On the Rocks

As I sit here, sweltering in the heat and listening to Joplin crooning “Summer time and living is easy”, I try to do a projection technique on myself. You know that stuff where you concentrate enough to separate your mind from your body, making your conscious awareness travel 'out' of the body and be in anyplace you like. Well, I do that all the time. In common parlance it is called day dreaming. We, in the advertising business, who like to complicate simple things, use some fancy term like ‘couch travelling’. Whatever it is called, I have mastered it. Some mind-numbing never-ending meeting happening and I sit there with a smile on my face – my mind transported to some far far away land. A telling me about how Sachin uses a set square for his straight drives and I am at Lord’s, watching him in action. That happens to me a lot. Right now, my mind is hovering from the Himalayas to the Arctic Circle. Aha, now I see it settling down in the Nigard Glacier in the Jostedalen Valley in Norway. That was easy. The mercury has instantly scrambled down, the birds are chirping again and the world seems to be a pleasant place.

However, when I physically went there last summer, the journey was not that poetic.
First, I had to take the Flåm Railway from Oslo which starts quite early in the morning. Flåm Railway is supposedly one of the most scenic railway journeys in the world. I haven’t been to too many scenic railway journeys but this one surely tops my list. The journey takes place through twisting tunnels spiraling in and out of snow capped mountains, which are adorned with gushing waterfalls. An hour of ride, with the train stopping at the most picturesque sections, leaves you yearning for more.


So God grants your wish. You get off at Myrdal Station which is 865 metres above the sea level and the scene from the station is breathtaking. Then you change train and head for Flåm. In between the train stops at Kjosfoss waterfall, where there is a dilapidated fortress – ruins really - by the side of the gushing waterfall. As you stop by to click pictures and get drenched in the cascading waters, you suddenly hear a chant and then you see a mysterious figure swaying to the music above the waterfall, by the side of the ruins.

You stop in your tracks and try to grasp what’s happening. Where did this mystifying maiden with music come from? You are immediately transported back to the 18th Century – watching a nymphet trying to entice a handsome prince riding a black horse, passing her way. She disappears as suddenly as she had materialized. You are back to the reality – realizing the performance was for your pleasure only, a part of the experience called Flåm Railways. What’s more endearing is, nowhere in your research you did before the journey, was this part – this distant blue figure swaying to some ancient Nordic music - mentioned. You were expecting virgin nature, cascading waterfalls, winding tunnels – but this – no way. It takes you by surprise, bamboozles you and leaves you with goose bumps.

You arrive in Flåm to board the ferry that takes you through the alluring Sognefjord with unspoilt nature and dramatic scenery to appreciate. The ferry goes right up to Bergen, but people do get off on the way, to little villages with charming names like Balestrand and Lærdal and Årdal.

Our terminus is Balestrand, a sleepy hamlet with a population of 1850, overlooking snow peaked mountains on one side and the fjord on the other side. A few wooden houses here and there, the famous Kviknes Hotel, which is usually occupied by celebrities escaping paparazzi and multi billionaires with their yachts harbored at the pier, spending a quiet weekend, and a Stave church. You also find solitude – away from the civilization and the “Norway-in-a nutshell” crowd. We are booked at the Midtnes Hotel – a quaint bed and breakfast with a panorama-view of the Sognefjord. It is run by Mr. Jon Britt, who inherited the lodge from his father and who obviously takes immense pride for keeping such a breathtaking property.

Balestrand also happens to be one of the bases from which the Nigardsbreen arm of Jostedal Glacier is accessible. Jostedalsbreen or Jostedal Glacier is the biggest glacier in Europe, with a total area of 487 square km. The Jostedal is noted for its glacial "arms," sometimes called "tongues," which shoot out into valleys, flowing from the plateau glacier. The most famous of these glacial tongues is Nigardsbreen - a remnant of the ice sheet that covered Norway 10,000 years ago. And that’s where we are headed for a hike the day after.

Like I said, it is a strenuous journey. First we take a ferry from Balestrand to Hella. Then a bus takes us from Hella to Sogndal. From there, we change a bus to Breheimsenteret. There is a Glacier Museum at Breheimsenteret, where you take a brief tour to refresh your old geography lessons – how the Glaciers were formed and such things. Finally from Breheimsenteret, we get into the final leg of the journey – the glacier bus to Nigardsbreen. The tickets were all bought at Balestrand – and each leg of the journey is perfectly timed such that we have minimum layovers in between. The journey is not over yet. We arrive at the pier in Jostedal River, where we are introduced to our team mates and our guide and given boots and crampons and ice axes. There are two more couple in our team – so that makes six of us. Our guide is a 24 year old girl called Eva, who has the most enviable life I have ever heard. She is a teacher in Oslo, who spends 4 months of summer in Jostedal, working as a guide and trekking and climbing the glacier.

We are debriefed about the dos and don’ts and then hauled into a boat that takes us to the mouth of the glacier. During the debriefing, I keep on thinking “What the heck – all you have to do is walk with crampons tied to your boots and pitch the ice axe while climbing. C’mon, we are not ascending the Everest – get on with it!” More on that later.


The point where we disembark used to be the original glacier foot hills. However, thanks to global warming, from around 1934 the glacier started to retreat. We walk through some rough stony patches and cautiously approach the Nigardsbreen – a gigantic cascading white slope. It looks like a frozen river, stopped in its track. To think this massive chunk of ice has inhabited earth for tens and thousands of years makes you realise how insignificant we, human beings, are in the grand scheme of things.

We put on our gears, harness ourselves to each other and start the hike. Did I not tell you I was smirking when Eva was instructing us? Ah well, let me tell you – the smirk is gone, the knees begin to wobble and the boots, with the crampons, hang heavy on my feet. The first 5 minutes are a nightmare. I am out of my wits and out of my breath. I want to turn around and stop right then. To think I have to do this for the next 4 hours make me want to cry. I distinctly remember while planning for this adventure, I had double checked the level of intensity and it said moderate. To think that a moderate level of outdoor activity is making me sweat so much make me realise how woefully unfit I am. It is not that I am a couchaholic. I do try to maintain an active lifestyle with at least an hour of exercise 3-4 days a week. But when you are climbing ice, with boots and crampons adding 8-10 kilos to your body weight, with each step painstakingly taken such that the crampons dig into the ice, and also have to keep in mind to use the ice axe to haul yourself up over tricky terrains, you do find yourself at your wit’s end. But I chose to be here, doing just that and there is no turning back.

After the initial panic, however, once I get into the rhythm, I start enjoying the walk. Corn flower blue sky above and unending vistas of white ice sheet reflecting off the sunlight, giving it a silvery feel, bizarre and breathtaking formation of ice all around – the ambience and the experience is so divine that you transcend to a different spiritual level. The physical pain and discomfort doesnot matter anymore, you become one with the nature. My mind starts wandering again. This is how it must be feeling if you climb the Everest. Or go on an expedition to the Arctic. Maybe ten thousand times difficult – but somewhat similar. My mind does come back to my body every time I have to jump from one tip to the other, or crawl on my knees to get across a difficult ridge. But we do it – with a smile on our face and lots of courage in our hearts.



Eva proves to be great guide. She keeps on pushing and encouraging us, telling us stories about the glacier and the people of this part of the world and the puppy she had adopted. She stops when any one of us are short on breath or want to click pictures. She eggs us on and tells us about her adventures – the mountains she has climbed and the glaciers she has conquered.

We make it to our destination finally – which is only one third of the total length of Nigardsbreen. Those with braver hearts and stronger knees go further beyond – but for us mortals – the Blue Ice Walk ends here. We have our lunch, manage to smile while clicking pictures (A even manages to give me some James-Bondish poses with his ice axe), take in the beauty and the solitude around, breathe in the fresh air, touch the ice, replenish our sapping energy and reboot our system.

A 30 minutes stop later, the descent starts. And I now know why more mountaineers lose their lives while descending the Everest. Compared to the descent, the climb up was a cat walk. But we manage it none the less. We jump, we crawl, and we pull each other down. Finally after 4 grueling hours, our Blue Ice Walk concludes, without any major mishap. I am exhilarated but too exhausted to even do a victory dance.

The journey back seems never ending as our aching bodies are craving for the bed. When we reach Hella to take our ferry back to Balestrand, we are told that the ferry is cancelled since it had only 2 passengers – me & A. We look at each other in dismay and I start trying to figure out Plan B. But I have no Plan B. A looks at me with that ‘Ha-ha-the-perfect-travel-planner-has-finally-got-it-wrong’ look. The old man at the pier is on my side, though - he smiles at me kindly and assures me that I have nothing to worry – a taxi is waiting for us to take us back to Balestrand, all paid for, of course. The journey will be a bit longer than the ferry ride and he profusely apologizes for the inconvenience caused. I am wondering whether I should tell him that we come from a country where the public transport never takes off on time; if it is cancelled, you are on your own - forget apologies and explanations and refunds. I am too tired or too embarrassed to say all that and luckily that kind old man will never know anything about the juggernaut called The Great Indian Public Transportation System.

The next day is spent recovering from our heroic hike and exploring Balestrand. We laze around the pier and watch fishing boats go by. We take leisurely walks around the village, chasing the clouds that drift in and out and have beers at the local pub. We treat us to the gala buffet spread at the famous Kviknes Hotel, hoping to catch a glimpse of some celebrity. We are lucky that there are none. The buffet spread cost us quite a bit but we figure we deserved it. After all, you don’t climb a glacier everyday.

Balestrand - this little hamlet, tucked away in the heart of Sognefjord, will always feature way up on my list of favourite places. And the Glacier experience has somehow changed me. A has been trying to figure out since a year now what’s wrong with me - as if there wasn’t enough wrong with me to start with. When I talk about my aspiration to climb Mt. Kinabalu and then go on to other mountains like the Kilimanjaro perhaps, he gives me a bewildered look. But I really want to train myself to climb a mountain, and not in my couch traveler mode. I am a fitter person today than I was a year back. I know if I go back climbing today, I’d do so without any doubts about myself. I know if I am thrown any challenge, I will push myself to the limits and come out unscathed. Did I tell you I am training to run the marathon?

In search of Moby Dick - coordinates 69°19′N 16°08′E

It happened last summer. Many many moons ago. Or should I say many suns ago - in the land of the midnight sun.

I am one of those lucky blokes who get to plan one’s own birthday. I plan it such that I don’t have to blow out the candles on my birthday cake and be reminded, in the process, how old I have become. Or be woken up at 3 in the morning with a phone call from an aunt wishing me a happy birthday and thus ruining the sleep that I so need at this age. Or be stuck with gifts from friends and colleagues that suspiciously look recycled and will be subsequently recycled, as well.

We usually take our annual fortnightly holiday during end June - early July. My birthday being on the 1st of July, I get to choose where I want to spend it. Away from the madness, with my phone switched off. Last year, since I was officially losing the right to ever utter the words – ‘in my ‘early 30’s’, I thought to myself, what the heck, let me make it exciting. I chose to spend my birthday in the land of the midnight sun.

Norway has always fascinated me ever since I had read about the midnight sun and aurora borealis in my geography lessons. If I could manage an itinerary within our budget and make a pitch exciting enough to sell to A, why not give it a try? Once I started my research, I also started getting confused. Norway is such an incredible place – with so much to do – that it really boggles your mind. Should we go glacier climbing, do dog sledging, go kayaking or take a hike in the Norwegian woods? Also, there’s the budget to consider, the country being a bit expensive than the rest of Europe. It is also very spaced out, in all senses and one needs to plan out the journey very meticulously. From point A to point B, there may not be an easy route. I turned to my travel forum buddies, I did extensive research, asked questions, read up everything I could get my hands and eyes on. Planning the itinerary for Norway was, perhaps, my most challenging one so far. Just to let you know, I did such a good job that I have been patting my back ever since.

Back to the birthday celebration, since I was already beginning to feel old, I thought I’d keep aside the physically challenging activities for the time being and go for a more relaxed itinerary. Like watching the whales in action while enjoying the midnight sun. That sounded ideal for my old bones.

There is this tiny fishing village north of Norway – 300 km north of the Arctic Circle – called Andenes, off the Lofoten Islands, which is supposedly the best place in the whole world to go whale watching. That’s what my travel forum buddies said – and I believe them. So what if it took us almost half a day to reach Andenes from Stockholm, via Oslo and Tromsø. So what if the flight from Oslo to Tromsø got cancelled and we were put on another flight, which made it just in time to enable us to catch the tiny twin-piston airplane that took us to Andenes. So what if there were only 10 people headed to Andenes. The journey itself was an adventure and when you are on the other side of 30’s, you need all the excitement that you can get.

A few words about Lofoten Islands and the whales in the Arctic Ocean. The Lofoten Islands are a chain of islands above the Arctic Circle in the Arctic Ocean. The waters of the Arctic Ocean here are the ideal ground for watching whales. The continental shelf drops to depths of 3,000 feet near these islands and massive Sperm Whales can be found in these nutrient-rich deep waters between May and September. The Sperm Whales found here is a bachelor's society - all male. The females remain in warmer seas further south, around the Azores and Canary Islands, with their young ones while the males swim out to the colder waters up north during summer to chill out and do some male bonding. Much like the males in human species chilling out during summer months with their buddies over some cold beers. The Lofoten Islands have always been a prime hunting ground for Norwegian whalers. However, these days, cameras are replacing harpoons. And that’s where we were going to be for my birthday.

As for Andenes, the moment we landed in this almost empty, tiny airport, we knew we were about to experience something novel. Away from the civilization, in a world of its own, Andenes is a petite fishing port with a population of 4,200. You can imagine how quiet it is. As for the backdrop, I don’t think I can do justice to it with my limited vocabulary. Red, blue and green wooden houses stacked together, the endless horizon of the Arctic waters and a red lighthouse. Stuff dreams are made of.

Or stuff eerie movies are made of. We reached quite late in the evening – around 8-ish. The sun does not go down the horizon above the Arctic Circle during the summer months, so though it was sunny, there was not a soul in the street, it being so late in the night. It was cold, it was windy and there were sea gulls swooping above our heads, welcoming us to the land of the midnight sun. It was a scene straight from some horror movie where a couple arrives in a small ghost town, to be eventually hacked to death. I, being the braver of the two, with a penchant for everything that’s weird and surreal, absolutely loved the setting.

We had booked ourselves at Groennbua, which was formally a rorbu or fisherman's quarter, now turned into a bed and breakfast. Since it was late in the night and my birthday eve, we decided to try out the restaurant attached to our B&B. Okay, here, I have a confession to make. I did something that I am not proud of and till today, can’t get over. I tried whale meat. To my defense, my research on Norway said Norway's whaling is limited to the non-endangered Minke whale. But I know, I know, that’s no excuse. In the debate between my left and right brain over whether to experience whale meat, my taste buds won. Hey, don't judge me, I am only human - that too, one who loves her food.

We will skip the dinner bit and go straight over to the next day – my birthday. We woke up to a gloomy cloudy day. By the time the breakfast was over, it started to pour. At the Whale Centre, which is a part of the Whale and Dolphin Conservation Society, we were told that due to the rough weather and choppy sea, the tour may not happen. We had already booked our tour through the internet and we were flying back to Oslo the next day. So it was today or never. I knew it was bad karma – God was punishing us for eating whale steak the night before. I cursed A for inciting me to try it out and I cursed the Rain God for deciding to show off his power, today of all days. To while away the idle hours while it rained incessantly, we took a tour of the Whale Centre and learnt about different species of whales.


The Sperm Whale lives up to 80 years and a male grows up to 20 meters and weighs up to 75 tonnes while a female is 12 meters long and weighs around 20 tonnes. It has the largest brain in any animal - the brain weighing about 9 kg. It feeds on giant squid and fish. The name comes from the milky-white waxy substance, spermaceti, found in the animal's head, which looks like, you guessed it, semen. As a result of whaling, the Sperm Whale is currently listed as vulnerable by the International Union for Conservation of Nature. Sperm Whales, along with Bottlenose Whales and Elephant Seals, are the deepest-diving mammals. Sperm whales can dive up to 1,300 ft and stay submerged for 35-45 minutes without breathing. Between dives, it surfaces to breathe for about 8-10 minutes. That’s when you get to see it.

The morning excursion was definitely cancelled. We were asked to come back around noon to enquire if the afternoon excursion was happening. We went around the village and had lunch. This time, however, I made sure I was nowhere near whale steaks. I cribbed the whole time and sulked and vowed never to touch meat, if only I get to watch the Sperm Whales in action. The rain, meanwhile, had calmed down a bit. We returned to the Whale Centre at the stipulated time and were told, though the sea was choppy, we would, after all, have our adventure.

And off we went. With our old bones shaking in the cold, we got onto the catamaran waiting for us in the harbour. The excursion is conducted by biologists who have been researching on these mysterious animals for years. I got talking to one of them, trying to figure out if there’s any way I could join the group as a volunteer. Looking at my shaking hands and hearing my chattering teeth, she said one needs to be a scientist in order to do so. I didn’t quite believe her – if they are into whale conservation, surely they need people to block whaling ships and protest against commercial whaling. Something I am a pro at. I have a doubt she had seen me savoring the whale steak the night before – she didn’t take me seriously.

It was cold. It was drizzling. An hour into the sea seemed like a lifetime. The journey was made exciting by some fellow passengers falling sea sick. It was so cold that I couldn’t even click pictures – my camera didn’t have an 'anti-shake mode'. I am not sure, but the temperature must have been 1°C - it was so cold. After what seemed like an eternity, albeit an exciting one, we reached the part of the sea where the whales are usually found. The whales are tracked through sonar system attached to the catamaran – it picks up signals if a whale is around and gives the coordinates. We were told that there were a couple of whales around and we had to wait for them to surface. Everyone grew quiet and looked around in anticipation. The shaking and chattering stopped – calm descended onboard.

And suddenly there it was. The majestic Sperm Whale. Our Moby Dick. First we saw the head, which forms one-third of its body length, surface slowly. After a minute or two, a sudden burst of water spouted from the blow hole. The spouting continued for a while. And then the grand finale – the tail up in the air as the whale slowly headed out to the depths of the ocean, as if it had had enough of us.








What a sight! You catch your breath and gasp when it spouts; you applause instinctively when it makes that final dive. We caught 3 more in action after that – each one more grandiose than the one before. Each gave us around 10 minutes of demonstration – but it was worth all the cold, all the rain, all the wait – it was truly an experience never to be forgotten.

The weather had cleared up by then and we followed a flock of sea gulls who guided us back to the fishing harbour in Andenes. I could have stayed in that water for ever – damn the cold. We were headed to Oslo the next day and from there to another remote part of Norway to do some glacier climbing. We were tired from a long day in the cold sea – but still spent the last evening basking in the midnight sun, exploring the nooks and crannies of this picturesque village. A quaint church, an old lighthouse, a tiny grocery shop, a local pub – that is all that is there to this village. And the midnight sun - it is almost dreamlike, surreal. A perfect birthday spent in the most amazing way.


I would recommend Andenes to anyone going up north in the Viking country. There are whale watching trips leaving from Tromsø as well – Tromsø, being a bigger town, compared to Andenes, and more accessible. But if you are a bit crazy like me, and would rather be away from the usual tourist hangouts and don’t mind being the only alien in the local pub and be ready to brave a 30 minutes flight in a wobbly twin-piston aircraft, Andenes it is for you. It’s not that out-of-the-way either – budget airline Widerøe flies from Tromsø and Bodø on certain days of the week to Andenes and if you plan well and plan ahead, you do get good deals.

I will go back to Andenes again someday – for the Aurora Borealis. Andenes sits directly below the aurora oval; the northern lights are visible here most winter nights. What a sight that would be! Maybe, I should plan that for our anniversary, which falls in January. But knowing A – who hates cold, it may be a very difficult sales pitch. I can already visualize his frosty stares. And lately I have been hauling him to all cold places – something, I have a doubt, he’s not too happy about.

And then there’s another Andenes I want to visit, this one with coordinates 13°09′S 72°32′W. The Andenes in the Sacred Valley in Perú. Another place steeped with mystery that has enticed me for years now. Here, andenes mean terraces dug into the slopes of mountains for agricultural purposes in the Andean Mountain between Perú and Bolivia. The itinerary is all ready – I just need to match the dates.

Post Script: I have not given up eating meat. I, however, have given up eating sushi and sashimi. That happened after I watched this documentary called ‘The Cove’ two months back. The only deserving Oscar winner this year, I think everyone should watch this film. The film describes the annual killing of dolphins in a National Park at Taiji, Wakayama, in Japan and tries to create awareness about this annual practice, which the Japanese government justifies as a part of their culture. Watch it and you will never visit a Sushi King or a SeaWorld ever again.

In the Hot Pot

Immigration Officer: Come to China…wein?
Me: Just now. I just landed.
IO: No no….weil?
Me: Oh – I will be here only, not going anywhere else. Will go back to Kuala Lumpur after 4 days.
IO: No no…pleeeeeeeeeese to tell me….wei, wei.
Me: Pardon?
IO:(holding up my passport): Indiea….wei sei Paddo?
Me: Oh…why? Well, on a holiday – a short break.
IO: Wei?

The conversation continues….

This is usually the scene every time I arrive in China. While all other foreign tourists, including A, are cleared by immigration in 13 seconds flat, I am always interrogated for 13 minutes. It happened to me in Hangzhou. It happened to me in Hong Kong. A says I must have a “Save Tibet” beeper installed in me some where; hence I get caught every time. In Hong Kong, which is one of those few countries where an Indian Passport holder is privileged enough to get off the plane and walk into the country without a visa or immigration control, I was spotted and stopped and questioned for a good 20 minutes. The fact that it was the week when the Olympic torch was passing through Hong Kong and that Mia Farrow had just been denied entry in Hong Kong and that I was secretly planning to join any demonstration I could find while I was there to douse the Olympic torch to mark my protest, is a different story.

So this time I have a strategy to fool the immigration officials into thinking that I love China. And I could see it failing already. The flight to Chengdu is 2.5 hours late. I am slowly but surely losing my patience. I am hungry and grumpy. To keep me in spirits, while A takes his customary nap in the flight, I keep Groucho Marx for company. When we land at 12.30 am in a cold, windy Chengdu, I have Mr. Groucho himself for company. I can’t blame him. The poor guy had to have flight food for dinner instead of the steaming hot pot he had been dreaming of for the last two weeks. But that did not deter me. I put my strategy to action. I keep thinking of succulent butter pork and scrummy siew yok and luscious char siew and piquant pan mee. That does the trick. I have this look of content and absolute bliss plastered all over my face – my immigration clearing takes 10 seconds. Mr. Groucho, however, takes 15 minutes to clear immigration this time.

Why then, you ask me, I keep going back to China. The food is mind blowing, to start with. And the people, contrary to the popular belief, are really friendly. They don’t understand your language, but they are willing to help you out. They are always smiling, willing to get photographed and are generally very curious when they see an Indian couple walking down the streets. Then there’s the culture bit – in spite of the Cultural Revolution. There’s so much of history in that country, like India. And unlike India, it’s clean and organized. Trains run on time, roads are spotlessly clean (the same could not be said about the air though).


To get back to this China trip, we had some 3 days of leave carried forward from last year. How I don’t know. Signs that we are not travelling enough. A, please take note. Any way, since those 3 days had to be used up by March or else forgone, we decided on Chengdu. The land of Giant Pandas and Giant Buddha. And Sichuan hot pot. And also because the Air Asia tickets were a real deal when we booked them 5 months back. And I got this terrific bargain at Traffic Inn over the internet. It is located right at the heart of things, has a clean bed, en suite bathroom, a warm shower and an English speaking staff. Just the things we look for when we travel. All for RMB 120 per night.

It would be a rushed trip, yes – but we don’t mind rushing through, do we? This is what I keep telling myself when I get up at 6 next morning, all groggy eyed and cold and hungry, after some 4 hours of sleep. And it is cold. The temperature hovered between 5°C to 15°C while we were there in Chengdu and as always, though we had carried warm clothes, it was not enough. Lesson learnt – if you ever travel to China during spring or autumn, treat it as winter and carry your heaviest jacket.

A warm shower made sure I was fully awake. A hurried breakfast of toast and eggs and we get into the van waiting for us to take us to the Panda Breeding and Research Centre. The fact that the Chinese have undertaken the task to save an endangered species is a miracle on its own. The fact that one of the world’s most endangered species is from China is not so surprising, though. There is an old saying “The Chinese eat everything that has four legs, except for a table and everything that flies, except for an aero plane”. The Giant Panda also has four legs – and I am sure a couple of them were barbequed by some enterprising Chinese many B.Cs ago. They must have not tasted that great – hence they are still around.

The Giant Panda is native to central-western and south western China. Due to farming, deforestation, and other developments in the name of civilization, the Giant Panda has been driven out of the lowland areas where it once lived. And although it belongs to the order Carnivore, the Giant Panda's diet is 99% bamboo. It also eats fruits. So basically, because of its priorities in life – which is to eat and sleep the whole day, it is getting extinct. An adult Panda weighs up to 150 kgs and eats up to 14 kgs of bamboo shoots on a daily basis.

Though it’s not ideal for any wild animal to live in captivity, given the fact that the population is dwindling to less than 2,500 mature in the wild, may be it is a good thing to keep a few of them in captivity to facilitate breeding. It also gives an opportunity to people like us, who would never go to a zoo and could never climb the remote mountains of Sichuan to catch a glimpse of the elusive Giant Panda, to observe them from close quarters. Not much to observe, though – because all it does is eat shoots and leaves. But it is such an endearing sight that you don’t get bored. And you pray that this docile, cute Giant stays around for your great great grandchildren to see and admire. And not become a mythical creature like a dragon is or a tiger is soon going to be.

A morning with the Giant Pandas is enough to get our spirits soaring. A hurried lunch of spicy sausages and buns at the bus stop, right next to our Hostel (hot pot given a miss again), we team up with this Austrian girl from Singapore who is staying with us at the same hostel, to board a bus to see the Giant Buddha at Leshan. Our guide from the Panda tour, a Chinese girl with the English name of Loretta, helps us get the tickets for Leshan from Xinnanmen Tourist bus station. It costs us RMB 52 each.

A 2 hour bus ride later, where we caught up on our sleep, we find ourselves at the entrance of the Giant Buddha complex. We buy the entrance ticket of RMB 150 each, and start our adventure. The entire complex is so picturesque and surreal that it reminds me of all those Chinese movies I have watched with flying monks. The rain only adds to the mysticism. We walk up the mountain and down, get lost, follow several other group tours and consult our LP, show pictures taken to make people understand where we come from and where we want to go to – and finally we get to see the head of the Giant Buddha.

And giant it is. It is the largest carved stone Buddha in the world and at the time of its construction, was the tallest statue in the world. The statue is 233 feet tall and it depicts a seated Maitreya Buddha with his hands resting on his knees. His shoulders are 28 meters wide and his smallest toenail is large enough to easily accommodate a seated person. And it is old. The construction started in 713, led by a Chinese monk named Haithong, and was completed by Haitong's disciples in 803. It is an UNESCO World Heritage Site and the Chinese Government has undertaken the task of restoration of the Giant Buddha.


We start from the head and tentatively make our way down the narrow steps. It’s raining, it’s cold and it’s teaming with people, stopping every 2 seconds to take a picture with the Buddha. By the time we get down to the feet of the Buddha, I have wobbly knees but I am thankful that I have not slipped or fallen down (as A says, I am a bit unbalanced and most of the time, even in dry surface, find myself pulled down by gravity).

The customary pics taken, we make our way back to where we came from. We walk up and down again, admiring the scenic surroundings, taking pictures, following the tour groups, getting lost, showing pictures to make people understand where we came from and where we want to go to and finally find ourselves at the entrance of a fishing village. We try sign language to make the few curious men, who have gathered around two Indians and one Austrian, understand that we are looking for a bus to take us to Chengdu. They find a guy who speaks a few words of English and after much bargaining, we strike a deal of RMB 45 each to take us back to Chengdu. 1 hour and a bowl of hot egg noodles later, we find ourselves driven by a van from point A to point B to point C and finally put onboard a bus. Even 2 hours later, we find ourselves at a bus stand in Chengdu where we are not supposed to be dropped off. We again find a man who speaks a few words of English and decide to share a cab ride with him to Xinnanmen Tourist bus station, which is some 100 meters away from our hostel.

It is only 8:30 in the evening and we are not tired. So we decide to try out Jinli Street or Jinli Gu Jie, as it is locally known. It is an ancient street, done up in traditional Chinese way, with shops and food stalls catering to locals and tourists alike. There’s one such street in every Chinese city, I guess.


A walk around these ‘ancient streets’ is as interesting for the architecture as it is for the opportunity to just mingle with local Chinese and get a taste of traditional street food. We drift from stall to stall, taking in the aroma and colours and textures of the food on display. Most of the time, we do not know what we are eating – but we go by our maxim, coined by the great food columnist, culinary expert and host of the travel show “Bizarre Food”, Andrew Zimmern, which is “if it looks good, eat it.” Our new friend looks at us with much awe and apprehension as we try out pig ears and pig snouts and other such weird fares.


Sichuan cuisine is known for its spices, liberal use of garlic and chili peppers, as well as the unique flavour of the Sichuan peppercorn. As if that is not enough, there is a bowl of chili powder kept aside in every stall, to be dusted on your food, according to your palette. A, being a hard core hot person, takes generous helping of the free chili powder on offer. The locals look at him with admiration, while I look at him with trepidation – I do not want an upset tummy to ruin our next 2 days of stay. My fears are, luckily, unfounded.

A 5 o’ clock wake up call and we have another long day lined up. Today is going to be the Dujiangyan Irrigation Project and Mount Qingcheng. It is cold, to say the least. By the time we reach the Dujiangyan Irrigation Project and realize that we have been grouped with a Chinese party, with a Chinese guide who speaks only 2 words of English – yes and no – we are livid. But there is little we can do by then. So the alternative is to form our own group – the two of us, our Austrian friend and two elderly Korean gentlemen who are more comfortable with English than with Mandarin – and find an English speaking guide. We find one – for RMB 20 per person. And thank God we do. Otherwise the entire trip would have been a complete let down. There’s so much history behind the sites that we are about to see that without a proper explanation and context, it would be just a walk around in the park. While we are negotiating with our guide, A goes looking for breakfast. He’s back with sausages, covered with peppercorn. His eyes are set on some red spicy noodles he has spotted, but he has to give it a miss as our group is waiting for him. I wish we could explore on our own but when you are in a country like China, it makes sense to take a guide to take you around. Otherwise, you can feel completely lost.


Construction of the Dujiangyan irrigation system began in the 3rd century B.C and this ancient water management system has survived till the present day. This system still controls the waters of the Minjiang River and distributes it to the fertile farmland of the Chengdu plains. The provincial Qin governor Li Bing set up this irrigation scheme to counter the devastating flooding caused by the Min River. His system makes subtle use of the local topography. It splits the Min into an inner flow for irrigation and an outer channel for flood control. The original system has been preserved, but modern building materials and technology have been utilized to enable this ancient system to conform to the requirements of the present day. The South Bridge, a main landscape at the Dujiangyan Scenic Area, was seriously damaged in the May 12th, 2008 Earthquake and restoration work is still being carried out. The dam, however, was left unharmed – otherwise, it would have added to the disaster.

Next on the list is an organized lunch which consists of bean curds and vegetables and makes A even more livid. I am happy that he got to have those spicy noodles from the road side stall on a brief stopover en route – otherwise I could see a few flying daggers and some airborne Chinese – my Kungfu Panda gets violent when he is denied his food.

The climb to Mount Qing Cheng starts at the old town of Qin An. Mount Qing Cheng is one of the most famous Taoist mountains in China. The mountain, which is surrounded by numerous peaks and is shaped like a city, is dubbed 'the most peaceful and secluded mountain under heaven' and combines perfectly with its evergreen scenery. In 21st Century, the scenic beauty remains unaltered but peace, like any other place on planet earth, has definitely departed. There are trails – abrupt and arduous – that does little to dissuade the bus load of tourists who arrive everyday to climb the mountain. We make most of the 3 hours that are given to explore the area and we climb as high as the Tianshi Cave. But there are just too much of noise around, too many people around to enjoy the nature.

We get back to Chengdu at around 7 and have a quick espresso – for the evening is already lined up. We get into the waiting van that takes us to watch the famous Sichuan Opera. Sichuan Opera (Chuan Ju) originated at the end of the Ming (1368-1644) and the beginning of the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911). With immigrants flooding into Sichuan, different dramas were brought in to blend with the local dialect, customs, folk music and dances. Today it is famous for its varied performances, such as Bianlian (Changing faces), Gundeng (Rolling lamps) and Tuhuo (Spitting fire). The 1.5 hours show is not to be missed if you are in Chengdu. It is worth the RMB 100 you pay for your ticket.

After the show, armed with the chit that has the name of a restaurant serving hot pot frequented by the locals, we head out on our mission to finally taste the famous "má là" hot pot.

Here’s a little history about hot pot that I have dug out of the internet.
‘The Chinese hot pot boasts a history of more than 1000 years. While often called "Mongolian hot pot", it is unclear if the dish actually originates in Mongolia. Mongol warriors had been known to cook with their helmets, which they used to boil food. Hot pot cooking seems to have spread to northern China during the Tang Dynasty (A.D. 618-906). In time, regional variations developed with different ingredients such as seafood. By the Qing Dynasty, the hot pot became popular throughout most of China.
One of the most famous variations is the Sichuan "má là" (Chinese: 麻辣 — "numb and spicy") hot pot, to which a special spice known as huā jiāo (Chinese: 花椒 — "flower pepper" or Sichuan Pepper) is added. It creates a sensation on the tongue that is both spicy and burns and numbs slightly, almost like carbonated beverages. It was usual to use a variety of different meats as well as sliced mutton fillet. A Sichuan hotpot is markedly different from the types eaten in other parts of China. Quite often the differences lie in the meats used, the type of soup base, and the sauces and condiments used to flavor the meat.’

We pick our meat and ask for the soup. They get us a white base with veggies floating - the one that's meant for tourists and kids. We look at them in disbelief. We point at the red soup steaming in the next table and ask for the same. Now they stare at us in disbelief. After a few minutes of 'are-you-kidding-me' looks from either side, they give up. And get us the real thing.

Spicy it definitely is - and hot as well. But the heat is more from the spices than the chilies and hence bearable. I was envisaging scenes of me breathing fire, with tears welled up in my eyes – but the hot pot turns out to be not as scary as it is made out to be. But then again, we eat hot and spicy food all the time – so maybe, our taste buds are ready for any challenge.

A peaceful night of resting, after having finally tasted the hot pot, we get out of our room at around 9 am. Our destination for the morning is the Tibetan quarter of Chengdu. Chengdu is adjacent to the Tibetan Autonomous Prefectures (TAPs) of Kardze and Ngaba, which form the easternmost parts of the Tibetan areas known traditionally to Tibetans as Kham and Amdo. Hence a lot of immigration has happened in Chengdu from Tibet and a little neighborhood with Tibetan shops and eateries thrive in the heart of Chengdu today. We have our breakfast of hot momos in a small shop, with a Tibetan lama as our fellow diner.


We walk up and down Ximianqiao Heng Jie and Wuhouci Heng Jie, watching the young lamas and budhhist monks, clicking pictures and exploring the shops. This is the closest to Tibet I will probably ever get (knowing my stance about China’s stand in Tibet and my interaction with the immigration officials so far) – but this is definitely not the Tibet I have visualized. May be, this is the Chinese Tibet – the real Tibet is still the Shangri la I have read about and I believe it to be.

As I catch my plane late in the afternoon that day, my mind has already started working on the next itinerary. If I can manage a week’s leave, then we can fly to Chengdu and from there to Lhasa. And do the holy lakes. And visit the only paradise that hopefully still exists on earth. Maybe it won’t be that tough to get a permit. I could think of many more Chinese delicacies to fool the Chinese authority. The roast pig snouts and pig ears just got added to the list.

No Commandos at Silly Point

First things first. Sri Lanka is a hot country. The weather is hot; the food keeps up with the heat. The political scenario – well, if you ask the locals, they will say that after the recent elections, it’s been like jumping from the frying pan to the fire. You get the picture. But still, Sri Lanka is one place everyone should visit at least once in their lifetime. Because of the people. The cabbies chat up with you, the waiter suggests which local delicacy will suit your palette, the housekeeping guy discusses serious cricket with you. It’s a country where all that heat generates warmth and you feel welcome to be a part of it.

The first time we went to Sri Lanka was 10 years ago. It was for our honeymoon. A couple of days with a friend in Colombo, we drove down the southern coast to Bentotta, Hikkaduwa and Unawatuna. We did our first diving, we had our first arrack, we tasted the Sri Lankan cuisine for the first time. I have been a fan of string hoppers ever since. We have even managed to hunt down a Sri Lankan restaurant, here in Kuala Lumpur to get our occasional fix of Sri Lankan curry. We had also driven up north – to Kandy. And visited the Pinnawela Elephant Orphanage. But that was all that we could afford in those 14 days. We promised to come back someday and travel more. Come back we did – 10 years later. However, we didn’t really go around the country as promised. We had only 5 days this time – and Galle – along with Hikkaduwa and Unawatuna again, was all we could afford.

A friend stays in Colombo. And her fiancée, who is a Sri Lankan. What better way to see a foreign land, when you know a local. You get to visit the most authentic joints for your lunch and dinner. You get discounts at plush properties because you book at local rates. You get a local perspective of the past and present of the country. And you get someone to drive you around. It helps if your hosts are absolutely wonderful people – which, ours were. K and M just made sure we keep returning to Sri Lanka again and again.

We reached early on a Thursday morning. The Air Asia flight took off from KL at some ungodly hour and we tried desperately to catch up on some sleep in the flight. A, who can sleep like a baby even in a burning train, took advantage of the 3.5 hours flying time. Me, I kept on drifting in and out of dreamland – trying to recollect our visit 10 years ago.

The airport looked different from what I remembered. It was bigger, better and with less gun trotting commandos. The streets looked different – more congested, more pot holes and fewer commandos. Damn. I didn’t remember a thing from my previous visit after all – all the visions I had been carrying in my head about Colombo were just that – visions only. Or maybe, things have changed so much in the last 10 years that it was time to try and take in everything afresh, instead of holding on to the past.

K’s residence was easy to find – or our taxi driver was honest and did not take us for a ride. I was in a good mind to take a power nap before the action began – but once we got down to chatting over a cuppa with our hostess whom we had met for the first time, we got to talking…about food. The bonding happened instantly and we knew that we were in good hands. Off went the sleep. And for the next 5 days that we were there – all we talked about was food.

Lunch was at Summer Garden. Now if you want to taste authentic Sri Lankan cuisine the way a Sri Lankan would, you have to go to this place on Green Path, close to the National Gallery and not far from Townhall, at the other side of Victoria Park. An old open air restaurant, where people come from work to have lunch and young couples hang out between college breaks. No foreigners around and very little English spoken, too. A spicy vegetable curry, a liver curry masala and a pork curry masala with steamed rice was our order. What can I say! You know that ‘mmmm’ that comes out involuntarily from within when you experience absolute bliss – well, we did a chorus of that with every spoonful.


Dinner, which happened at 2 in the morning, was Egg Kothu Rotis at Pilawoos on Galle Road. Another street joint – where you stop your car and have your food after a wild night of partying. Don’t worry about cleanliness, because if you do, then you miss out on all the fun. As you adjust your backside gingerly on plastic chairs set on the pavement, out comes paper thin, soft rotis, wrapped in half boiled gooey eggs. Or was it the other way round? Whichever way it was, it was divine. I could have had 5 at a go…maybe more. Over the next few days that we were in Sri Lanka, Egg Rotis became our staple dinner. We would be out looking for Egg Roti shops in Hikkaduwa, Galle and Unawatuna at wee hours in the morning – leaving no stones unturned.


Of course, between lunch and dinner, some shopping happened. A quick dash to Odel for some T Shirts and tea. A leisurely browse through a hole-in-the-wall DVD shop, where the movie collection leaves you dumb founded. We picked up Jafar Panahi, Fellini, Kieślowski, Kim Ki-duk – all for $1 a piece.

The next day – when we did manage to get up – our journey started for Galle. 116km away from Colombo, Galle is this little town by the sea, still retaining its old world charm. There’s nothing much to do there, except to laze by the sea and gorge on sea food.

There’s an old town centre, with a fort and a light house, if you want to justify your visit – but more or less, in Galle, your agenda should be to eat, drink and sleep. And splash around in the pool, if you are not feeling too tired. En route is Hikkaduwa, where we stopped for lunch at another local joint called Francis. The food, needless to say, lived up to our expectations.

The place to stay in Galle is Jetwing Lighthouse Hotel. A charming property overlooking the sea, with everything that you can possibly ask for. And their housekeeping boys know their cricket. So anytime you feel like discussing Tendulkar’s paddle sweep or Ajantha Mendis' carrom ball, dial room service.

The weekend was spent shuttling between Hikkaduwa and Unawatuna, tasting the local cuisine. The key is to hunt down the places where the locals eat and hey presto! you will have the best meals ever. The more low-key the place is, better is the food. That is a universal law – true to any country in the world.

Back in Colombo, I would have liked to visit the Gangaramaya Vihara, which is probably Colombo's most famous Buddhist temple, tucked away next to Beira Lake. Or the National Museum. Or maybe take a day trip to see the ancient ruins, temples and cave paintings at Dambulla and the fabulous mountain-top site at Sigiriya. Or tour round the hill country, enjoying the natural scenery at Horton Plains and the tea towns of Ella and Hatton. But we had just half a day in Colombo after the long Galle weekend and four exhausted souls from too much eating, drinking and talking, decided to postpone all that for a later trip.

This means I have to go back to Sri Lanka again. Hopefully, way before our 20th anniversary. This time to visit the ruins of Sigiriya and Dambula. To sip the finest tea at the plantations of Nuwara Eliya hill station. To track the elusive leopard at Yala National Park. To soak in Ravana Falls, which, by the way, still has the cave where Ravana hid Sita .

Which brings me to this interesting story I heard from M in Colombo. According to the Singhalese legend, Ravana, the great king, scholar and warrior, was Sita’s paramour. Sita eloped with him and came to Sri Lanka to be hidden in the Ravana Ella Cave, as it is known now and then Sita Kotuwa, which still exsists, and finally to Ashok Vatika - which is in the area of Sita Eliya, close to the city of Nuwara Eliya. There is a temple here dedicated to Sita and Ravan and young couples, who elope to get married, still visit this temple to seek blessings. Ram, obviously, could not take the insult and attacked Lanka. The rest is history. But Ravana is still revered in the Singhalese legend as a great warrior king and scholar, with Sita as his true love.
Maybe, the next time I am in Sri Lanka, I should do a Ramayana trail.

But most of all, I want to come back to Sri Lanka to enjoy the cordiality and the warmth of this beautiful country, which, though ravaged by a war for more than 25 years, has not forgotten its will to live.

Into the wild

‘It’s going to be a wild year!’ Those were my thoughts as I sat down with the holiday list for the year.

Over the past 5 years, we – as in A and me – have made travel an integral part of our lives. The day we landed in Kuala Lumpur from stifling Bombay (I still can’t bring myself to call the city Mumbai) – we decided that it’s time to live. Yes, live. Was it not Malcolm Forbes who said ‘It's a very short trip. While alive, live.’ Fast approaching the 40 milestone, with cholesterol, high blood pressure, stress and wrinkles as everyday companions – we made a conscious decision to live. We tweaked our definition of achievement and attainment. We decided to spend money and time on gathering experiences rather than amassing material possessions. So, every time Apple launches their new generation iphones, we rush to the book store to pick up a copy of Lonely Planet. Every time a friend flashes her new ‘your-life-fits-in-your-680 gb’ hand phone, we fish out our photo albums – from around the world. Every time a friend acquires a property in Bombay, we acquire a new experience in a distant land.

We take our travel seriously. Right at the end of every year, once the public holiday list for the next year is declared, we sit down and chalk out our plan.

Annual leaves for the year = 25.
Leaves carried forward from last year = 0.
Weekend + public holiday + one day leave taken = an extended weekend to do a quick trip to Laos.

First comes the ‘Where to?’ meetings followed by the ‘Where next?’ meetings. Then pops open Air Asia.com, Malaysia Airlines.com and wego.com. In between pops open maybank.com to check the budget. Once the places and routes and budgets are decided, my work starts. Planning the itinerary to the last detail. How to eat, live and shop like a local in Sorrento. Asking questions through travel forums and reworking on the itinerary with advice from travelers who have experienced Chengdu before. Exchanging emails and bargaining on the accommodation in Brugges. Scouting for deals and booking tickets for Sevilla. Looking for off-the-beaten-track routes and identifying places which will be least touristy – how about choosing Andenes over Tromsø? The work is, believe it or not, intense – but also a passion for me. So I actually feel restless when I have no travel to plan. When my list is exhausted, I plan for other people.

I ramble. Which I do all the time. Maybe I will write a detailed post on the process of travel planning in future.

Coming back to this year, while we were having our first of the series of ‘Where next?’ meetings, with a few places short listed in our radar, it stuck me that it’s going to be a wild, wild year.

To start off the year, we went to Sri Lanka. A wild place even a few months back, but with the Tigers gone, relatively peaceful. But a wild trip, none the less. That actually happened in February. January was a dull month, with no trips. We had been to Sri Lanka before – 10 years ago for our honeymoon. Which was in January. So, a weekend + public holiday + one day leave taken + a friend who’s been too kind to host us + a sweet deal from Air Asia (my favourite brand – the best budget airline in the whole wide world) = a belated anniversary celebration.

More on Sri Lanka in my next post. This post is all about why a rambler of a different sort decides to ramble in the blog world. Well, I have been penning down my travelogues for a while now. But not very seriously. A snippet here, a sample there. A has been after me to get them in order. The lazy me – I have been procrastinating for too long. The solution – if I have some friends reading them and asking for more, maybe I will do something about it. In the process, exchange stories and get ideas from fellow pilgrims. Hence the blog. Hope it works.

I will stop for the day. No point pushing myself too hard. Many pages to write. Many places to visit. Many friends to make. Many stories to share. As Lao Tzu says "A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step." And I have taken that single step today.