3. Myanmar 2001, Literary Haunts in Mandalay

Continuation of 2. Myanmar

First impressions of the former royal capital

We arrived in Mandalay to good accommodation. The hotel had landscaped courtyards and semi detached rooms. As always foreigners paid exorbitantly more. The restaurant served us a good meal.but I wasn't feeling good after the drive and the previous days food so I stayed in the room while the rest went up the temple in Mandalay hill. I probably just missed the fabulous views of Mandalay. 

Gone glory

The following day we walked the streets of Mandalay, the ancient capital. The palace was run down and dilapidated. Constructed entirely of teak wood the buildings were only one storey high. The watch tower, the clock tower and the relic tower stood out. We did get to try the throne. The gardens were poorly maintained. The fort walls surrounding the palace were crumbling. Little remains to show the glorious days of the Burmese royalty. Where was the aura portrayed in The Road to Mandalay* ?

*Rudyard Kipling, author of Jungle Book, and Kim, born in India, can be credited for making Mandalay famous through his poem (set to music in the 20th century). An excerpt:

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,

There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;

For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:

"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"

The Irrawady can overflow

Some of the surrounding houses were elevated on a structure of sturdy teak wood, with bamboo walls and a thatched roof, that recalled when years later I read The Glass Palace ( by Amitav Gosh), a novel about the exile of the last Burmese King to Calcutta.The old railway station reminded us of the British rule. There was also an important ancestral Hindu temple of which only the spear remains and a base stone with a date, the rest of the temple having given way to high rises on all sides.

Vestiges of British presence

Even though trains were not running at the time we visited, the railway station built by the British with traces of Burmese architecture did have a grandeur about it.

Where once George Orwell^ walked the streets 

We drove a little further north to Maymyo (named after a British General), a popular hill station of the colonial days. Its National Park was said occupy 437 acres, with a lake, forestland and flowers.The park had been built by the British forestry. The lake featured and island with a small stupa that could be reached via a wooden bridge, Swans and ducks had roamed freely . There was supposed to be 10 - storey Tower, for a scenic view of the park. The climate, the pine trees and the surrounding hills gave it a European aura. The best we could do was to take a walk to the waterfall.

^George Orwell, the author of Animal Farm, and 1984, was born in India, and served in the British Police Force in Maymo

Not quite Coleridge's Kubla Khan°

We seemed to be in a hurry and so we simply drove down south to a cave to see a subterranean river along the banks of which was a Buddha surrounded by 100s of Buddhas in silver and gold.. It seemed too dark for a Buddhist temple. Driving further down we drove to an ornate temple dedicated to snakes. The pythons, huge and long, lay comfortably coiled at the base of the Buddha oblivios to the visitors. We could have stroked them, but we didn't fancy ending up with medical attention in a foreign country.

°An excerpt from ST Coleridges Kubla Khan:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

   Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round;

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

To be continued in 4. Myanmar

2. Myanmar, 2001, a precarious road trip

Continued from 1. Myanmar, 2001

Blending in

Comfortable with our lungyis and having well understood not to speak a word out of place (usually keeping mum) when questioned at the check point or at ticket booths, we were ready to take on other parts of Myanmar.

Precautions

The uncle insisted on getting us a reliable driver who not only spoke a smattering of Tamil, but also was savvy.  He knew the lay of the land, especially of the local population made up of different tribes in different regions.. The driver pulled up with a van. The three of us, the uncle, his wife, the youngest daughter and an effeminate male family friend made up an intersting group - there was ample space in the seven seater. Our hosts packed enough food for a day. We set off from Yangon quite early in the day driving towards Mandalay. Passing by villages every now and then we stopped at a wayside restaurant to stretch our legs and for a sip of the traditional chrysanthemum tea. It was also a toilet break, with reasonably clean squatting toilets. We probably ordered some rice and vegetables too. 

Watch your words

We had been stopped several times at military checkpoints to make sure that the Myanmese citizens had their travel permits, and we our passports. Every village had teak trees planted 5 thick along the sides of the road. It was illegal to chop down a teak tree (even if you had one growing on your land, according to the villagers). They all belonged to the government and were worth as much as gold. Several trucks laden with teak logs  passed us as we invariably and patiently waited at the numerous check points. Our hosts advised us to just keep our mouths zipped while the driver did all the talking. 

Cross the bridge when you come to it, but where is it? 

At a village we had to cross yet another river. Bridges across many such rivers had been destroyed during the war. Being summer, the bottom of the river was dry and cracked except for some pools around which it was muddy,a hazard for our tyres which could dig themselves deep into the mire. A bus was already spinning its wheels in the muck. We had to act fast. If it suddenly rained upstream there would be a flash food and there's no saying when it would subside enough for us to cross safely, if we had not already been washed out to Indian Ocean. Our driver called for the villagers to literally carry the van across as we walked along. The river could easily surge within a few mins if the rains fell upstream. We could have been trapped in the village till the waters subsided. There was no dearth of rice and people were vey generous. But the houses on stilts had palm leave roofs and woven bamboo for walls. Very pretty and idyllic but the idea of getting stuck is not very palatable.

We crossed to the oppositte bank , walking part of the way, holding our breath and hoping it would not rain. Across the river the scenery changed. Now we saw fields of ground nuts, and, later, countless mechanical nodding donkeys working the oil wells.

Bagan of a bygone era but still relevant

When we arrived in Bagan it was dusk. We found a dingy place to stay for the night. As foreigners we were charged nearly 10 times the rate the citizens paid. We were a little rattled when the hotel 'reception' kept our passports. Our room was large enough to accommodate all of us, with an equally large poorly lit bathroom. We cooked some rice in a China made rice cooker which only turned out burnt rice.  

Feeling refreshed we drove along and into the thousant yraer old Bagan complex ( a UNESCO world heritage site), with more than 2000 temples, over a stretch of 30 kilometers,where we managed to visit three of the red brick structures marvelling at the spirituality of the Myanmese and the extensive restoration work done on the various monasteries and temples. The ruins revealed the architectural techniques that have stood the test of time. 

Buddha dazzles in serene surroundings

Walking the wildly overgrown grounds on which the Bagan pagodas, monastries and shrines are spread out, we explored a few ruins before entering the main temple. The presiding Buddha of the temple bedazzled us with the huge diamond embedded in his forehead. 

Reflection in reflection?

On the way was a temple on a hill and it looked new. The uncle said that military bigwigs had the temple built. It was one of a kind. Being afternoon the sun reflected off the millions of mosaic glass pieces adorning all the pillars, must have been at least twenty. It is a wonder how one could sit down calmly in  prayer with all the reflection.

Continues into 3. Myanmar, 2001

1. Myanmar 2001, In the footsteps of forefathers

Testing the waters, 2001

Drink's uncle lives in Yangon, Myanmar. He got left behind when members of his community escaped to India as the military Regime took over the country(history: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burmese_Indians ). He survived innumerable ordeals. As soon as the regime allowed its citizens foreign travel, the uncle , his wife and a daughter visited India to vist his family in India after nearly 20 years. On the way back to Myanmar they visited us in Singapore staying with us for about a week before flying back home. He had so many stories to tell. Now that we knew he was in a comfortable position to receive relatives from overseas we decided to visit him.

Tiresome process but teachers have their perks

The process began with applications for visas at the Myanmar embassy in Singapore. Filling out several forms you had to wait in line for the submission only to be greeted by gruff officers who seemed very unwilling to acknowledge us. We had to come back a few days later at an allocated time to, hopefully, be approved for a visa. If you were a teacher you got more respect, as is the norm in Asian countries.

So we flew to Yangon. At the airport we had to convert a mandatory minimum of US$100 per person into Kyat at ridiculously low rates.. The uncle and his son in law met us at the entrance. As soon as we got to their home , one of the women, his wive's cousin, who was a clerk at the University and knew a few words in English, asked for our passports. She was then gone for a few hours. When she came back the uncle explained that all visitors had to be registered with the village Chief. He had given the uncle's residence an approval slip, that was to be hung prominently in one of the outer walls, that declared the three of us as legal visitors. We were also told that plain clothes men were frequently seen in our avenue keeping an eye on the newcomers to prevent trouble as in leaking local news to the outside world.

Third world amenities but huge hearts

The amenities in the house were very rudimentary. It reminded us of Chennai about 50 years ago. But the affection and care for guests is incomparable. Their family was huge -- two married daughters, 4 grandchildren, one unmarried daughter, a not too well to do distant relation who helped with the housework, visiting aunts and cousins, etc. 

Round table Dining with a large dose of affection

Sitting cross-legged on a mat around a foot high round table laden with several dishes was very comfortable. Our hosts insisted on physically serving us and the aunt even picked out the bones from the fish they served Drink. She even fanned him with a hand held fan.On subsequent visits, having become very familiar, we were allowed to help ourselves. But we were never allowed to wash our plates . At a table there was always a pot of chrysanthemum tea with a few tiny handleless cups around it. We drank only bottled water. In the mornings there were steamed cakes , redolent of Indian, Malaysian and Thai cuisine, all purchased at the market. Since they were bought freshly steamed we were not squeamish about eating them.

The Kitchen

At times I was allowed to help in the kitchen and even cooked a meal or two, but ( being a guest from an affluent country)only on the gas stove. There was another low foot-high battered round table in the kitchen surrounded by a couple of stools. We had to wear slippers in this area and the portion in the opposite corner, with an L- shaped bund on the two sides opposite the walls helped  contain the water likely to run off from washing the dishes that were piled up under the tap. 

Two different menus for each dinner and lunch

The uncle preferred Indian meals while the rest, who did not speak a word of English or Tamil (our mother tongue), preferred Burmese. So the uncle had his meals cooked under his direction at dawn. The charcoal stoves were started in the morning, to cook lunch and pack it up for the school going and office going,and at least one kept going all day. 

Most obvious were the huge drums of rice that looked like tiny beads( but became long grains when cooked), the huge containers of peanut oil which was used liberally and a large supply of crushed dried red chillies. It is not unusual to scoop a ladleful of rice onto a plate, pour a generous amount of peanut oil on to it and add a huge dash of crushed chillies. Voila, you have something to boost your energy when you feel sapped.

We were quite surprised that they cooked more chicken and prawns rather than fish while the river just a few minutes away was teeming with fish. Vegetables, plentiful and fresh, were always the highlight of our meals.

Laundry luxury 

The laundry was done at the small yard at the entrance to the house. The yard in front had house plants and a huge cistern that saved water from a tap that flowed into it. The washing was done in typical southeast Asian form. Clothes were soaked in soapy water, and then put in a basin one by one to be squished, patted and scrubbed and rubbed over a washboard before being squeezed and wrung out. The girls insisted on washing the men's clothes, hang them out to dry and iron them in the afternoon. The laundry, newly pressed, would be waiting for us every evening. We were pampered.

*A brush with laundry will be dealt with in another post

Hospitality includes Clothing

As soon as staying guests arrive it is customary for the host to provide longyis for the guests to wear during their stay. It was also suggested that we wear the longyi everyday so as to blend in with the locals. The women's longyies had a waist piece sewn all around the top, made of material that offered some friction so that when tied to the waist it wouldn't slip. The men wore their longyies, like a bow tied to the front and the rolled over. 

Survival tales

The uncle had so many stories to tell about his struggles during the exodus of Indians. There was not a dull moment, listening about the menial jobs that barely fed him, to larger attempts at running a food stall, to courting his wife to be. 

In the footsteps of ancestors

A generation ago some of our extended family members plied their trade in Yangon( then called Rangoon, Burma). They conducted their business in buildings built for the purpose. The first floor was where the business was conducted. The second floor housed a wooden shrine for daily worship and, the third was the sleeping quarters with futons. The location was selected in such a way that it was within walking distance from the post office and the river for obvious geographical reasons. Visiting Moghul Street ( now called Shwe Bontha)where these tall high ceilinged three storied buildings still stand gave us a unique appreciation of the sense of discipline and adaptability of our ancestors for the buildings still contain many of the steel safes and temple records left behind. 

The ground floors of this prime property have now been converted into back-to-back hole-in-the-wall shops. 

The travel itch returns

The meals well taken care of, and the vicinity becoming very familiar, with walks to the out door market, the sheltered market for non-perishable goods that also housed tailors, and especially along the river, the boats unloading tons of coconuts and plantains on the banks of a distributary of the Irrawaddy, we set our sights on Mandalay. 

To be continued in 2.Myanmar 2001

 

Bearded, for his Beard

Suspect 

On our second trip to Australia, 2002, we flew in to Sydney. Drink went through a curious scrutiny at the customs clearance. He was wearing a cap and sporting a beard. Suspicious? Did he even remotely resemble Osama followers? No surprise if the customs officers had their doubts. He had to open his umbrella (never leaves home without one) to confirm he had no hidden weapons. Next came the water bottle. He had to drink the water from it, presumably to prove that it did not contain poison and that he was no threat to the country. The whole routine amused us no end. 

it wasn't the only instance. In 2005 He was queried by the police while roaming the streets in Nagoya, Japan, during that very same Osama era. It garnered him a free ride in a police car after he was cleared within moments at a police station. 

I've tried to get him to shave off his beard not only because of the misconceptions but also because I thought he looked a little bedraggled in it. Needless to say, for those of you who know him, my pleas have remained futile.

Gripping Rockies -- a white-knuckled journey that mattered more than the destination

A rough plan

An ideal road trip would comprise wide roads, clear signage and, of course, breathtaking scenery. Reality is not exacly ideal. There are usually two choices when driving from city to city: (1) narrow roads-cum-scenic views or (2) multi-laned highways with good signage but boring scenery. Besides, a cherishable trip is one in which you discover things rather than one that has been meticulously planned for every minute and every stop. When recollecting your trip you may be asked, "You mean you were that near and you didnt go?!"Why do we have to see everything that a tourist guide suggests? A slight madness in plunging ahead in unknown waters begets experiences and discoveries that become unforgettable and make every trip worth remembering. And that is exactly what driving in the Canadian Rockies was all about..

Measured by moments

We had done short stretches in the Canadian Rockies before, when heading for Banff National Park(the oldest national Park in Canada, established in 1881), where we explored the ice fields, walked on a glacier, soaked in the tranquility of the cold blue waters of Lake Louise, hiked to Johnston Canyon and met wild life (moose, curvy horned mountain goats and a bear!). But we hadn't really done the Rockies from the foothills in Alberta through to British Columbia. One would think that with all the experiences chalked up over the years, driving in the Canadian Rockies would be a breeze. Wrong. We should have been familiar with the terrain but we were in for even more wonders and thrills. We have noticed in our travels that the places we revisit have more surprises for us making us feel that nature entertains us with showing its glory in various ways. Nature never ceases to produce feasts for the eye. 

The scenic route wins

We took Yellowhead Highway, Trans Canada 15, through Jasper National Park and Mt Robson Provincial Park. Somewhere along the way we crossed the Continental Divide, a long ridge, along the border between Alberta and British Columbia. On the eastern side all the streams flow towards the Atlantic Ocean. On the western side they flow towards the Pacific Ocean. Since we were not overnighting we didn't have to purchase passes at the entrance to the Park. We were greeted with signs warning us of bears, moose, etc. For most of the way we followed the Fraser river( the longest river within British Columbia) upstream almost to its origin. Once in a while it peered between the mountains. 

We crossed the raging Fraser river just before entering McBride, in the heart of the Robson Valley, surrounded by lakes and mountains . We had been driving for a few hours with rain drumming on the roof of the car, and streams running down the windshield. It did not look as though it would let up, and we decided to check into the motel for the day before exploring the small town on foot, walking up to the seething Fraser River.The streets looked abandoned, with some homes boarded up, for the lumber industry on which the town thrived had dwindled. The town now mainly attracts campers. The next morning we explored the town further and were delighted to see the quaint heritage railway station that once served as the main means of transport between towns. We learnt that VIA Rail's year-round passenger trains have been serving the village for more than a century. As we left the town for Prince George we stopped at the bridge across the Fraser river to dip our feet into the calmer waters along the park built on the banks. A sign warned boat launchers that it was salmon spawning season. Their habitat was not to be unduly disturbed. 

A great road trip is where the unexpected  happens along the way.

Prince George was near the transition between the northern and southern portions of the Rocky Mountain Trench, one of the longest valleys on earth. We arriveded in pouring rain, and it cotinued to rain the next day as well. Undaunted we walked around the town, getting thorougly wet in spite of our autumn clothing. The hill right before us was tempting and so we climbed up to be greeted with views of the city which helped get our bearings for shopping for our food. The next day we were supposed to drive higher into the north western section of the Rockies towards Terrace and Prince Rupert Island. However with the inclement weather, prediction of rain and floods in the area, and a slight medical inconvenience for the main driver, we chose to abort that part of the trip and stayed on in the same town.

The next day we decided to make the return journey, with me, the other driver, on an alternative route. We simply couldn't leave without meeting the most famous figure in town, Mr PG. He is none other than a pinnochio like staue that symbolises the town.We found him at the junction of two highways standing 8 m tall bearing a head 1.5 m in diameter. To be able to stand beside him we had to foray into several side streets and cross a highway within the city, seeing more of it, before we found the road that led to the high rise at the corner of the said junction. Parking temporarily at the parking lot, we walked towards the figure, only to be met with a fence under which we had to duck before we got to his shoes. Perhaps he stands just to greet drivers into PG, not really needing to be hugged. Made entirely of wood, Mr PG certainly symbolized the importance of the forest industry.   

What is a highway?

Curiosity sated we took off on the next leg of our journey. This was partly on the Trans Canada High way. You wouldn't know it was a highway(the highway is the main road of the many small towns) until you see the multiple lanes near the larger towns. Otherwise, given the terrain, they are mostly narrow two-way lanes . There are sharp turns around the corners of which you gasp to see either a deep slope down towards a vast lake or deep fall on the side of the road. Pumping on the brakes will not really help slow down the car. Reducing the speed even before you start the slope downwards is ideal, but it is usually too late by then.  

Driving with a map you look for the signs , eyes glued to the road ( have I made the right turn? Attention has to be devoted to driving so you don't hit anyone or be hit.Oh, oh! How do I cross over two lanes when there is a lot of traffic behind me? Will I miss the exit?). A driver used to driving on the left side of the road can expect anxiety when crossing lanes or turning at traffic junctions when in a country that drives on the wrong side. Have I enough gas in my tank? Fuel stations are few and far between. You fill up when you see one even if its just a few litres. 

The drive from Cache Creek ( which had EV charging stations) through Golden and Revelstoke was the scariest. More than half of our route was in its original 2-way state -- no bypasses or interchanges and therefore few passing opportunities. Sitting behind the wheel puts you in a responsible position. Is there a car behind me? What does my side view mirror show. Am I a safe distance from the cyclist? Will the semi behind me be able to slow down if I am not able to acelerate quickly enough? An RV ahead is obstructing the view. You would think that you would miss a lot of the scenery. However, the traffic on the route was well behaved, except for the occasional impatient driver. We just had to be more careful when roads were partly closed for construction work or slippery due to rain. 

High speed turns and roller coasters

But the speed limit even around the series of curves? 70-90kmph! That is the fastest I have driven on winding and undulating roads. If I had slowed down I would have caused a massive back up of cars. It was scary at first but the fact that you can control the car even at that speed, with kuckles turning white from fingers firmly curled around the steerng wheel is of course a feat to be proud of. The roads are certainly an engineering marvel. Many times we passed through tunnels which were actually avalanche protection structures. At times we saw ledges on the drop side of the road apparently to install machinery to trigger avalanches during the winter so that the mountain roads can be left open to drivers. The zig zag road sign could be an understatement on a serpentine road. The limitations were dwarfed by the fantastic views of snow capped mountains, fir tuffted hills, waterfalls, glacial rivers and lakes, the ranches, orchards and the farms.

There are no wrong turns

Driving with just the destination in mind is not what makes a trip . It is not the trip that determines your drive but the drive that determines the quality of the trip. We did make a couple of wrong assumptions that threw up opportunities to appreciate quaint village lanes, discover delighful streets and views. We never despaired of not being able to work it all out. 

When we reached Calgary, driving became tedious. The six lane highway that led to the outskirts of the city dramatically became the 4 lane congested arterial road that goes through the city and therefore controlled by an infinite number of traffic lights. The stop and go traffic was hard on the clutch. That night we stayed in an inn overlooking a dairy farm and the smells of the barn reminded us of our stay in rural Switzerland.

If alone, frequent caffeine shots recommended

After Calgary it was a drive through very flat land. Roads ahead seemed to meet at infinity flanked by fields of flax, hay, canola and wheat. Dotting the fields were mechanical donkeys drilling, relentlessly nodding as they drew up the black gold. There's always the danger the driver would fall asleep at the wheel unless an occasional deer or raccoon crossed the path or frolicked along the hedges.

Here today, gone tomorrow

This was followed by a drive through the Badlands, a stunning otherworldly landscape of multi-hued canyons and wind sculpted tablelands. The top soil had all eroded leaving behind curiously shaped rocky terrain. During the dinosaur age it was a subtropical paradise filled with trees and vegetation. The area has the largest deposit of dinosaur bones in the world. It was all quite eerie but as the sun began to set a glow came over them bringing out a kaleidoscope of colours imbuing them with an otherworldly aura.

Attitudes

A trip sticks in your mind also because of the strangers we meet. We do not always exchange names or ask for personal details, etc. Usually they are just locals who are proud of their town and want to share it with you. In the first hotel we stayed at breakfast was excellent. Almost everything for an American breakfast was available freshly made. We peeked into the kitchen to thank the sous chefs.

Another hotel had a similar spread with slight differences. This was the first time we came across a waffle making machine. You had to press a button to get a measured amount of batter from the dispenser. Then you had to pour it into the waffle pan and flip the top pan on to the bottom pan. it should work, but no. The machine kept beeping and for a good 10 mins I was in a quandary. A lady sitting at the next table had filled a cup with ice chips and was busy laying them on her tongue one by one. She had a couple of yoghurt cartons sitting in front of her. She was oblivious to the annoying beeps. Perhaps she was a cancer patient. A man wandered in holding his phone camera up to show the array of food to someone who was far away, perhaps in another country. Then another walks in to have his cuppa, sees me struggling, says he has not used these machines before because he doesn't like waffles, but will try anyway. He just flipped it over and the beeping stopped.

In another incident at Travel Lodge breakfast ran out. We went in for breakfast at 8am. To our surprise the small breakfast nook was crowded. But most people were there for their morning coffee. When they filled a cup they took it to their rooms . Some came back a couple of times for refills. We sat there and had our breakfast as we watched them. Some of the coffee drinkers came later for their breakfast and everything had run out. The front desk did not have refills except for coffee. Some people had already packed their breakfast in the styrofoam cups before leaving for their next destination. We were the few people who had an unhurried and satisfying breakfast.  

Runs and Ladders -- more than just women's stockings

Ketchikan from 2010 to 2018

Repetitive visits

We often take the cheaper repositioning cruises to cross the Pacific, gradually gaining 16 hours over 14 days, and that invariably takes us to Alaska. Ketchikan is one of the most frequented ports on Alaska cruises. We have been there five times. Boring, you would think. We beg to differ. Each time we visit there is something new to experience.

Spawning of two kinds

The first time we went was in September 2010. Almost immediately after disembarking, we hit Creek Street. The buildings housing boutiques , restaurants and musuems are all on stilts over the banks of the creek.We were amused by the town's colourful , and I mean really colourful (as the pictures attest) past. There's even a guided tour of the saloons by guides who are dressed like the vamps of yore, reminiscent of cowboy towns, replete with stockings and all. Creek Street was the Red Light District.

If you look at the board closely you'll notice that two kinds of spawning took place. The latter is what makes Ketchikan the salmon Capitol of the world.

An  extraordinary breed

We have experienced Ketchikan  at different times of the year -- May, July and September.

And the Creek is the place where it all happens. The spawning begins in May with the salmon swimming from the briny ocean to the fresh waters going up the Creek against the flow. They literally slither around each other, leap over each other, inadvertently nudge others onto the banks floundering them to their death, and climb the ladders( concrete steps built along weirs so as to enable them to swim to higher parts of the river). The waters are literally seething with fish seemingly displacing all the water.  The otters and the bears have a grand feast. So do eagles who swoop on them. Ardent fishermen come in droves for the best catch. Not only do the fish exhaust their energy they also reduce their feeding when they reach freshwater. Hence , after spawning 90 % of them die. If they are not eaten by other animals they decompose adding nutrients to the water. The fry remain in the gravel from a few months to more than a year, depending on the species, before they make their way to the ocean. In September the Creek is placid.

Asian Attraction

Needless to say, canneries boomed in the early 20th century attracting Asians into the area as these plaques testify.

Berries and accidental bear-watching

We enjoy walking along the pier and into the streets that lead us to the hills and the various residential areas built at different levels connected with a complex series of wooden stairs. We get a good workout. Once we walked into the harbour for sea planes and simply sat there watching tourists, opting to fly over fjords and glaciers, struggle into and out these machines. Then we climb up even further into calmer residential areas, seeing bears in the distance if it is the berry season. 

The last time we went we visited the beautiful new library. When travelling we love to walk into a library not only because I feel very much at home surrounded by books, especially by local writers, but also because they give us a comfortable respite while we avail ourselves of the free Wi-Fi. Sitting in the couches facing the huge windows with a pleasant view of Deer Mountain has a very calming effect.

Every time we come we visit: 

The Tlinglit Chief's house with its totem pole

The landscaped garden of a house sitting on a hill by the harbour

The married man's trail

The fishing harbour with its new marina

Don't take the donkey for a dolt -- Gangotri and Santorini

As luck would have it

We did our Char Dham Yatra  (a Hindu pilgrimage to 4 spiritual abodes) in 2006 mainly because it was arranged through a mission school which meant we would be in the company of lively teenagers. We couldn't pass it up.  Add a few more adults for good measure and a swamiji for our daily scripture reading and we're  all set to go.

On our first stop at Haridwar we had no choice but to dine at a Dhabba ( a roadside eatery). By the time we reached Uttarkand the next day we had the runs. Luckily we were lodged in a good, clean, airy hotel. While Drink rested, I managed to join the rest of the group in floating the traditional diyas(an oil lamp placed in a cup made of leaves and flowers) along the banks of the Baghirati. We then began prepping for the next day's drive to Gangotri (3000 m above sea level) and an arduous climb up to Gomuk (4000m above sea level).

Gangotri, as the name suggests, is the glacier from which the Ganges originates. Gaumuk (it translates to mouth of a cow) is the source of the Bagirati, a tributary of the Ganges. 

What's in a definition?

I'm not going to be mulish about the differences between donkeys,  mules, asses and ponies. For the purpose of this blog these beasts of burden are simply mules. 

Mule to the rescue

And there we were at Gangotri. After the preliminary prayers we started our trek. The teenagers started off with gusto. Two of the adults, one having wheezing problems,  had decided earlier to ride on the mules. Drink and I started walking up the slope. He was several meters ahead of me when I found it difficult to even raise a leg for the next step. And when it did happen after what seemed like ages, my body simply stopped cooperating. I slumped, my knees giving way. Should I wait here till they all came back the next day? Breathing was becoming laborious because of the thin air. Drink eventually realised that we were both too weak for the climb and we too hired mules.

The guides walked along with us. It took a few minutes to get comfortable with the gait and the way we should hold on to the saddle bar. Initially I gripped tight and did not quite trust my ride. Passing us were hired men carrying either the very old or very weak pilgrims in a basket slung over their backs. Sometimes it was two men carrying a simple  palanquin. Who were the real pilgrims? The carriers or the riders? These men, mostly Nepalese were as nimble as the mountain goats. We were told they made these trips about 4 times a day.!

Putting ourselves in their hooves

Getting over the trepidation of riding a mule we begin to see the precarious route for what it is.  Sheer rocky walls with tiny rock avalanches on the one side, and sheer drops on the other.  Every now and then we crossed narrow, loose pebbled shallow streams from the  gentle cascades. It dawns upon us, then, that the beasts we rode were more sure-footed than we were. They can sense imminent rock falls and dodge instinctively, the terrain permitting.

All the beasts of burden had to stop at a point long before Bhojwasa, where we'd spend the night. We had at least another hour's trekking and it was getting dark,  adding to the urgency. This time our knees cooperated and we had the satisfaction of having trekked at high altitudes.

The raw deal

We were treated to hot tomato soup and then shown our accommodation for the night. It was like a huge tent with about 50 beds arranged in rows. Each had a mattress and a thick quilt. Perhaps they were washed a couple of times a year. We all smelt of mule. Our shoes were caked with dung and dew, our socks all damp. We did change into fresh socks before bed. For the toilets( only two) we had to walk into the main building. It had no running water. There was no heating, while the temperature was  -2 ° C. Electricity came from a generator for a very short duration. But then, what need had we for it?

Divine intervention ?

The next day Drink felt strong enough to trek up to Gaumuk and back while I sat on the banks of the Bagirathi awed by the Shivling Peak, the silence and magic of it all.

In the afternoon we muled down back to Gangotri.  I heard a little gasp from behind me. The guide was trying to steady the mule Drink was riding because it had just slipped towards the precipice but the beast had found a foothold,  a wisp of a stump that stuck out a few inches below. I hope it was not because of overwork. The sure footed mule, without a doubt, saved the day.  Definitely a close shave.

I wouldn't call it a vision

The moment we reached flat ground almost everyone of us lay down on our backs and it seemed as though a gigantic Lord Shiva appeared before me! The amalgam of the impact of Shivling, awe inspiring nature, the ordeal and cultural associations (my dad was a devout Shaivite)? I was awash with the satisfaction of having experienced the oldest mountains in the world.

On the other side of the world in 2015/16

Side-stepping in Santorini

When doing the Mediterranean cruises Santorini is definitely on the cards. The ships anchor in the deeper parts of the caldera and passengers are tendered to the shore in smaller boats. From Skala port at the bottom of the cliff there are two ways to reach the town of Fira on top: 600 broad pebbled steps that snake their way up or cable car. The first time we went we were not too sure about the total number of steps, their height and their span. Besides there was a serpentine line for the 6 cable cars. The line to buy tickets for the mule ride was not promising either -- we didn't see any mule in the vicinity, which translates to 'will we ever get there?'

The decision was easy. We would climb in spite of the July heat, or so we thought. Only a few steps up a turbaned man was touting cheaper mule rides and we were assured, by gestures, that the mules are on their way. A crowd was already gathering. Sure enough we heard a tremendous thudding of what must have been 20 or so mules returning from the top. 

Caldera-- formed when a volcano erupts and collapses inward.

I scratch myself, you get scratched too

We were left to our own devices to climb onto them, passengers helping each other out and few guides to hold them. Even before my foot found the stirrup on the other side, the mule took off. Here I was sitting precariously on the mule, feeling myself slipping down, but somehow I stayed on. Drink was right before me. The mule felt an itch and therefore rubbed its flank against the cliff wall, and hence my calf was also scatched. I'm sure the mule had a twinkle in his eye.

Smart asses

At a particular step , my mule stopped momentarily, resumed walking and then stopped again for a longer period. Now what? It was the end of the journey. I'm glad my ride did not shrug me off. Another rider gave me a helping hand as I dismounted rather ungracefully.

We found out that at the momentary pause at the first stop we had been photographed . The mule had actually posed! Of course we bought the snaps. The mule waited for us to dismount before joining the herd to make its way back to the starting point. Well trained, smart, cheeky.

I wonder what the grunting mules carrying the obese felt and whether they took out on them in audacious ways.

As we walked down after admiring the views, from atop the cliff studded with blue domes, white washed buildings punctuated by blue doors and windows and well as potted plants we found ourselves slipping down the stairs strewn with a scattering of hay and lots of dung.

Squeamishness was not the deciding factor 

The second trip was made with the grand children who are bundles of energy wanting to climb every hill they encounter. (They have climbed 1400 uneven, roughly hewn steps up to the fortress in Kotor, Montenegro.) They were squeamish  about the mules and they mutually avoided each other. Even they were poofed as we reached the top on a hot and humid morning. There was more to climb within Fira. They walked into churches and sat under the few trees or in the shadows of the walls, or at a door step to take a respite and rehydrate themselves.

Battle of wits

The younger one wished we could take the cable car back to the port. I was adamant the price would be the deciding factor. He was resolute. Went up to the counter, enquired and he prevailed, for children paid only 2€ each. Sitting in the comfort of the car they began to appreciate the blue waters of the crater where our ship floated like a toy. To the thrill was added the ride on a smaller boat to the ship. We got to sit in the open air upper deck, now truly appreciating the cliffs and the town that hung on tenaciously at the edge.

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Am-bush-ed by fire

One day, while we were staying with friends in the distant suburbs of Sydney we decided to take the train to the city. Our friend dropped us at the nearest station with instructions on where and when he would pick us up in the evening. The train ride was comfortable- lots of space, little noise. Arriving in Sydney we took a leisurely walk down the main thoroughfare up to the market and along the road leading to the Botanical Gardens. Then we strolled around the wharf watching the ferries to the outlying islands arrive and depart. The walk took us to the Boardwalk that had us speechless.Hundreds and hundreds of youth were milling around the walk and the restaurants. They were all in Halloween mode - painted faces, costumes , booze, schmoozing. With this ghoulish crowd we felt more comfortable  watching from a distance.

 We figured we would need an hour to get back 'home'. We got to the station and boarded the right train, having checked the schedule, the overhead displays, etc. The train did not budge at the scheduled time. About 10 mins went by and still there was no sign of moving. We looked around to see the reaction of the other passengers. No one seemed flustered or angry or agitated. Not knowing what was going on especially when we had someone waiting for us at the other end we became anxious.Not hearing any announcement at all for more than half an hour the suspense became too much to bear. So Drink enquired of our neighbouring passenger. There had been a bushfire in the outskirts through which our train had to wind its way. So we would have to wait till the all clear signal came from the authorities and there was no way anyone could tell when that would be, if at all. There was nothing to it but to wait it out. A cautious  passenger, with some reluctance, allowed us to use his mobile to call up our friend to inform him of our delay.

Two hours later we arrived at our 'home' station, but we were not taken  home. The bush fire had flared in their area and the trees in the woods behind still bore some embers. Two homes down the street, a few houses apart, had razed to the ground. The fire had been choosy. Our friend's large glass window in the kitchen suffered a lightning-like crack. The lawn mower and a ball in the garden were damaged. Clothes hanging on the clothes line in the backyard had burn marks. There was smoke in the house and it was thus deemed unfit to live in for the next few days. Therefore, they had moved our bags to another friend's house where we would be staying at such short notice.They were a gracious family with whom we shared our experiences, cooked and baked together, and best of all, enjoyed the company of their children.

We learnt that Australian houses are insured for fire since bush fires are part and parcel of life. The insurance company representatives descend on the households affected. They inspect and list everything that has been destroyed or rendered useless by the fire. Many of the items are almost immediately replaced depending on how the insured would prefer to settle the claim - repair, replace or  claim cash.

Brush with Bush and Buzz

Encounter in an Eerily sleepy city

Landing in Perth we found a bus to take us to the town centre. We remained on the bus till we got to the terminal, for we had no idea which bus to take to our friend's Apt in the city. With address in hand we approached a couple of people who were able to give us options- generally to take a cab. But we chose the bus instead. With some effort we found out which berth was most likely and sat there for what seemed ages not even knowing if we had already missed the last bus. It was late in the evening and there were only a handful of people at the terminus. Our patience paid off.We managed to alight at the right stop. Having parked our bags in the apartment and after a light refreshment we decided to go out into the city to shop for grocery. It was 6:00 pm and as luck would have it all the shops were closed. The pedestrian mall was bereft of people. We could hear our own footsteps echoing all around. On our way back three teenagers confronted us demanding  money. It scared us, but we  moved away with firm steps and we were left alone aside from snide remarks. It could have been worse ( I'll leave it to your imagination) according to our friends in Perth. What an eerie introduction to Australia.

Gambling debut

Our friend helped us rent a car the next day. With him we drove to Crown Casino, in Burswood, got token's for a dollar, played at a slot machine, lost a dollar and that was the first and last time we ever gambled in a Casino. 

We also drove across town ,crossing Swan river towards a residential area when we came across The Old Mill, a restored tower mill located on Mill Point. We found out later that it had been restored to its original as built in the1830s. It has become one of Perth's best known historic landmarks and serves as a sightseeing attraction. 

Shore gazing

We then drove off towards Fremantle - the port for Perth, ambled around the harbour admiring the yachts and then took on the town square and narrow streets with an array of boutiques and restaurants. We made 2 more visits years later and got to see the market and the Prison and thereby learn the history of a penal colony.

From Fremantle we drove via Mandurah to Bunbury. At Bunbury we parked the car in a parking lot facing the shoreline and simply sat there enjoying the breeze. 

Next on the route was Busselton. Again we parked at  the beachfront featuring the 19th-century Busselton Jetty that stretches nearly 2km to the Underwater Observatory.

A rare beauty: the deep cave

Jewel cave, near Margaret River, was too good to resist. Walking down 300 metres on well constructed stairs and walkways was a once in a life time experience. The crystal encrusted cave also boasted subterranean lakes.

Lodged Caravans 

A little more into the route we decided to stay the night close to Margaret River, which had an underground cave. We chanced upon a caravan park that lived up to its name. There were disused caravans, propped up on bricks, arranged in a circle.. The ablutions at the far end of the park were common. We had bought fish and chips at a small booth on the way from Bunbury. We bought two but they turned out to be so huge - the fish being the size of two palms, and the chips, a huge mound -- that we couldn't finish eating . We checked into our fully fitted caravan, put together a simple meal, and heated up the leftovers to  compliment the meal. The manager/ proprietor was a friendly man who never had Singaporean guests before. A walk through the camp led us to an isolated beach and a beautiful sunset.

Eerie karri

 For our next stretch we diverted from the scenic route, opting to drive through the 'bush'.We were surrounded by karri trees, some almost reaching the sky (a 100 metres?), all standing stiff like black guards of the forest. It seemed as though the trees were charred ( the result of a forest fire?). All of a sudden, the road gave way to unpaved lanes. We could feel the tires crunching against the ground. It got a little scary because there seemed no end, and not a soul to be seen on the stretch. We braved it, finally inching on to paved road about half an hour later.

Indulgence

Our next stop was Albany. We drove along the shore appreciating the strategic position for Anzac  centre and, on an impulse, decided to try a Lamington.  Walking around town we chanced upon a quaint pastry shop that looked very English and ordered the hugely popular cake coated with chocolate sauce and rolled in desiccated coconut. It did not live up to the hype, being overly sweet.

Me? Speeding ticket? Yes!

From Albany we decided to drive back all the way to Perth. This alternate route had a straight road all the way with nary a fellow traveller. Suddenly a tall khaki hat showed up with his hand waving at us. Assuming it was a hitchhiker we just sped on until it struck me that it could have been a policeman. So I slowed the car, and reversed (I had the road all to myself) all the way to where he stood. He pointed something at me with a smile and asked me how fast I was driving. I thought I had maintained 110 kph, the official speed limit, but he showed me the speed detector.  Without a doubt I'd been going at I25 kph. There was nothing to argue about and so Drink ( who was happily munching away on his apple, devoid of all cares ) and I waited for the inevitable ticket. Our spirits remained undaunted. What we got was just a warning - enough to last me a life time. Since I was a foreigner, and it was my first driving offence in Australia  the warning was a 'rap' on the wrist. Grateful we drove away more subdued and wiser. There's  a first time for everything. 

Inadvertant Fly protection

At one point we stopped to admire the golden wheat fields rippled by the breeze. The temperatures were high and it was getting uncomfortable in the car. So we opened the doors and stepped out to admire the ears of wheat that had fallen to the ground and lined up along the road shoulder by the winds. But we couldn't stay out for more that a minute because a swarm of flies, as huge as beetles, settled on us. And so we had to make a quick exit. If you wanted to collect those ears you would be hindered by the flies. They are inadvertantly doing you a service since picking the wheat laden stalks is illegal.

Local concern

From yet another friend we learnt about water scarcity. The public toilets were dry toilets. The water for the basin came from rainwater collected in tanks near them. In homes the dishes were typically piled up in a sink full of water, to be washed at one go so as to save water. There were rules about watering the garden during the summer months.

Also most of our Asian friends had unlisted numbers to avoid harassment. The Vietnamese farmer's  market, held once a week in a remote part of Perth was known for its more affordable produce. The price was reduced further for misshapen vegetables.

Intriguing immersions in Bali (June 2002)-- Part 4

Monotheists and polytheists living in harmony

From Lovina we criss crossed the island to an unpretentious village, in the outskirts of Manggis, and found a room to stay. The bathroom was shared with the family. We found out later, to our delight, that this village was unique since the upper caste Balinese and Muslim residents lived in perfect harmony. Our accommodation was one star but the hosts were very accommodating. We sat together for dinner. The next morning we went to the local market so I could purchase a greater variety of vegetables. Bringing them home, with my host's help in their kitchen, I put together a meal which we all shared.

Public bath

Walking about in the village in the evening we came across a public bath. All the houses in this village got their water from a spring in the hill ( we were at the foot hills of a dormant volcano, Batur)  behind the house accommodation. This public bath had spouts built into a wall at a reasonable height. Water channeled down 24/7 through several spouts.The baths were sectioned off, separating the women from the men. The women said they enjoyed the communal baths and shared the village gossip while scrubbing their clothes.

Dignity of Indigenous people 

Nearby was another village which, we found to our delight and surprise, has unique Bali Aga culture maintaining the original traditions, ceremonies and rules of ancient Balinese. The earthen-wall enclosed house compounds faced a broad avenue. Each compound was made up of multiple units of  self-contained houses belonging to an extended family. 

An elongated pavilion was where the village council discusses community affairs. On the day we visited women dressed in traditional white ( which reminded me of Kerala women)were preparing a feast in the raised pavilion which housed the community longhouse, running the length of the village. This community is also known for pandanus leaf fighting. These pandanus leaves have serrated edges and are used like swords.

In one of the houses we were treated to ikat dyeing (tie and dye) but with the yarn before weaving it into a fabric.

Ballet on the waves

From Tenganan we drove to wards Kuta. We were attracted by a huge impressive hotel along the way. Parking was free along any of the side roads and so we parked. The place was swarming with surfers, mostly locals. The beach was almost entirely made up of black sand, pebbles, and rough slabs and chunks of rocks – all volcanic. The beach is certainly not meant for walking. But it was most certainly a surfer's delight. This was Medewi beach.

We decided to stay the night here. Our room was sticky from all the salty air. We felt sand under our feet. We had noisy neighbours -- the stereotypical youthful surfers. A walk along the volcanic rock beach to enjoy the sunset and watch enthusiastic surfers ride the gigantic waves that curled in towards the shore took our minds off the discomforts. The surfers' performance was akin to a ballet performed, with the sky for a backdrop and waves for props, to the claps of admiration from fellow surfers on the shore.

Bollywood moment

Having experienced the touristy side of Bali, we drove off continuing towards Kuta. We discovered the Bat caves on the way. As soon as we got off the car we were surrounded by about 10 little girls trying to sell beaded accessories. They were interested in my tilak, the vermillion dot on my forehead, thanks to their exposure to Hindi movies. I had a packet in my tote bag. since we were nearing the end of our holiday in Bali, I would have plenty to spare and so we gave some out. Seeing what was happening a lot more girIs came running towards us and so we ended up giving out all the rest except a couple. You should have seen the delight on their faces already feeling like movie stars once they had the tilak on their foreheads. It was then that we could even begin to look at yet another of Bali 's important temples.

Bat(tling) the odour: Goa Lawah(Bat Cave)

Goa Lawah stands in the centre of a complex temple flanked by several other shrines . the temple standing between the mountain and the seas, is dedicated to Girinatha, protectore of the mountain, and Baruna, ruler of the sea. We were first met with two huge banyan trees. A little beyond was the cave's entrance. The strong smell of guano assaulted our noses preparing us for what to expect in the cave- thousands of bats hanging from the ceiling and nonchalant worshippers kneeling in prayer. It is said that the cave’s pathways lead all the way to Bali’s mother temple. Familiarly dragon motifs adorned the stunning shrines in the temple complex bordering the black sand beach.

Photo Op 

Driving towards Kuta we had an unexpectedly picturesque view of the famed Tanah Lot. Seeing it from atop a cliff was good enough, for we did not want to baked alive in the sandy beach.

We decided to retire in Kuta for the night. We found a chalet within a compound with many such chalets. From the ours we could walk across the grassy grounds onto the beach. The moment we sat on the beach there started a persistent parade of masseuse and vendors of all kinds selling beach towels, wraps, beaded accessories etc. The beach did not afford us much peace.

No surprise

We also drove around Kuta with its numerous shops, boutiques and high end bars, restaurants, brand names, - very popular with tourists. Best of all we found a restaurant selling Indian food. We had great North Indian cuisine prepared and served by an Indonesian chef. The conversation added value to our meal.

Traffic conductor in plain clothes

A quick drive took us to the newly built Monument of Vishnu mounted on Garuda, his vehicle. The cultural park was not yet open to the public. When we drove back to the villa, we were stuck in a massive traffic jam of mostly motorbikes. At the crucial turn towards the villa we waited for more than half an hour for the traffic to abate so I could make a safe right turn. It didn't seem as if it would happen. So Drink got out and stood in the middle of it all. He raised his hand to stop the traffic so I could inch the car into the turn. As usual Drink came to the rescue with a bold idea fit for a desperate moment.

Bombed

Hardly a month after our visit to the tourist centre it was bombed by terrorists.

Intriguing immersions in Bali (June 2002)-- Part 3

Almost trekking 

About a 45 min. drive from Ubud we found chalets on a ridge. We decided to park and then explore. The morning dew was still on the ground while we negotiated sets of wooden stairs and zigzagging paths rewarding us with breathtaking scenery - gorges,mist-covered hills,terraced paddy fields, and vegetable patches. We found a restaurant that we thought would be Ok with our digestive system.

Conned in Monkey forest

It was time to move on. We drove though the monkey forest, paused by the Gua Gajah and drove on through the hills and forests with not a soul in sight. We didn't have either a GPS or a map. Is it possible to get lost on such a small island? After about an hour of this bravado we encountered a road block.The policemen manning it insinuated that we had broken a rule and demanded $20 which we readily handed over and drove away as quickly as possible. A little later we encountered another roadblock and got suspicious. I don't know how we got away but we did. These roadblocks were fake. We had been conned. Enough of monkeys!

Ghandi in Bali

Anyway we were just driving about haphazardly taking in the little neat villages that began to come up now and then. We stumbled upon a place called Ghandi Ashram in Candidasa. Intrigued we stopped to enquire. They had cottages to rent.We decided to stay there for a few days. Some bungalows were closer to the lagoon, others closer to the main building, all with fantastic sea views. The brick and thatch bungalow, our cottage, stood on the edge of the a lagoon that was bordered by huge pandanus plants. It was a haven for birds. The cottage was rudimentary. No hot water.

Put in a modicum of work to deserve a shellful of repast

Everywhere you turned, either in the cottage or in the large tree covered lawns were quotes from Ghandi. Everybody staying in the Ashram contributed to its daily chores in some way or other. Drink raked the gardens. We had meals in a pavilion. after a short prayer - a verse from the Gita sung in the original Sanscrit. We each had a coconut shell to eat from. Austerity was the key. 

We decided to cook a day's lunch for everybody at the ashram. So with the help of one of the ashramites we visited the local market to get all my spices and vegetable. (I found a cobbler who mended by slippers in a jiffy.) Getting back to the Ashram's kitchen we cut, chopped, ground etc and produced a meal with 3 different vegetable dishes. An Australian, a frequent guest of the Ashram, and who often stayed for months, made not only his own yogurt but also baked bread (using toddy instead of yeast as a rising agent)in a wood burning brick oven. There were stories to share as we ate the meal sitting cross legged in a pavilion. At sun set, a prayer chant was held over a fire. The experience was refreshing, rejuvenating.

Skeletal reset

At that time a group of chiropractors from all over the world had converged in Bali for a conference. Some of them volunteered at the ashram and we allowed ourselves to be treated for our minor discomforts.

A lesson in Indian cuisine for a chef

After this retreat we drove north along the Eastern Coast and found a room with its huge windows facing the sea. The bathroom had only swing doors like in the taverns of old Westerns. The sunset washed through the whole room as we sat watching the huge waves crashing on to the shore creating huge sprays against the protective esplanade. We set off again the next day to yet another villa set along the east coast. This time the villa was of typical Balinese structure with modem amenities. Most attractive about it was the bathroom --it was open to the skies, had a cobblestone floor and water poured out from a tilted earthenware pot. We spent the evening on the hammocks and deck chairs by the sandy beach under the coconut trees. The hotel's chef enjoyed talking to us. He invited us into his kitchen and I walked him through the basics of an Indian curry.

The next day we continued along the route, and we were beginning to see more towns. This time we opted to stay at a duplex along Lovina beach,in Singarajah. The hotel's kitchen was a small little booth along the shore, a stone's throw from our room. A low sea wall protected the residences from the sea which washed against it at high tide.The girls there allowed us to cook a meaI for ourselves. The beach was hard to walk on as were the rest of the beaches in that stretch of our drive. They were a bit rocky. Walking on the bristly washed up coral from the reefs beyond was painful. The reef cut our feet. Early in the morning we took a catamaran ride to catch the elusive dolphins as the sun rose. And as we drive out  a Buddhist temple  Brahma Arama Vihara, with balinese Hindu features loomed before us completely dumbfounding us.

Intriguing immersions in Bali (June 2002)-- Part 2

Volcanoes and calderas – divine abodes of  Hinduism-cum-Buddhism

We wanted to drive up to the famous temples --Bersakih Temple on the slopes of Mt Agung and Ulun Danu Beratan Temple  on Gunong Beratan. Having understood a little of the culture we asked if the father would like to come with us to these temples. He did for it would be a pilgrimage for him. Again, without a map we managed to drive up to the Mother Temple -  Besakih on the. Several stairs lead up  the sacred mountainside to Pura Besakih, the 3 main temples dedicated to the Hindu trinity. The steep stairs leading up to the sanctuaries take on a mystical quality partly because of the sights - pagodas, blue skies, verdant slopes, rivers etc. The temples are all open to the sky and therefore open to the gods.

This time the pagoda-like structures made of several tiers of thatched roof were taller, indicating the degree of importance of the temple. The architecture was somewhat similar to Buddhist Pagodas. This drove home the point that the Balinese religion is a combination of Hinduism and Mahayana Buddhism . That is why it is often called the Shiva-Buddhist, Hindu-Dharma.

We then drove on to one of the most unique and picturesque temples in Bali, Pura Ulun Danu Bratan, dedicated to a goddess. A towering 11-tiered meru stood prominently in the middle of the lake ( our first experience of a caldera) which from a distance appeared to be floating. 

Spoilt milk for the uninitiated

Outside the temple grounds we were swarmed by touts selling carvings of Vishnu-Garuda as well as other souvenirs. We shared our lunch of rice,yogurt and vegetables with our host. We did not know that he had not eaten much of his share, because he thought it was spoilt food as he told  his son later. In our eagerness to make him feel comfortable with us we clean forgot that yogurt with rice is palatable only to an insignificant part of the world. He was not used to yogurt.

Evoking Hindu epics

On our way back we stopped at Tirta Gangga Palace (a name which is deeply associated with Hinduism)  with its lavish water gardens featuring numerous immense pools. The clear pond with stepping stones and fountains along neatly placed statues was fun to negotiate. 

Temporary abode before cremation

Our host also took us to a village where we learnt about funerals. Temporary burial occurs immediately after death, until it’s time for the cremation ceremony. Families leave food, flowers, or other items as an offering at a shrine next to the burial site. The period before the cremation ceremony is anguish for families since the soul hasn’t been purified yet.  Families who can’t financially afford the funeral ceremony opt for a low-cost alternative.  They cremate the bodies in a mass ceremony with the whole village. Cremation rituals are seen by the Balinese as joyous occasions, as they release the soul from the body of the departed.

Ubud dancer bids us goodbye

A quick walk in the main streets of Ubud admiring local handiwork and watching artists at work, to us to the ubiquitous Saraswati temple, with its lush liliy pond, a haven of quiet in an otherwise bustling town chock full of tourists and long term residents completed our in the vicinity.

Having spent about 2 weeks in Ubud we decided to dine at a restaurant. We remember the occasion more for the costumed dancer who entertained us than for the food.

Intriguing immersions in Bali (June 2002)-- Part 1

Bali.An exotic island. A honey moon destination. A weekend get away. An island small enough to tour in two days. You must be crazy to spend 28 days on this island unless of course you are in for some surfing, massage therapies or, yoga classes and retreats. But, hey! We had a deal too good to pass -- return flight to Bali with a night's stay in Holiday Inn thrown in. Plus, we had a 4 week vacation. Nothing to it but to fly there, pick up a map at the airport, get our bearings and take it from there.  For us it turned out to be 28 days of cultural revelation. 

Almost as soon as our pick up  dropped us at the hotel Drink was trying to talk to the bellboys, wondering if they could suggest weekly accommodation in the villages. As luck would have it, Made actually had a little cottage in Ubud built for the purpose.

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Settling in Bali

While we were enjoying the hotel's landscaped courtyard Drink approached one of the uniformed employees to ask if he knew of any accommodation we could rent for two weeks. The man called Madè spoke some English. As luck would have it, he he knew of one - his own purpose-built a cottage near his ancestral home and he would show us the way the next day after he had finished his duties at the hotel. The following morning we filled our bellies with the complimentary European breakfast and shopped for a rental car finalizing on one that would cost $10 a day. We were ready for Made who led us on his motorbike out of Kuta's maddening traffic, a sea of motorbikes.As we neared an interchange in the form of a circle we lost him but were fortunate enough to take the correct turning for we spotted him well ahead of us. Not wanting to lose sight of him there was no way I could enjoy the scenery that we were passing through. In about 30 mins we arrived at the little house with two bedrooms, a living room with basic furnishing, a kitchen with the bare essentials and a bathroom. A little fish pond graced the front yard shaded by a chayote tree and a turkey-berry plant -both came in handy for our meals. We asked if we could provide us some rice, and we were given some that was harvested in their own padi fields surrounding us. We could also use the vegetables from their garden. 

Daily rituals

On that very first day we had a big dose of cultural immersion that would continue over the rest of our stay. Since I could speak Malay, somewhat similar to the Indonesian language, there was a lot that the villagers could share with us. About two or three times a day a young female would come around to the house with a little floral offering and a lighted incense stick paying homage to the gods in thanks for peace. This took place in most the places we stayed in.

When I washed the clothes the following morning Drink suggested putting up a line between the posts on the verandah and he did string one up higher than our heads so we didn't have to brush against wet clothes. Almost immediately a young female tore up to us in a huff and asked us to lower the line. Why?( Blog post -- Laundry :the ropes)

Welcomed into the family

Upon our request we spent a day with our host family. After breakfast we walked up to their home made up of several pavilions. One was the living quarters with a wide verandah in front. The kitchen was in another pavilion. Made's father showed us his betel leaf box with compartments for betel leaf, areca nut,an areca nut cutter and lime compound- it was typical of sets found in Hindu homes, or any country in south East Asia that had a betel leaf chewing tradition. 

The mother showed me how to prepare the floral offerings which she sold in town everyday. After she taught me I made a few for her appreciating the extraordinary time and effort put into the task. Coconut frond was cut, slit, and folded strategically to form a square open tray the size of a palm, the loose ends held together with toothpicks (made from the stiff central vein of the palm frond)sharpened to a point . Incidentally, throughout south east Asia, brooms are also made from these veins. She'd put in the flowers when she was ready to sell them. 

I was also allowed into the kitchen. I helped cook so that the food did not turn out to be too spicy for Drink, and I could keep an eye on what really went into the dishes. The rice was steamed in a basket with chopped bits of tapioca added. The side dish was long beans spiced with chilli, onion and fresh turmeric ground in a stone mortar, which was a shallow basin with a pestle that was curved so that it was easier to hold while you crushed and dragged the ingredients to mash them.

After lunch Made's wife, Ketut, helped me dress in her traditional clothes -- a kebaya and a top under which a stiff belt, like an obi, is worn. Drink dressed in his white dhoti. We set off for the temple. She gave me a basket of fruits artistically packed into a rectangular woven basket with a lid. (The basket evoked memories of my visit to India with my mum in  younger days. Mum filled the basket with lunch and snacks, balanced it on her head, carried a water kooja and my baby sister, taking us across the padi fields to the nearest town for official business. She was something. sister and and  top of each other like a tall cone. I had to carry it on my head as I got out of the car and was not to put it down until we reached the altar. When we did we knelt in front of a priest while he chanted mantras after which we applied a dot of soaked rice to our foreheads, representing the third eye of Shiva, to thank the gods for rice & life.

While in conversation we also discovered why when at Holiday Inn we had asked to speak to Madè, they asked us ' Which Madè'. Every.family with more than one child has a Made simply because Balinese people name their children depending on the order they are born, and the names are the same for both males and females. The firstborn child is named Wayan, the second is named Madè , the third  Nyoman , and the fourth  Ketut. If a family has more than four children, the cycle repeats itself. The fifth child becomes  the next ‘Wayan, …'

A visit to another pavilion in their home explained to us the gaffe about the clothes line. ( blog post)This pavilion was open to the elements. A sort of  totem pole stood in the middle on top of which was a throne, a padmasana. It embodied the belief that God is everywhere. The reasoning is that the gods being summoned during special ceremonies can descend from the heavens into the temple before eventually returning home. What all this revealed to us is that Balinese Hinduism in monotheistic and therefore the deity does not have a shape. Each home, rice field, or market can have several temples. Daily offerings are made at these temples in the form of food, cigarettes, sweets, and sometimes even money in order to honor the good spirits.

Everyone an artist

We were given a  tour of the village. The streets were very clean – no unsightly drainage or garbage mounds anywhere. All households were surrounded by low walls all around. At dusk we visited the village school which put up a gamelan performance for us. We handed out little goodies to all of the players and  conversed with them. Apparently, all the young men in the village working in the cities came home over the weekend and taught the children music, dance, painting and sculpture. Music, dance and the arts in general were very much part and parcel of every single Balinese.

Made also introduced us to his artist and sculptor friends.

Guest of honour

Another night our hosts made us guests of honour at their weekly Ketchak dance. About 40  sarong-clad men, seated in concentric circles, provided the soundtrack-- 'Kechak , kechak', the sounds that a monkey makes – of haunting chants, while costumed dancers recreated a story from the Ramayana. I was invited to start the proceedings by lighting one of the oil lamps of several made of coconut shells filled with coconut oil and arranged in tapering tiers. It was refreshingly non-commercial. All the families in the village are involved and proceeds go towards temple activities.Ubud encompasses the rich culture of the Balinese imbued with spirituality. 

The beauty of silence

On yet another day there was almost absolute silence everywhere. No night life, no loud music, no roar of traffic. Even the airport shutdown for 24 hours. That is how the Balinese New Year, Nyepi, is celebrated. Every city should have a few of these days.