Snapshots of the Riviera.

I have been too lazy and too busy over the last one month. Back from one holiday and off to the next. In between, hosting friends and playing the part, taking French exams and starting new level, running from one consulate to the other to get the visas done - you get the picture. Life has been very hectic.

So I thought I will take the lazy way out this time - do a photo essay on the last holiday I had. So without much ado (because I am too lazy to feel like writing), here goes.

Cannes. And its most ugly but famous structure - the Palais. Before the mad ad world descends upon it, a couple walking down the red carpet.

Flower festival at Le Suquet, Cannes.

After the flowers come the fruits. Paella with fruits de mer. 

Day 2 and we are off in the search of the lavender fields of Provence.

We stop on the way in Moustiers - Sainte- Marie.

The lavender fields had not bloomed yet - but we managed to feel the essence. This hand drawn cart is still used to collect lavenders.

And everything that we saw was painted in the colour of the season - lavender.

The Verdon Gorge. The drive through it was worth it.

The Italian Riviera is a stone's throw away from the French Riviera. The medieval town of Dolceacqua. The name means sweet water.

Further down, the village of Rochetta Nervina. 

I finally made it to Gourdon this time. A bit touristic - but charming, none-the-less.

This lady with the pipe has fascinated me for the last few years, whenever I have visited St. Paul's Vence. Caught her up, close and personal this time around.

Rosé - the only wine I like.

Another day, another medieval town. Chateauneuf-Villevieille.

Webbing its charm on me.

The colours and smells of Marché Provençale, Antibes.

Cannes - when the sun goes down.

And the sunworshippers retire to party.

Watching the waves in Ville Franche Sur Mer.

Terminal Tantrums

‘Sir, any particular reason why you are travelling with an empty laptop bag?’
Sorry…what…err…no…but…why…WTF!!???
A and I look at each other in despair. The last 3 hours play out in flashback in front of our eyes.

We are at Heathrow Airport – one of the most ill organized airports in the world, if you ask me, next only to Charles De Gaulle in Paris. We are on our way back from a nice, if a bit hectic, 3 weeks holiday. In the last 3 weeks, after A has finished his work in the London office while I have enjoyed the autumn leaves of London, we have crossed the Abbey Road several times, paid tribute to the Mojo at Père-Lachaise, drunk beer by gallons at the OktoberFest and been overwhelmed by the splendours that are called “The Lion King” and “Moulin Rogue”. We have also had an overload of fish and chips, schnitzel and baguettes and simple home cooked meal of rice and dal is gently calling us back.

We have patiently gone through the torture that is called security checking. Did our strip act without any complaints. Then we had excitedly spent the 2 and half odd hours browsing through the Duty Free shops. We also spent all the loose change of pence and pounds on coffee. Remembered the ugly looking fridge magnet gifted by a colleague on her trip abroad and picked up some chocolates from the Duty Free as a return gift. Checked out the toilets and paid a visit to the smoking lounge. In short, we have done everything that one would usually do when one has 2 hours to while away.

The flight is at 12.05 pm and we dutifully present ourselves for boarding at 11.25 am. The last round of security check happens. And it is precisely here that the ‘penny is dropped’. My dear husband, the seasoned traveller and the perfectionist, either in a hurry to get into the plane that would take him to his rice and dal or enthralled by some blonde in uniform giving him a smile – has left his laptop miles and miles away at the first security check. And then has roamed around the next 2 and half hours with an empty laptop bag.

Now if you know Heathrow, you can sympathize with me. We have traversed through several terminals, walked through labyrinths of passageways to finally be where we are standing now. Going back there – at the initial security check in counter – seems an impossible task. We start reasoning with the attendant; ask him to provide us with a buggy ride or something. Seriously, had this been India, they would have already established an auto rickshaw route, with trade union and everything – the distance is such.

A: I have left my laptop at the security check.
Airport Attendant: My condolences, sir.
A: I need to get it back.
AA: Not possible, sir.
A: Give me one of those carts you use to move around in the airport – I can make it back in time.
AA: I am sorry sir – those are only for invalid passengers.
Me: (Under my breath) And A will fit right in that category in another two seconds.
Me: (Aloud) Just go… don’t waste time arguing with them – we have only 15 minutes left to board the flight.
A: (To me) But I don’t know where to go! (And I believe him because if you know him, you will know that “Men can read maps” is yet another myth perpetrated by men)
A: (To AA making one last effort) Please, I have left my laptop at the security check.
AA: My condolences, sir.

The stiff upper Brit lips don’t move. After more precious minutes lost, when it is finally clear that the conversation is not taking anyone anywhere, they agree to spare a trainee to guide A back to the point of disaster. I am left behind to wait for my husband to make a heroic return.

And I wait. The scheduled departure time arrives and departs. A man approaches me and asks if I am willing to fly without my husband, since it is quite obvious that he has deserted me. I remember my wedding vows of ‘till death do us part’ and refuse him. Also, I think if he gets to miss the flight and stays back in London for one more day, why should I miss out on the fun? My mind starts planning – if I call my brother now, who is halfway to Sussex after dropping us off, I might just be disowned by him. Not a good idea. My friend is in London – but did she not mention that she’d be holidaying in Dover this weekend? I might have a pound or so tucked away somewhere in my pockets – but will that be enough to see us through till the next flight? All kinds of questions cloud my mind as I try to reason with the Airport Attendants as to why they must wait for us.

A senior and serious looking guy comes up to me and asks me if I can identify my luggage which will be unloaded in the next 5 minutes if my dear hubby does not show up. The flight is already 25 minutes behind schedule, thanks to us. The Sardarji, who, while checking my passport when we had entered the departure gate, proudly cooed to me “East or West, India is the best”, is giving me dirty “these Indians” looks. I have no option but to put up a worried face, though deep inside, I am, in a perverse way, very thrilled. I am all geared to ridicule A for the rest of his life for this mess – something which is highly expected of me but definitely not of him. I am also more alarmed at the prospect of losing all my holiday photos that were downloaded to the laptop the night before rather than feeling sorry for A for maybe having lost all his work data.

And then, my brave hero arrives. I am all set to blast him but actually burst out laughing – seeing him, limping his way back, with a proud smile of having accomplished the mission. Apparently he had performed some heroic stunts like jumping over racks of luggage and running through crowds, while knocking a few unsuspecting people down – the scenes we watch over and over in the last 15 minutes of most Hindi movies – where the climax ensues in the airport with the hero trying to stop his lady love from flying away forever. Here, of course, A’s aerobatics were for his beloved laptop and in the process, he had twisted his ankle. And he is drawing solace from the fact that there are at least 10000 odd feather brains like him, with hearts large enough to donate their laptops to the security people. So he gets into a tale of how he had to rummage through several similar looking models, before he finally found the one that belongs to him.

We enter the aircraft– which is well over an hour behind the schedule now. I can feel the dirty looks from all around – similar to the ones I have given a number of times – to that last couple that enters through the door. We find our seats and my tired hero promptly goes off to sleep, leaving me to handle all the glares. The flight finally takes off – 3 hours behind schedule – all thanks to one man and his precious laptop.

Since I am talking about airport horror stories and mentioned CDG somewhere, let me also add another story to this piece. This one happened while we were flying home from the worst airport in the world – Charles de Gaulle. I am not sure when CDG came into being but over the years; it has grown like an un-pruned tree – branches added here and there, without any rhyme or reason or plan. If Heathrow is a nightmare, CDG is hell.

We are again on our way back. We have braved the overcrowded Airport RER from the city and arrived at the airport well before the stipulated time. You see, if you are travelling from CDG, you might as well arrive before time, you never know where and how you might get lost in that mess. So, we dutifully get lost and eventually find our way to the check in counter. The check in counter in question looks like a queue to buy tickets for the first day first show of an Amitabh Bachchan starrer. There is only one counter functional for the flight we are taking and the queue winds and rewinds to a few kilometers. Not to worry – we have 3 hours at our disposal before the scheduled flight. So far, so good.

While we are waiting at the queue, wondering why is it taking more than 30 minutes to issue boarding tickets to each passenger, we hear some ruckus. We look up to see a group of people, all with red flags, chanting some slogan in French. Reminds me of my good old Calcutta, where such scenes are very familiar. People protest at the drop of the hat, go on strike whenever they don’t feel like working. We ask around and find out that there is a similar situation happening here – the ground staff is on strike and hence the delay. Ah well, we take solace from the fact that after all, we Indians, and especially Bengalis, are not the only ones with a penchant to protest.

After almost an hour and half, we are privileged enough to present ourselves at the check in counter. The girl at the counter inspects our tickets and passports and asks us to put our luggage on the conveyer belt. Our luggage travels 10 meters and the conveyer belt stops. The girl makes some frantic phone calls and informs us that the protestors have firmly lodged themselves on the conveyer belts and hence this situation. As she takes out our belongings from the belt and keeps it aside, assuring us that they will be loaded on the flight eventually, I take one last look at my baggage. I make a mental note of all the things that are there inside and do a rough calculation of the value all the things that just might get lost. I can live without that pair of shorts, though it’s my favourite, but how can I replace my sapphire blue strappy sandals for which I had paid a fortune, unknown to A? So far, not so good.

We forgo the opportunity to browse through the Duty free shops and go through security check and board the flight – without any major incident. The flight is scheduled to take off at 12.30 pm. It is 12.45 now and I fix my eyes at the gate so that I can give nasty looks to that last passenger who walks past it. There is a bit of commotion going around that area and we see a few uniformed workers getting in and out of the aircraft. At 1.30 pm, we ask the air hostess what is happening and are informed that because of the strike, it is taking a while to load the luggage. My sapphire blue shoes flash in front of my eyes and I decide to forgive them for the delay.

2 hours have passed since we have entered the air craft and it has not moved an inch. People are getting restless but, like the well behaved Europeans, are bearing it with a smile. Had this been India, a riot would have ensued by now, with some crew members assaulted. We again summon an air hostess and are told that there is some problem with one of the drainage pipes in the lavatory which is being fixed, pouring water to all the stories I have been conjuring up in my head all this while - about bombs being found on the aircraft or secret information of terrorists being hidden on board or such!

1 more hour hence, A has lost it. The air hostess is summoned again and we ask her if they can at least be kind enough to put on the entertainment system so that we can at least do something other than staring blankly at each other. We are told that it cannot be done. Some refreshments perhaps? A starts his patented "You are in a service industry" speech - and those who know him knows that this particular speech never fails to arouse emotions. Most of the speech is however, lost in translation to our French air hostess. But by now, our fellow passengers, encouraged by A’s initiatives, join the protest. Trust a Bengali to organize a demonstration, given the slightest opportunity. The air hostess relents and after a while, we are given some beverages and tidbits to keep our mouth shut.

7 hours wasted on an air craft, while you are in Paris, of all places – time spent staring vacantly at the air conditioner duct while you would rather roam aimlessly on the streets – it is announced that despite all their efforts, the drainage pipe could not be salvaged and the passengers are advised not to use Toilet no A. With that, the air craft finally takes off. I did contemplate suing Malaysian Airlines for those 7 precious hours wasted in an aircraft in Paris – but decided to forgive them when I got back my luggage intact – with both my favourite pair of shorts and the sapphire blue shoes.

The last story in the series of Airport woes. We are on our way back from Saigon. It is an office trip and since both A and me are working at the same office at that time, it is a paid vacation for both of us. The holiday is as it should be – like any other office sponsored holiday, where copious amounts of alcohol have been consumed and every one has a bad hangover. We check in, go through immigration control and are on our way to look for a pub to have the last drop of beer before boarding, when we hear A’s passport number being called on the PA.

I give A one of my famous “I-told-you-so” looks. You see, while in Saigon, we had gone a bit overboard with shopping. But if you are a movie buff as much as we are, you will understand. How can one resist the temptation of picking up the entire work of Kubrick, Woody Allen or Truffaut or the entire collection of Oscars from 1929 to 2000 – for only $1 per DVD? We could not and we ended up buying some 150 DVDs. When A’s name was called, we are sure that all those DVDs will now be confiscated, since it is illegal after all.

We make our way through the crowd again (by now, A has become quite a pro) and we present ourselves to the security officers.

Security Officer: Callying fiel alms.
A: Sorry, alms for what?
SA: Gun? Bang bang. Fiel alms.
A: Sorry, alms for what?

I, with my experience, am wise enough to see this conversation going nowhere. They also figure that out after a while and put A’s luggage through the X-ray machine. And point out 4 spots and repeat the words “Fiel Alms”. Oh…fire arms! Our first instinct is to laugh – but there it is, in front of our eyes – 4 bullet like silhouettes and again, the last 4 days flash in front of our eyes – in rewind mode.

From Saigon, we were taken to Củ Chi tunnel – which was the Viet Cong’s base of operation during the infamous Vietnam War. Apart from the usual touristic activities of actually going underground and crawling through the tunnels, A also got lucky to accomplish his lifelong desire to be in Rambo’s shoes – by getting to fire an AK47. A real AK47, none the less, with real bullets – 4 shots for $5. Having been there and done that, my man proudly retracted the empty cartridges as souvenirs and threw them aimlessly into his bag before leaving for a night of wild partying.

The next scene is as embarrassing as you can imagine. The two of us, in the middle of a crowded airport, throwing soiled under wears everywhere, so that we can retrieve those bullets. After 15 minutes, the bullets are found, hiding in 4 remote corners of the bag and handed over to the security. We are warned that it is an offence to carry even empty cartridges while flying and let off with a warning.

We are not even 5 minutes away from the scene of crime when we hear A’s passport number being announced again. While we enact the climax scene from Hindi movies again, we are sure this time that the DVDs have been discovered. We are told again that A’s bag contains more firearms, this time, a hand grenade. Now imagine our predicament. Two law abiding people, whose only tryst with anything illegal is to buy pirated DVDs and download songs for free from the internet, are being accused of concealing weapons in their luggage. We again deny vehemently – though now I start to doubt if it has indeed been planted to put us in a quandary. I also visualize a scene with A behind the prison bar, in those zebra striped prison garbs and find it quite funny. But this is not a time to laugh; we are in a pickle, all right.

We again rewind the last 4 days – this time we stop at day 3, the day we visited the ill fated Củ Chi tunnel. And realize that the grenade in question is actually a souvenir we had picked up from there – a lamp that looks like a hand grenade. We find it from the corner of the bag and hand it over to them with much protest. We had paid $5 for it, after all. Now we are told that it is illegal to carry anything that might even bear any resemblance to any kind of weapon. And again let off – this time with words spoken in a very stern voice, half of which we could not make out.

We conclude that the souvenir shop at Củ Chi tunnel has stopped producing the lamps long time back – our confiscated lamp will find its way back to the shop window to be sold to some other unsuspecting tourist. But we can’t complain. We walk away with a sigh of relief – our 150 pirated DVDs intact.

I have another story where A's luggage failed to arrive from Paris to Nice and we had to wait for over 3 hours at the airport, for the next flight to bring his stuff. But that story ended with free beers and free lunch, courtesy Air France - so I will not include it in this list.

The Last Train from Saorge

I have missed the 05.54 pm train from Fontan Saorge to Nice. Not to worry, there’s always the next train that should arrive at 06.35 pm. I will just have to change trains at Ventimiglia and I will be reaching Nice by 08.12 pm. From there, depending on the train I get, I should easily reach Cannes by 09.15 pm. That is my plan A. Sounds like a time table? Well, my life revolves around train schedules when I travel - hence can't help it.

It is 06.37 pm now and no sign of any train in this uninhabited, desolate station at the France-Italy border. I start getting worried. This is Europe after all; everything works like clockwork here. How can a train be running late? Then I realize that the train, in question, will be coming from Italy – a country notorious for impromptu railway strikes.

I have a theory that Bengalis and Italians come from the same Neolithic ancestor – at least the men do. More on this theory of mine in a later post – but just to give you an insight into my theory - both Bengali and Italian men live with their mothers till they get married and sometimes, even after they get married; remain mamma’s boy forever, love their carb and fish and afternoon siestas and every now and then, call for a ‘bandh’.

I curse all the Italian and Bengali men I know and their Neolithic ancestor because I am in trouble here. I need to get myself to a station which has more than a single railway track and hopefully a station master. I spot a couple sitting in the other corner of the station - the only two souls, barring me, in this god-forsaken station. I pray that they speak English and approach them.

I am lucky that they do. They are waiting for the train as well and they are in deeper shit than I am. Their destination is a lodge up in the mountains and if they don’t reach the next station – Breil sur Roya - in another 15 minutes, they will have no way of reaching home. They decide to hitch hike and offer me to join them. I know that I will get some train to take me till Ventimiglia from Breil sur Roya, from where travelling to Nice is easier - so their proposal makes sense. But I am not that adventurous to hike a ride and I am in two minds. Time to work on Plan B, which is to make Plan A work. But how to go about it – that is the question.

I am again getting ahead of the story. The day starts like any other day in Cannes. I am off to explore the Alpes-Maritimes countryside – away from the usual touristic trail. The trail I follow today is semi-touristic. I take the Train des Merveilles from Nice at 09.05 am that runs through the Roya Valley, crossing the Alps – into Italy. There are picture perfect villages where the train stops and ideally, one should break up the journey over 2 days, spending nights in the larger villages and exploring the smaller hamlets during the day. But I don’t have the luxury to do that – I have to be back in Cannes for the night. So I did my research before starting the journey and zeroed down on two villages – Saorge and Tende. As I pass the villages that dot the Nice-Cuneo line – each one with a pretty name – like Peillon or Sospel – I feel tempted to get off the train. But I hold myself back – I must stick to my plans, I have a husband to go back home to.

The Train des Merveilles runs till Tende and that happens to be my first stop. I reach there by 10.50 am and sit down in a café near the station just to let the few tourists who have descended with me, get lost. When the coast is clear, I start my exploration. I visit the Office de Tourisme that is just beside the railway station and collect a map of the village. There is also a museum attached to the office. Now, I am not a museum fanatic – so I skip it, but if I remember correctly, it is the Musée Départemental des Merveilles where the rock engravings found in the “Vallée des Merveilles” are displayed.

I’d rather admire the tiny theatre, painted in bright blue, in front of the Office de Tourisme and that is exactly what I do. It reminds me of the movie hall where Tito used to work as a child in “Cinema Paradiso”. A village market near the station takes up some more of my time. A further 10 minutes walk and I find myself in the medieval village. Though a fortified village, this one looks more Italian than French. I am no expert in architecture, but I can make out the difference in style of the stone houses from the other French fortified villages that I have visited. The narrow streets and vaulted passages are, of course, a common feature to any medieval village in this part of the world. I follow the map and start exploring the nooks and crannies.

I spend some time exploring The Collégiale Notre-Dame de l'Assomption, a very colourful 15th century church with a clock-tower. I walk past an interesting looking work shop displaying medieval weapons of torture and am fascinated by it. Now this is the kind of museum I’d like to visit. I make my way up the terraced cobbled streets, that open out to balconies so that one can admire the scenery below - a cluster of slate-roofed houses, grouped tightly together, with the colourful tiled roof of the clock tower looming over them all, sitting on the Roya Valley, with lush green snow-capped mountains serving as a backdrop.

I realize I am being followed and turn around to see a black cat. I am not a cat person and also, being followed by one, that too a pitch black one, in a medieval town makes me feel a bit eerie. I try to make matters light and take a few photographs. The cat obliges me by giving picture perfect poses. I take my eyes off it for a moment to adjust my camera and when I look up, I find it’s disappeared. My doubts are confirmed – the cat must be a 15th Century Knight, tricked and cursed by some wicked Ogre to spend the rest of eternity in this feline form. He must be looking around for someone to save him – maybe by some valiant girl with brown skin who has traversed seven seas and seven lands to rescue him, but just missed her only chance!

I hike up the village and find myself in the ruins of the 14th-century château that sits on the top of the village. Tende was a fortified town guarding the Vallée de la Roya till the 15th century, and was considered impregnable. The château was destroyed in 1692 and all that remains today is a needle like structure that might have been a part of the château wall. The view from this point is even more breathtaking. My mind starts conjuring up stories to go with the surroundings. So this must be the remote château where the Princess was held captive by the evil Ogre, waiting for her love to come and rescue her. Alas, she did not know that her love still roams around the dark alleys of the hamlet below in the form of a black cat.

I see some hikers travelling even further up and when asked, am told that there are excellent hiking trails around this area. Neither do I have the time nor the proper gears – otherwise I would have never declined their offer to join them.

3 hours is more than enough to wrap up the tiny village of Tende. I have my lunch at a local café and I am recommended to try Sugelli, by the old pot bellied owner who serves as the chef cum maître d'. Sugelli is a special kind of pasta with a thumb print indentation and is a local specialty. Since I have a thing for Italian cuisine, I am inclined to say that it is delicious.

I catch the 02.05 pm train to Saorge, another medieval village perched along a narrow rock spur that juts out into the Vallée de la Roya, high above the river. Saorge is classified as one of the "40 most beautiful villages of France". The train reaches Fontan Saorge station in 25 minutes. The station itself is a piece of art deco and is shared by the communes of Fontan and Saorge. From the station, I hike up the main road for about a kilometer to reach the village of Saorge. In between, I cross a huge tunnel, bathed in orange-golden light and wonder if I am really heading to heaven. Saorge, if you notice, sounds very much like Swarga, which means heaven in Sanskrit.

The village of Saorge is as pretty as it can be. Again, a medieval stone terraced village, this hamlet lies in the beautiful surrounding of the Gorges de Saorge – so the view from anywhere in the village is impressive. The village is built in levels and there are these tiny stone bridges that link one level with the other. The Office de Tourisme is closed for the afternoon and I have no option but to explore the village without a map.

Not that I mind, because it is more fun exploring the village without a plan, getting lost and finding some amazing photographs waiting to happen at every corner. The La Madone del Poggio church, with its 15th century, 7-storey tall Lombardy-style bell tower fascinates me. The 17th century Notre-Dame-des-Miracles monastery, with its serene ambiance, is a miracle indeed. I find a few more nameless medieval chapels and spend time admiring the frescoes and the stained glass windows.

After exploring the village for a couple of hours, I find a small café and rest my legs for a while, while sipping cold lemonade. I reminisce the day that I just had and as usual, rue the fact that A is not around to share it with me. And just as I am thinking of A and wishing that he were here with me, I hear his phone ringing. I almost jump out of my chair and for a second, wonder if this is, indeed, heaven where all your wishes come true. In that split second, I also make sure that I wish for a life full of travel, free airtickets and hotel stay at any place in the world or an unknown uncle leaving his billions to me so that I can travel forever. But that is not to be – as a young man sitting across me, picks up the phone that happens to have the same ringtone as A's. Ah well, this may not be heaven, but this place does have a lot of good looking men around. I feast my eyes on this handsome guy and temporarily forget about A.

I have a 05.54 pm train to catch and am so lost in these compelling surroundings that I end up missing it. And then the wait starts. While I am contemplating whether to join the couple, who have offered to take me along with them till Breil-sur-Roya, provided they can hitch a ride, we see a bus driving up to the station. The driver runs to us and asks us if we are waiting for the train. He asks us to hop into the bus which has been sent as a replacement to the cancelled train and says that he will try his best to reach us in time to catch the 06.46 pm train in Breil-sur-Roya. That sounds like an impossible task since it is already 06.40 pm – but Breil-sur-Roya, which is the next station, is only 8-10 kms away from Fontan-Saorge and the way the bus zips past the winding mountain roads, I get convinced that I may just have my tryst with heaven today. We arrive in Breil-sur-Roya in about 7 minutes and find the train waiting for us. My faith in the European Transport System is restored.

As the train makes its way through the Roya Valley, I toy with the idea of getting off at Sospel or Peille and explore these hamlets. But I have had a tiring day and I also have a man waiting for me, back in Cannes, eager to listen to my adventures. For €17, which is the cost of the return ticket from Nice to Tende, I have had enough adventure for a day and have collected a life time of priceless memories. I decide not to be too greedy, but come back some other time to explore the remaining villages. Well, that would mean that I will have to be back to this part of the world again – but, like I said, I am not greedy. I just want it all, when it comes to leaving my footprints in some remote corner of the universe.

This is it.

I fall in love with the name. Coaraze. I look into some images in Google and just know in my heart that I have to visit the place. The name pops up while I am doing a customary search on ‘Day trips from Cannes’. The usual suspects come first – Nice, St. Tropez, Monaco, St. Paul’s Vence. Then come the unusual ones. Most of which could only be accessed if you have a car at your disposal. I, on the other hand, who can neither afford a car, nor would know how to drive in France, prefer public transport to go around. Yes, I do miss a lot of picturesque country roads and charming villages in the bargain, but have learnt to live with it.

I dig deeper and figure out that Coaraze can be reached by a bus from Nice – the only hindrance being there’s only one bus that leaves Nice and only another bus that passes through Coaraze for Nice in a day. So it is going to be a do or die situation – miss the bus and you are stranded in a remote village up in the mountains, with a handful of houses, an hour away from Nice. But it is doable. And do I will, I decide.

I have to reassure A that I will be back by 4 in the afternoon. I don’t tell him about the one-bus-a-day scenario – it will surely freak him out. I kiss him goodbye and wish him another productive day at the Cannes Congress, where he will get to see the heavy weights of the industry throwing their weights around.

I take the train from Cannes at 09.05 am and reach Nice in 30 minutes. I hop into the Office de Tourisme next to Gare de Nice but figure out that I know more about Coaraze than the lady at the counter. She, however, gives me direction to Nice Gare Routière, from where I need to catch my bus to Coaraze. I pick my breakfast from a boulangerie on the way and walk down to the bus terminal. It takes me around 20 minutes, but when in Europe, I don’t mind walking. It takes me a while to find Bus No. 303, since apart from me, there are only 3 more passengers queuing up for it. None of them look like tourists and they stare at me suspiciously as I look very much like one, with a knapsack and camera slung around my neck.

The bus starts exactly at 10.30 am. The first half of the journey is a bit boring as the bus makes its way through the city, picking up locals, all of whom seem to know everyone else on the bus. Once we leave Contes, however, the scenery takes a dramatic turn. The road starts winding uphill, through the Paillon river valley. Soon we are zigging and zagging through a treacherously narrow mountain road, each turn taking me further and further away from the civilization.

The bus drops me at the entrance of the village precisely in an hour’s time. Yes, I am the only one to get off. I take a moment to survey the scene around. I am some 650 m high up in the mountain, about to enter a tiny village that nestles peacefully among thick woods and deep ravines. It is classified as one of the most beautiful villages of France and I already get a sense why it is called so. I cross the road and start climbing the pebbled pathway that leads to the village.

There is not a soul around, it seems – the only sound I can hear are birds chirping and a stream running somewhere nearby. As I make my way through the terraced cobbled street, I stop every now and then to admire the stone houses that are painted in brilliant hues of blues and oranges. The Office de Tourisme is shut of course and with no help around, I decide to consult my notes and explore on my own.

The vaulted passageways keep me away from the sun. I pass through backyards of houses which are adorned with summer flowers. I catch a dog napping in the shades of the tunneled street and try to make friends with it. It seems completely disinterested in me and rolls back to sleep. I notice the interesting looking sundials at almost every house entrance and start clicking photographs. Coaraze is called the sun village or the village of sundials and is famous for having artists like Jean Cocteau, Georges Douking and Mona Christi leaving their work behind in this petite sun drenched village. There are also a few very curious lizard motifs around the village. I look for someone who will explain them to me, but I find none.


As I make my way through cobbled streets punctuated by flower-decked little squares, I meet a few locals. Ah, so this is not a haunted village or a movie set after all, people do live here. I come across an old lady sitting in her garden, crocheting. As I stop by to admire her little garden, she invites me in. I guess they don’t see much tourists here – that too an Indian one. She starts speaking in French and all I can manage is ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ – thanks to my Lonely Planet ‘useful terms and phrases’ section. Obviously she does not but that does not deter her from carrying on the conversation with me. I give polite-verging-on-stupid smiles to all her questions and thank her for offering me some water. I ask her if I can click her picture which she fervently declines. I ask her for the way to the village church and what I gather from her animated gestures is that there’s only one way that leads to the church and that is straight up ahead.

I get repeatedly lost in the labyrinth of the vaulted passageways but find my way back to the open squares. After a few attempts, I manage to find the village church. Coaraze is also known as the village of fêtes and apparently there is always something or the other happening here. I find almost the entire village gathered around the huge open space in front of the church. No wonder the streets were so deserted. Some celebration must have just got over and the villagers are kissing and shaking hands and bidding each other good bye. I feel like an intruder amidst all this festivity as I can feel the looks I am getting from all around me. Not in a bad way, because all of them seem to be smiling at me.

I try to find out in my broken French what is going on, but either my French is too bad or they don’t want to share their little secret – I walk away from the scene without knowing much about what the merriment was all about. From the bits and pieces of French words I pick up, I have a feeling they are celebrating the advent of summer - but then according to my research, these Coaraziens celebrate everything. Today, they might just be celebrating life.

I follow the steps from the corner of the church that lead up to a large square shaded by Acacias, Cypress, Pine and Mimosa trees. The view from here is of deep valleys and high forested hills to the north and south of the village. I am rendered speechless and I just sit down at the edge, appreciating the beauty around me and eating my picnic lunch. I gaze at the vistas in front of me and soak in my solitude. I wish I could share this with A – but I know he is having a nice time back in Cannes, probably consuming lobsters by kilos for lunch, right at this very moment. The thought brings me back to reality – time to head home. The only bus back to Nice is at 01.10 pm and it is already past noon now. I pick up my things and walk back to the village. I cannot hurry even if I want to – the serene ambiance compels one to lose the sense of time. The village of sun dials seems to be time warped in a century when life was hard but straightforward, when machines were a distant dream and people still believed in the art of simple living.

I find my way through the winding street, stop by to capture a few more memories in my camera and soon arrive at the bus stop. I still have 20 minutes to spare. I take a last look at this mountain hideaway as I wait for the bus to arrive. I am joined by a couple of villagers who are all going down to the city. An old man finds me very intriguing and strikes up a conversation with me. He can speak a few words of broken English and we carry on fine. He asks me about India and seems genuinely interested. He has never travelled anywhere – not even to Paris and wonders why a girl would come all the way across the oceans to visit his part of the world. I ask him if the legend about the devil cutting off his tail, in order to get away from the Coaraziens who had caught him, was true. He answers in affirmative. Apparently, the village was called Caude Rase in medieval times, which means ‘cut tail’. The lizard motif becomes clear now - the devil had surrendered his tail like a lizard, hence the lizard motifs to commemorate the legend.

A woman joins our conversation – though she does not speak English. After knowing that I speak English, she starts a long conversation with me in French. She looks a bit distraught as she is trying to make me understand something. I pick up a few words – Michael Jackson, mort, ce matin. I get a sense of what she is saying but I don’t want to believe it. How can it be possible – I watched him giving a press conference a couple of days back on BBC about his upcoming world tour! I keep on asking her for details – but our conversation obviously gets lost in translation.

The bus arrives dot on time and as before, it seems like every passenger is known to the other. They are all, of course, discussing only one thing now – Michael Jackson. I curse myself for not knowing French. I am also amazed by the fact that people who don’t understand a word of English are mourning his death. Music, surely, transcends all boundaries.

By the time I reach Nice, it is past 2. I almost start running towards the station as soon as I reach Nice but decide to take the tram instead. I guess some of that dawdling effect of Coaraze has rubbed off on me. And then, for € 2, which is the cost of the return bus ticket from Nice to Coaraze, I can avail the tram as well, both being part of the TAM network - so why shouldn't I? I swing by the Office de Tourisme to pick up some information about my day trip for the next day. I have to wait for a train to take me back to Cannes for another 20 minutes or so and by the time I reach Cannes, it is almost 04.00 pm. I rush back to the hotel and find A glued to the TV set. Yes, I am back to civilization all right.

As the images flash before my eyes on the TV screen, the contrast hits me. The better part of the day was spent celebrating life and here I am, ending the day with death and disbelief.

I wonder how it would be if we could all live in places like Coaraze – unaffected and untouched by this very distressing time that we survive today. Life has its own rhythm back in Coaraze – unhurried, deliberate - it has its own definition. The Coaraziens still smile at strangers, take the time out to talk to their neighbours or to celebrate nature. I am sure they will once more banish the devil if he ever sets his foot in their terrain. They are happy in their little village, some working in bigger cities like Nice or Contes, but coming back every night to their humble homes – far away from the civilization. They may not have travelled beyond Nice but their little world is fulfilling and has adventures of its own. They don’t just exist like we the city people do – they live life. Yes, MJ would agree with them – ‘Make a little space, to make a better place’.

Bangkok Burning

It’s a battle zone out there. I shudder as I see the images on CNN of the Red-Shirts hurling petrol bombs, tyres burning at every street corner, black smoke covering the skyscrapers and the horizon, armored tanks and gun toting commandos running through the empty streets of a ghost city. This is a Bangkok I never thought I will ever see. Always bustling with life – any time of the day or night, Bangkok is like Bombay – it assaults all your senses. There’s pollution, corruption, traffic jam, chaos – yet the city beckons you to return to her, time and again. It is sad that a political crisis had to take shape of a civil war but of course, the issues are intense and we, as outsiders, perhaps, cannot comprehend what pushed these Red-Shirt protestors to hold a city hostage to get their demands met. Also coming from Thai people, who are otherwise, so chilled out, with a typically ‘sab chalta hein’ attitude – very much like us Indians - this battle comes as a shock.

But I am not here to discuss the political scenario in Thailand. Having been there a few times, I thought I would share some travel tips with those who are either stuck in Bangkok right now or have plans to be in Bangkok in the next few days, but don’t know what to do.

Of course, if you can, try and bypass Bangkok on your holiday to Thailand this time. The other parts of the country are still as inviting as ever and with the Army in action, I hope the Bangkok International Airport will be spared this time. Those who have already been booked in Bangkok and can’t cancel, try and stay near the airport. And instead of taking the Bangkok city tour, head out of the city. Believe me, there’s as much to do around Bangkok as is in the city.

Here are some options:

a) Bridge on the River Kwai: If you have watched the 1950’s movie by David Lean by the same name and liked it, here’s your chance to be a part of it. One of the most popular day trips from Bangkok is to visit the Death Railway and the famous bridge over the River Kwai in Kanchanaburi, and it can take between 2-3 hours to reach from Bangkok, depending on the method of transportation you choose.
If you know your history, you are probably aware of the fact that Thailand was under the Japanese control during World War II. It was here in Kanchanburi, which is near the Myanmar border, that Allied POWs, building the infamous Burma Railway, constructed a bridge. More than half of the prisoners working on the project died from disease, maltreatment and accidents.

Not a very appeasing piece of history, but history none-the-less. And a better option than trying to explore Bangkok amongst gun shells and being history yourself.
You can either negotiate the famous bridge on foot or via a little tourist train which runs a 15-minute round-trip across the bridge and back. It's aptly called the Death Railway.
While you’re out visiting the bridge over the River Kwai, be sure to also check out the nearby War Museum, which contains pieces from the original iron bridge which was destroyed by the Allies.

b)Taweechai Elephant Camp: Thailand is the land of elephants. There are several elephant camps in Thailand and the one present in the Kanchanaburi district is called the Taweechai Elephant Camp. Home to nearly 30 elephants including one born in late 2009, Taweechai offers elephant rides, bathing with elephants, bamboo rafting and special elephant training mahout courses.
Taweechai is conveniently located halfway along the route from Kanchanaburi to Erawan waterfall and so can be included in a day trip to the falls.

c) Erawan waterfall: Erawan National Park is a 550-square-kilometer park in western Thailand located in Kanchanaburi Province. The major attraction of the park is Erawan Falls, a waterfall named after the erawan, the three-headed white elephant of Hindu mythology. The seven-tiered falls are said to resemble the erawan. Needless to say, a cool break from all the heat that is consuming Bangkok right now.

d) The Tiger Temple: One of the most famous attractions in Kanchanburi is the visit to the Tiger Temple. A monk who started looking after abandoned and injured tiger cubs started this sanctuary, which now charges 500 baht to tourists to take a look at the tigers. If you want to pet them, be prepared to shell out 1000 baht more. Yes, you read it right – you can pet the tigers. If you ask me, I think the tigers are drugged – but still, touching the mighty beast is an experience to cherish for a life time. The monks say that the tigers are habituated to having humans around them, but you can make out that there’s something more to that story. Otherwise, a 300 kg fully grown tiger, letting you touch it and click pictures with it, is really inconceivable.

More than the mighty beasts (which scared the shit out of me – drugged or otherwise); however, the fun part of the trip was getting to play with a couple of 3 weeks old tiger cubs. That the cubs were not drugged was evident from the way they made sure that they’d chew on anything that came their way, including my shoe lace. They were like little pups - playful and full of beans. I so wanted to smuggle one out in my back pack - only if they'd stay still for a minute.

All these trips could be arranged by any tour operator – your hotel should have one. And looking at the situation around, it is perhaps prudent to go through a tour operator, than by yourself.
Try to break up the trip in 2 days – with one night spent on a river house in Mekong River. The cost should come to around 3900 baht per person – for a full-board 2 days 1 night stay.

And then, there’s Ayuthhaya, an ancient city near Bangkok, which I haven’t visited but have heard many tales about. Founded around 1350, Ayutthaya became the second capital of Siam (Thailand) after Sukhothai. Throughout the centuries, the strategic location between China, India and the Malay Archipelago made Ayutthaya the trading capital of Asia and even the world. Today, the remains of the once-impressive ancient city make it an ideal destination for history buffs. In 1991, the historic city became an UNESCO World Heritage Site. Its proximity to Bangkok makes it a popular day-trip destination for travellers from Bangkok. You can take a train or a bus, but the best way to go now would be to get in touch with a tour operator.

If nothing else works, stay put in your hotel and indulge in Thai Massages and Thai cuisine. Stay safe, stay cautious and try look at the brighter side – you would have never bathed with an elephant or petted a tiger, had the Red Shirts and the Army not taken over Bangkok.

Of Dark Knights and Twilight Zones

The lone vigilante stands tall over the city. It is dark and the rain falls hard from the heaven above. It is hell below – the city, now engulfed in a fog, has claimed her nights. It sleeps peacefully knowing it has someone to watch over it - the silent guardian, the watchful protector. She is a creature of the night and her day starts when the sun goes down. Her devoted cohorts – the colonies of bats - hang around her, ready to follow her whenever she takes flight. But she waits. And she broods. She has been afraid for the very first time in her life – she has walked away from darkness when she should have plunged right into it. She contemplates her actions and makes up her mind. It is time to charge into the underworld, pitch into the shadows and set things right. But she waits….

…and she waits. She, as in, me. And no, I don’t feel like Bat Woman right now, though I try to spin a story in my head to make me feel all right. To be honest, I feel rather stupid. I should have not been a coward and gone right ahead. What could have happened? And anyway, anything is better than waiting here in the sun, and waiting for A to enjoy an adventure all by himself and then having to hear about it for the rest of my life.

I am getting ahead of my story. We are in Taman Negara - one of the world's oldest tropical rainforests. It is estimated to be about 130 million years old. We are here for an extended weekend. Having done the usual touristic trail – like hiking the jungles and walking across the longest canopy walkway and swimming in the waterfalls and visiting the orang asli villages – we have been promised something off the beaten track for the afternoon. We are visiting Gua Telinga, one of the many caves in Taman Negara that houses colonies of bat. Not the vampire kind but the kind that survives on fruits and hence aptly called the Fruit Bats. Personally, I would have liked a close encounter with the vampire kind, but - ah well, you can’t have it all! A 20 minutes boat ride from where we are staying and a further walk into the forest, this cave promises to be an adventure of lifetime.

I am all charged up as I approach the cave. I get in also. But then I start to lose my footing on the lime deposit on the floor and panic. What if I fall down? Once inside, there is only one way out – to go forward. It is dark inside, it is constricted and what if I can’t make it out. You must realize that this is pre aspiring-to-be-a-marathon-runner days – so my confidence level on my own physical capability is not really high up on the radar. Of course, I make up with enthusiasm what I lack in energy – but this is a very different proposition. It requires going underground through treacherous passageways in complete darkness. I step back and walk away. A goes ahead with our guide. And I am left pondering whether I just let go of a unique opportunity to experience an once-in-a-lifetime adventure.

30 excruciating minutes later, A comes out. Looks at me and says “You have to do it!” That does it. What possibly can go wrong? People are doing it, aren’t they? A did it. If he can do something, I can do it better. I look at our guide. We have been supplying him with cigarettes since yesterday – now it’s time for him to pay back. A offers him another cigarette and asks him if he can take us back to the cave again. I conjure up all my charm and give him a pathetic smile. The guide looks at my face, thinks for a minute and says “datang” – I hop, skip and jump behind him.

He advises me to sit on my back and drag myself if I find my feet slipping. But this time, my determination sees me through the first phase – I make it through the entrance without sliding down. The sunlight gradually fades away and the walls cave in and suddenly we are inside the cave and below the ground. It is pitch dark, it is cold and our guide shines his flashlight. By now, we are on our knees and we crawl through the cavity. The guide switches off his flashlight after a while, since the only way forward is the way forward through this tunnel as we proceed to go deeper into the cave. We are, as the cliché goes, blind as bats – but we know we will not fall off anywhere and hence safe. Now, if a snake also decides to join us in our expedition or cross our path – then that will become a different story. I can hear my heart pounding but A, the veteran, who’s already been there and done that, keeps on reassuring me. After what seemed like eternity, the guide flashes his light again and we get ourselves into sitting position and then jump down.

We are inside a bigger cavity now but we can at least stand on our feet. As my eyes try to adjust themselves to the faint light that emits from our guide, I find myself in a magical world. Stalactites – of bizarre shapes and sizes adorn the ceiling of the cave. A stream runs down through the middle. It is a sight I have imagined every time I have read ‘The Adventures of Tom Sawyer’. Or nothing remotely close to what I have ever imagined it to be. The flashlight casts weird shadows on the rocky walls, the crystals hanging from the ceiling glow in its beam. Alice has finally arrived in the wonderland.

A further walk down the cave and we duck our heads to enter another chamber. The guide warns me not to touch the walls to feel my way through. Before I can ask why – he shines his torch on the walls. The wall seems to be moving. It takes a moment for me to realize that what I thought to be moving is actually colonies of bat – hundreds and thousands of them - clustered together – hanging from the walls. An eerie sight indeed, but a thoroughly thrilling one, none the less. If you have an active imagination like me, which has been fuelled with adventure stories since childhood, you would know what I mean. It is pitch dark otherwise and our vision is only limited to the beam of light that shines on the wall. We take in a few minutes here – marveled at the sight we just saw. A few bats, disturbed by the light, start flying around. A few of them swoop down upon us. Time to move on.

We make our way through some more treacherous and tricky paths, sometimes crawling on our fours. Then we suddenly see a ray of sunlight. We follow the guide and the sunlight and find ourselves in a chamber – with a hole on the ceiling. That is our way out. I panic again. How am I supposed to climb up that hole? Sure there’s a rope hanging and a few stones arranged in a very precarious manner to give you support. But no way am I going to manage to climb that up.

A goes up first. I watch him carefully as he steadily, if not too comfortably, maneuvers his way up. The guide asks me to follow. I am still dilly-dallying - should I put my right foot first and then haul myself up or the left will make the climb easy. And then a bat lunges down upon me from nowhere and I scream as I feel its wet wings touch my skin. I have to get out of this place. I take a deep breath and with a prayer on my lips, just aim for the rope. A foot here, a step there – I haul myself up rather awkwardly and if I may say so, desperately – out of the situation. My mind is blank as I am doing this and all I can think of is trying to touch A’s hand. I reach it finally and A pulls me up. I breathe again.

Would I go for such cave explorations again? I surely will. Was it worth all the physical and emotional strain? Hell, yes! I have gone exploring caves twice after that in Thailand. Plan to do a few more in Borneo in the near future. Not for the faint hearted but definitely an experience of a lifetime. None of my other cave expeditions seemed as hard as this one, though. On the hindsight, it was fun. It was more an “Indiana Jones” adventure than a “Caped Crusader” escapade. A hidden trunk of treasure unearthed during the jaunt would have made it just perfect.

Let me tell you how this adventure ends. I take a deep breath as I straighten myself up on the surface of the earth. I take in the sunlight and the fresh air. I am all sweaty and dirty - my palms and knees are covered in bat poop and all kinds of slime. But I just can’t stop smiling. A gives his "I-told-you-so" smile and asks me how I feel. Ecstatic is an understatement to describe how I feel. The guide comes out and I look at him, bat my eyelids and say “Can we go again?”

Monkey Business

“How about witnessing the miraculous event of someone giving birth!” I say, as dramatically as I can. A chokes on his coffee.
“Or seeing some young ones running wild.” I add breezily. The colour has now drained out of his face and he has stopped breathing.
A looks at me suspiciously. Maybe, I have finally lost it. Or maybe, I am serious and it’s time to rein in all unnecessary expenses and start thinking about college funds.
I toy with the idea of torturing him for a little while. But I can feel his blood pressure rising – so I come to his rescue.
“I was only talking about our Merdaka weekend getaway, you fool. I have found this amazing island, in Sabah state…..” As I fill him in on my latest research, A starts smiling. A smile that means “Whatever you say. As long as I don’t have to see wild kids running around in my house!”

East Malaysia is the best part of Malaysia. Uninhabited islands, virgin rainforests, some of the world’s best diving sites – east Malaysia has everything that one looks for in a wildlife adventure. And in this pristine landscape, lies Selingan Island, one of a group of uninhabited islands situated between the Malaysian and Philippine boundaries lying within the Sulu Seas. This archipelago is the home to the Green and Hawksbill Turtles, who live in and around the water of the Sulu Seas and hatch their eggs on the white sands of these desolate landmasses. The three main nesting islands - Pulau Selingan, Pulau Bakkungan Kechil and Pulau Gulisan, covering an area of 1,740 hectares, are protected for the sole purpose of conservation and preservation of turtles and other marine animals inhabiting the area and are called The Turtle Islands Park or Pulau Penyu National Park. Pulau Selingan is the only island of these three that has a small resort, which accommodates guests who would like to see a turtle lay eggs.

Our journey starts from Sandakan – a small port town in the north eastern coast of Borneo. If the name sounds familiar, let me remind you of the TV series we used to watch late night in the black and white era of Doordarshan about a pirate named Sandokan who used to terrorize the jungles of Borneo. A series that made me fall in love with Kabir Bedi and a wild land called Malaya. Somerset Maugham came later in my life and cemented my wonder for the Malaya land. I always used to fantasize about the feral rainforests of Malaya. For many years, as a child, I have visualized myself exploring the Malaya jungles, à la Phantom style. Now that I am finally here, I consider it destiny. Before A panics again, let me clarify that I don’t intend to straddle a horse and roam wild in the jungles, though I would, if I could. But I do want to explore every nook and cranny of this wonderful land and compare notes with my mind's eye.

Back to reality, Sandakan is neither wild, nor unexplored – but a proper small town, with some really good sea food. And an airport, which is why it is the gateway to some of the wild adventures in Borneo. A night’s stop in Sandakan, we start early the morning after, for our destination – Pulau Selingan. About 3 hours of boat ride through the bluest water I have ever seen, we see the first speck of land in the horizon. I start feeling like Christopher Columbus. A starts feeling hungry.

We are off loaded in the white sands of Pulau Selingan soon - we, as in, the two of us, and 6 other couple. August being an off season in this part, we got lucky not to be straddled with 60 people, which is the maximum number of heads this island can accommodate. Okay, so we will not be able to witness up to 50 turtles coming ashore at night to lay eggs. But we were assured that we will definitely get to witness a couple, if the weather is nice.

And the weather is nice. We spend the rest of the morning getting wasted in the sun and the sand. We find our own private spot in the deserted beach and while A, now happily fed, snoozes, I go snorkeling. The island is surrounded by coral reefs and the moment I dive into the water, I am greeted by colours – of every hue and palette ever imaginable. It is like swimming in a vast aquarium – schools of fish – of all colours and shapes swim past me and along with me. A joins me soon and after splashing around for a while, goes away in search of some chilled beer. But me, I just can’t seem to have enough. I keep going back, enamored by the crystal clear blue and the scene it has to offer. By the time I am called back by an again-hungry A, I have a bad case of sun burn, but I feel like a mermaid.

The afternoon is spent snoozing and then later, catching the sun go down. One is not supposed to walk in the beach after sun down without a guide, so we make the most of the daylight available and explore the island. Apart from a basic resort, which accommodates visitors, there is a small restaurant, which doubles up as a visitor’s centre to give an idea about the Green Turtles that populate these parts of the ocean. Needless to say, the Green Turtles also fall in the list of endangered species. There is a hatchery where the eggs are collected from the beach and looked after till they hatch. There is a pier where we landed in the morning and then there is the vast expanse of pure white sand and azure blue waters. The island is so small that one can circumnavigate it in 30 minutes flat. We walk down the beach, taking in the sunset and looking for adventure. We spot a couple of geckos. We shoot pictures aimlessly, knowing that whatever we click, will come out looking magical. Such is the ambiance.

We have an early dinner and a tour through the gallery, to get some knowledge about these very vulnerable sea creatures. Green turtles are the largest of all the hard-shelled sea turtles. While hatchlings are just 2 inches long, adults can grow to more than 3 feet long and weigh around 160 kg. Adult green turtles are unique among sea turtles in that they are herbivorous, feeding primarily on sea grasses and algae. This diet is thought to give them greenish colored fat, from which they take their name. A green turtle's top shell is smooth and can be shades of black, gray, green, brown, and yellow.

They may sport a hard shell as an exterior but that plaster is not hard enough to protect themselves from a vicious species called the homo sapiens. As we humans have successfully demonstrated over the last 4.4 million years, no matter what species you are, if we humans find you, we will make sure you become extinct. The Sea Turtles have existed for over 100 million years but suddenly, they are struggling to survive because of things we humans are doing to the planet's oceans and beaches. Not only that, we hunt these turtles for their meat, for their oil to be used in cosmetic industries, for their skin to make bags and belts. If for nothing else, we run over these turtles with our fishing trawlers.

We wait in the dark while we ponder about the dark side of humanity. And we wait and wait for the Mother Turtle to come ashore to lay eggs. It being a clear moonless night, we gaze at the stars and hear the ocean lashing at the rocks. We don’t mind waiting. We exchange stories about our wild life and diving adventures, we discuss our future holidays with the fellow enthusiasts. I could have spent an eternity there, but then the Mother Turtle finally shows up.

The Ranger guides us through the rocks and takes us to where the action is. And there she is, a huge green turtle, nestled in the sands, laying her clutch. It is only safe for the ranger to invite visitors for the watch once the female has comfortably settled in motion; otherwise she may get scared and dump her clutch in the water on exit. We surround her and watch in awe as she goes through the motion. It is as if she is in a trance, oblivious of the human chain around her. She will lay around 100 – 110 eggs of which only 1% may survive to adulthood.


For us, it is an overwhelming experience – a scene we never have and will never experience ever. We show her the respect she deserves - we try and click pictures without using flash; we contain our excitements to ourselves and don’t create a racket; we don’t clamor over each other, but give up our space so that the others can also catch this ethereal sight. The entire session could well take up to 4 hours and after the process is over, she will rest a while and then head for her home in the ocean.

Meanwhile, the Rangers will collect the eggs, label them and bury them in a pit of the same depth, among the sands in the hatchery. A protective cylindrical wire meshing is placed around each pit so that when the hatchlings burst out from their nest in around 2 months’ time, they will be restricted in the area until the Rangers collect them in a basket to be released on the beach. Like the crocodiles, the sex of the hatchling is determined by the temperature of the nest. Essentially, the hotter the sand surrounding the nest, the faster the embryos will develop. Cooler sand has a tendency to produce more males, with warmer sand producing a higher ratio of females. Of the 100 eggs laid, only 5% will make it to the ocean and 1% will ultimately survive to adulthood. For turtles to achieve sexual maturity, it usually takes anywhere from 20 to 50 years and hence there is an urgent need to protect and ensure as many eggs hatch as possible.

After watching the action for a good one hour and wanting more, we are taken to the ocean, where a batch of newly hatched turtles are being set free. Tiny as they are, they struggle through the waves to head out for freedom. A few keep coming back, confused and dazed, not knowing what is expected of them. But finally, primal instinct takes over – the little ones scuttle towards the open sea. A few will die on the way, a few will fall prey to the birds. The ones who make it to the ocean will have to struggle to survive. But the ones that finally will prevail against all odds and attain adulthood will keep the cycle going. The females will swim miles to come back to the same place where they were born. And hatch eggs – to spawn a new cohort of sea turtles.

We leave the island the morning after and head for the mainland, ready for some monkey business. 25 km away from Sandakan, is the Sepilok Orangutan Rehabilitation Centre. Started in 1964 and covering an area of 40 square km, it is one of only four orangutan sanctuaries in the world and one of Sabah's top tourist attractions. The centre deals with injured, orphaned and dislodged orangutans. Orangutans, which are exclusive to Malaysia and Indonesia, have been categorically hunted down by humans over the years to make them feature in the endangered species list. Just ten years ago the estimated population was around 27,000, today it could be as low as 15,000. At the Sepilok Centre, a dedicated group of environmentalist work hard to rescue and train these doomed apes – so that they can finally be freed to where they belong – the jungles of Borneo and Sumatra. Run by a British NGO called The Orangutan Appeal UK, with the help of the Wildlife Department of Sabah – this centre is doing a good job. It has so far, successfully rehabilitated around 80 orangutans to the wild.

We arrive just in time for lunch and position ourselves in the enclosure to watch in bewilderment as these almost human like apes come sweeping from trees and bush and sit themselves properly to have lunch.
The word "orangutan" comes from the Malay words "orang" (man) and "(h) utan" (forest); hence it means "man of the forest". Well, true to its etymon, in its mannerisms, an orangutan apes man. It’s the other way round, actually – since they came first and were somehow, somewhere related to our forefathers. According to a study, orangutans and not chimpanzees are the closest living relatives to humans. Humans share at least 28 unique physical characteristics with orangutans but only 2 with chimps and 7 with gorillas. Now that is some food for thought.

We walk through the centre, see the work that is being done here and are impressed. It needs a lot of compassion and devotion to dedicate oneself to a cause like this. The orphaned babies are reared by the staff as if they are their own. Once they are old enough, they are trained such that they become independent to find their own food and survive without any human contact. The babies are so sweet - almost like human babies - inquisitive, affectionate, hankering for attention. It breaks your heart to think that these vulnerable creatures are being persecuted by humans and kept captive or injured, for no fault of theirs. It dawns on you that we, the humans, are the beasts in reality – who for their own selfish motive are steadfastly destroying all that is good in this world.

We fall in love with one of babies and end up adopting him. His name is Sogo-Sogo and he will be 3 next March. This year, we have adopted another girl – Michelle, who is 7 months old. We are told that both are making good progress and Sogo-Sogo may soon be skilled enough to be set free in the wild.

So yes, we did end up having kids, as A had suspected before we started this sojourn. Ah well, what can I say - he's the wise one. It’s only that the kids don’t run wild in our backyard – but hopefully, will soon be running wild among the lush greens of the rain forest, living and surviving in the wilderness with dignity, as they justly deserve.

PS: If you want to adopt one, please visit www.orangutan-appeal.org.uk. It does not take much on your part, but does make a lot of difference for this conservation effort.