hindu temples. (I wondered if they would dress the same way in a house of worship back in Russia, but as the locals did not seem to mind, I enjoyed the scene). I tried to get an unobstructed photo of the small temple, but there were too many Russians - so I shrugged and started snapping photos of them. Meanwhile the guide explained that they were a sort of meditation group from all over Russia. He wondered why it is that India sees so many foreigners entranced by its spirituality, when you would never see a large group of Indians traveling to the west for similar reasons. I agreed, shrugging. Then, being neither Hindu, Russian or topless, I again felt uncomfortable and took off.

Before I reached the village, I was intercepted by a young man heading in the same direction as me. On the way we had to pass by his grandfather's house, so we stopped in for tea. The house was made of stone, mud and wood and had a balcony running along one side. Here the old grandfather sat, a tiny figure with a gaunt, wrinkled face, smoking an enormous hash pipe while I was introduced. The extended family within the house - it was not entirely clear how my guide and the other women and children were related - were most welcoming, and tea was prepared. One young boy coughed incessantly, spraying myself and my tea to my dismay. Finally, we set off through the woods again surrounded by towering pines, the mountains to our back. Surprisingly, we came across more drumming, this time from a procession of local men. "It is for the gods," my guide explained. The scent of hash wafted over the strange scene. My new friend was heading to the village of Rumsu, where more "gods" would be in appearance. We split off after exchanging phone numbers. After taking more photos in a village, I moved off in the direction of Rumsu myself, the sound of drums echoing through the woods as I struggled to find the right path. Once again, a local youth came to the rescue, accompanying me to the somewhat isolated village made up entirely of the local stone and wood houses.

A festival of some sort did indeed appear to be underway, with colorfully clad women and children gathered in a clearing before a tent where a sound system was being set up. The men were scattered about in groups, with a large number clustered around a temple. As I approached them to take photos, I was shooed away loudly by a number of the men, the first time all day I and my camera had been rebuffed. Embarrassed, I quickly headed off back downhill to Naggar, part of the way bouncing on the back of a motorcycle, whose owner kindly offered me a lift.

The scene in Naggar was far different than the peaceful one I had found on the previous day. For whatever reason, the tourist hordes had descended and the single narrow road that winds its way through the town was clogged with taxis, jeeps and minivans and the incessant honks and beeps that characterise any such scene in India. A backpacker roared by on a Royal Enfield while young Indians flew through on their scooters and motorbikes. Families swarmed the castle and the tiny temple therein, snapping photos and scolding their children. Men with tight jeans and women in salwarkameez and sneakers strolled through the temple, looking somewhat unsure what to make of this rather tiny "castle". A gentleman enthralled with his own coolness posed with his arms crossed and a tough guy look, his oversized Ray-Bans reflecting the sun. Backpackers munched on dangerously stale-looking pastries and stroked their overgrown facial hair. On older foreigner sported red and saffron "sadhu chic" as he sipped tea through his long silver beard. A Russian walked into the pastry shop where I was having tea, and to my alarm, actually ordered a slice of the "organic" cheese that looked like it had been sitting in the (unrefrigerated) display case for at least 6 months. Clouds began to form over the mountains, the peaks themselves preferring to withdraw from the scene. I headed inside to take a nap while it rained.

I awoke early Monday morning to catch my plane back to Delhi, arriving a full 2.5 hours late on a disorganized flight that included a long delay and an unscheduled, ludicrous re-fuelling stop - all this for what was supposed to be a 50 minute flight. I arrived sweaty and late to the office at 11:30am and slogged my way through the day. The mountain views made the trip worth it, though I have vowed to never fly the airline in question again.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Back to Bom



We've been back in Delhi for a few weeks after a great trip down south over the holidays. It was nice to get out of Delhi for a few days, as it tends to get rather drab at this time of year, with grey skies and chilly winds. We hit Mumbai and Kerala, two marvelous destinations that provided the right jolt of colour and variety to make us forget the sometimes dreary capital city we live in.

With countless friends and relatives in Mumbai, five days were not enough to soak up all the nostalgia I felt visiting the city of my birth (then Bombay) after eight years. The city remains familiar, and on previous trips I had regarded many of Bombay's sites as locals tend to do - with an indifference bred by familiarity. On this occasion, for whatever reason, everything caught my eye: the city's spectacular British-built buildings and playful beaches, the red double-decker buses and black and yellow taxis, the wide sidewalks and soaring new high rises. It seemed cleaner than I remembered, with a more pleasant climate.

It has changed in recent years, beginning with a shiny new airport. It has been carved out of the surrounding slums that crowd around the runway, only a concrete wall preventing the tin-roofed shacks from encroaching on the planes landing and departing. The aforementioned high rises are impressive, boasting views of the sea and respite from the noisy streets below. But it is the old that remains eye-catching in Bombay. The 19th century architecture is simply spectacular, with the sprawling Victoria Terminus leading the way.

Also, for whatever reason, the ancient taxis remain fascinating; Bombay icons so decrepit, they're cool. They're based on a 1950s or 60s Fiat model and indeed, every single one looks and drives like it's half a century old. Most drivers personalize their vehicles with any one of a variety of quirky designer items - Krishna dashboard stickers and designer mud flaps, steering wheel beads or fresh flowers hung from the rear view mirror. The interior is cramped and uncomfortable, and the drivers universally unsmiling, looking like they would rather be doing anything than driving their beat up antiques through the streets of the city. But the taxis remain a great way to get around; much less intimidating than the double-decker buses that barrel through the streets, and a good deal more comfortable than the overflowing commuter trains, claustrophobic nightmares on rails. The taxis are still incredibly cheap, and, most importantly, they use their meters. Taking a taxi or auto-rickshaw in Delhi or - anywhere else in India - almost always involves haggling hassles. In Delhi, even when a meter is used, cab drivers tend to cover it up with a filthy cloth in an unapologetically blatant attempt to prevent one from knowing the actual fare. Each journey, therefore, becomes a chore, with each driver seemingly worse than the previous one, some complaining bitterly of the "unfair" cost of the negotiated price, requesting more at the end of the journey or getting lost along the way. The metered taxis of Mumbai - as battered and dilapitated as they are - represent a far superior means of getting around town.

Kierahn loved Bombay as well, starting with our hosts, very old and dear friends of my parents whom he took to immediately, along with the numerous fans in their home. (Kierahn has an unusual obsession with ceiling fans.) Like his dad, he enjoyed the taxi rides, and was fascinated by the double-decker buses - a small toy model I bought him at the local market remains one of his favorite playthings. We managed to find a few playgrounds for him, but, unfortunately, they were almost all absurdly dangerous: sky-high climbing gyms with toddler-sized holes in the platform at the top, slides with razor sharp edges at the bottom, and everywhere signs of rusty neglect. The local parents and children were unperturbed, while we kept an eye on Kierahn like a hawk, lest he tumble, slice or maim himself.

Children's play areas aside, Bombay is a safe city. Many local women told me repeatedly that they can safely take a cab home alone at night, something they correctly pointed out is not possible in Delhi. (The hostility Bombay residents have for Delhi is of a Montreal-Toronto nature - visceral and intense). Unfortunately, however, this reputation for safety has been undermined by the fact that Bombay has been a repeated target for horrendous terrorist attacks, including the shocking ones that took place in November the very heart of the city. Almost by accident, we ended up visiting three of the sites which were struck by the terrorists: the Taj hotel (where we saw a moving memorial), Leopold's Cafe (for a quick lime soda) and the Victoria Terminus train station. Bullet holes remain in the mirrors on Leopold's walls, mere inches from diner's heads. Nonetheless, the many times we walked by there it was never less than packed. For the remorseless attackers armed with grenades and automatic weapons - as well as the advanced commando training required to use them effectively - this amounted to a fish-in-a-barrel scenario, and I honestly do not know how anyone survived their savage attack. Similarly, the Terminus was as bustling and chaotic as one would expect of a building that sees about 2 million visitors a day. Seeking as they did to cause maximum loss of life, clearly the terrorists chose well.

In the wake of these latest attacks there has been lots of talk in India of the "spirit of Bombay" and its citizens' ability to bounce back from any and all setbacks. Indeed, the hotels have re-opened, Leopold's was packed and the train station bustled. The reality, though, is that Bombay is a city beset by many everyday problems that make living there a challenge on any normal day for all but the most privileged. Venal and incompetent politicians have neglected the city's infrastructure and extreme poverty while pandering to ethnic chauvinists and zealots. The city has an impressive commuter rail system, but no metro and no ring roads or highways. It also has one of the largest slums in the world. Scores die each year in monsoon floods. So while the terrorists failed in their bid to crush the city's spirit, the reality is that many, perhaps most of the city's inhabitants did not have the luxury of being diverted from the challenges of surviving everyday life in Bombay to pay attention to the deeper meaning of the attacks on Bombay's landmarks; they remain unbowed and unafraid - their spirit unbroken - because in order to endure, they have no other choice.