tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2297743155508754072024-03-13T21:22:05.695-07:00doodles...Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-84290982701407931982016-07-03T23:52:00.000-07:002016-07-03T23:52:01.097-07:00Into the Woods - Wild Woods Spa & Resort<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It’s now the hot summer months
when all you feel like doing is getting away. Truth be told, Goa offers
exemplary hospitality, but all of it comes at a higher price when compared to
other parts of the country. It’s the pinch that comes with being a top tourist
destination. So how about going a bit further and discovering a real hideaway?
Wild Woods Spa and Resort in Karnataka is the perfect spot.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is what a nature resort
truly looks like – none of your small herb gardens and tiny tree clusters
scattered on parched lawns. Wild Woods Spa and Resort is almost a jungle hideaway.
Guests are so tied in with nature that it feels almost like it’s just you and
the Earth, yet with most luxuries thrown in – down to your private plunge pool.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There is something very down-to-earth
and passionate about K P Shetty, the owner of Wild Woods Spa and Resort.
Closely involved with everything that happens on site, he makes the 500km drive
from where he lives in Bangalore to the hotel as nonchalantly as we would from
Panaji to Margao. It is his immense love for nature – both flora and fauna –
that is apparent throughout. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The villa</td></tr>
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<b>Overview<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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A narrow, tree-covered road
awaits you as you leave the dust of Baindur town on the highway and head
towards Toodalli village. The foliage is thick and almost impenetrable. It’s an
excellent preview of the Wild Woods Spa and Resort.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The resort itself is hidden by a
wooded blanket of dozens of varieties of trees, shrubs and plants that are home
to an astounding variety of insects, birds and animals. The 20-odd acre property
spills across the tiny village road, one side constructed earlier than the
other. A recent flood did considerable damage to the older property, but Shetty
has resurrected it to excellent condition with no tell-tale signs of damage
whatsoever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwUyBrEnavkb2zTwscjD17yNpt0U9eAUBkYqJAbrbmt-1CQ3GwfEUwNrXdTUpL7dCbidjHqyJaYd51Ahet-BBDa0akreWbA8ZE6-q4kZi2bkXMgVTKljTo1UPRQ26iQBEXJqgOcqFx2waW/s1600/db0a0a79-7f82-4143-ba27-c617ecb1b63f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwUyBrEnavkb2zTwscjD17yNpt0U9eAUBkYqJAbrbmt-1CQ3GwfEUwNrXdTUpL7dCbidjHqyJaYd51Ahet-BBDa0akreWbA8ZE6-q4kZi2bkXMgVTKljTo1UPRQ26iQBEXJqgOcqFx2waW/s640/db0a0a79-7f82-4143-ba27-c617ecb1b63f.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b>The Accommodation<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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In the old property, eight Bamboo
and Stone Cottages are the two categories available for guests. From the
outside, both are very reminiscent of Balinese architecture, built of mud,
stone and local bamboo. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The former incorporate bamboo
rafters, mud plaster and matted cane ceilings with adjoining flower gardens and
individual riverside decks. The Stone Cottages too face the river and offer
majestic views of the green village fields nearby and the hills in the
distance.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The new property is more regal,
featuring 15 luxury villas, including one sprawling four-bedroom residence. All
are connected to a common walkway shaded from the weather by a carpet of Mysore
trumpet vines, a dazzling red and yellow creeper flower that exudes sweet
nectar each morning. Each features a backyard with a sturdy <i>jhola</i> overlooking a private plunge pool
along with flowering plants and trees to create a luxurious home during the
span of your stay.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To ensure you don’t leave behind
the luxury of the city, there is hot and cold water, rain showers, LCD
television with satellite network and four-poster beds that are almost
impossible to get out of. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Dining<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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As nature resorts go, Wild Woods
Spa and Resort takes its role of providing natural, wholesome meals quite
seriously. With the price of food incorporated into the room rate, it’s a real
steal. Baindur will offer the town’s specialties and spin-off versions of
Continental food might be a rare find in the town, but living at Wild Woods
will ensure you step no further than its Aroma Restaurant for all things
delectable.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It specialises in the local and
that’s the best way to enjoy your stay. The chefs are well-connected with the
roots of local tradition, and harvest the best on offer from the village nearby
and indeed, from the farm itself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The variety of food is both
tantalising and eye-opening to those unfamiliar with it. There’s everything
from the usual chicken <i>ghee</i> roast,
Mangalore fish curry and <i>neer dosa</i>,
to jackfruit <i>idli</i> and <i>dosa</i>, wild mushroom curry, bamboo shoot
curry and more. Meals include breakfast, lunch and dinner with tea and snacks
in the evening. There’s not much more you can ask for.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast</td></tr>
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<b>Activities</b></div>
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Even though it seems hidden away
from civilisation, there’s so much to do at Wild Woods Spa and Resort. For
those not inclined to much physical activity, the resort arranges short trips
to nearby beaches, each one with a more spectacular view than the one before. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There’s Malpe near Udupi,
Someshwara, Maravanthe, Apsarakonda and the more popular Gokarna beach not too
far off. A short distance away is also Murudeshwar beach with its giant statue
of a meditative Shiva seated at the edge of the sea. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bicycles are available for short
runs through the serene villages nearby. The staff is also happy to provide you
with fishing poles, should you wish to spend some time on the banks of the
Kosalli river that encircles the resort. However, fishing is only permitted in
certain zones to maintain the river’s ecological balance.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Soon after the monsoons, the
river is an excellent place to hone your kayaking skills while enjoying the
freshness of the air. A common pool gives you the option of wallowing in
man-made luxury should you prefer that over the chill of the fresh river water.
And the ever-willing staff will never tire of finding it in them to take you on
nature walks or treks to the nearby waterfall.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tranquility at a nearby beach</td></tr>
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<b>Spa & Sports</b></div>
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Wild Woods Spa & Resort is
made for everyone who enjoys a connect with health and nature. It currently
houses a cosy spa offering a variety of therapies, but is also working on a
sprawling wellness centre that will help propel the property into a health resort
as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Well-trained masseurs offer
ancient ayurvedic treatment therapies that work wonders on the body and mind,
enhanced by the tranquillity of the resort. Other than the <i>abhyangam</i> and <i>shirodhara</i>
therapies, there are a host of other ayurvedic offerings. There’s the option of
trying out the Thai treatments such as <i>shiatsu</i>
and the Thai foot massage. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The day spa also offers Balinese
body massages, aroma therapy, head massages, mud baths, hot stone therapies and
a variety of salon treatments including manicures, pedicures and facials.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For those who’d like an
invigorating start to their day, the club house – located on the floor above
the reception – has a host of board and indoor games including darts, carom and
chess, and even indoor archery. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Owner Shetty has extensive plans
of adding a well-stocked library, audio-visual room for movies, gym and sauna
to the works. The new spa centre is his latest focus, from hand-picking antique
doors, columns and furniture to ensuring everything is as a guest would want it
to be. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Natural fish spa!</td></tr>
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<b>The Experience</b></div>
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It started from the outset – the
hospitality and warmth was brimming over. Owner K P Shetty was on hand
throughout to offer an interesting story, point out a striking plant or bird
and offer a bit of trivia. In fact, he is part of the experience of staying at
Wild Woods Spa and Resort. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We arrived in the heat of the
afternoon, to be welcomed by two revitalising glasses of delicious cucumber
juice and sesame seed juice. Off-beat though they may seem, they set the tone
for everything to follow at the resort – different but refreshingly enjoyable.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We were ushered to Villa 6, an
expansive one-bedroom accommodation with separate living and dining area. A
large four poster bed was filled with a very enticing mattress and pillows. The
front and back porches and bedroom veranda offered cosy nooks from where to
enjoy a book or simply soak in the sounds of nature.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Throughout the stay, food was
unending and sumptuous. The preparations were local and completely devoid of
city slick. Organic meat and veggies from the nearby village, herbs and fruit
from the garden formed the dishes we ate every day. Shetty was on hand at every
meal, explaining the ingredients and the stories behind the traditions. There
was multi-vitamin chutney and green <i>idlis</i>
steamed in rare hibiscus leaves grown on the property, juices from local plants
and fruit, and a mind-boggling variety of goodness on every plate.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There were walks through the
sprawling property, seeking out the hundreds of varieties of plants and trees
he has brought in from around the world. An old yoga centre, lying covered in
the tendrils of Mysore trumpet vines, seemed right out of a movie and the
variety in the orchid and cactus gardens was a sight to behold.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To work off the delicious food, we
went kayaking down the river and played a few games of badminton on the shady
outdoor court. Day trips took us to see the beautiful beaches in the vicinity
and marvel at the confluence of the Arabian Sea and Netravati river at
Someshwara.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As the sun set, our feet took
pleasure in the delightful nibbles of riverine fauna with the free-for-all fish
pedicure, made picture perfect with a park bench in the clear shallow water as
the forest accosted the river bank on the other side. And as if by magic, a
pair of Malabar giant squirrels scampered noisily across the tree tops as if to
entice us back once more. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">First published in VIVA GOA magazine in April 2016</span></div>
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Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-45961963389304893322016-02-24T01:31:00.002-08:002016-02-24T01:31:53.920-08:00Up the creek with a paddle: Kayaking in Goa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="text-align: center;">It was 7am and the clear sky only bore the wisps of a few clouds. The sea was a rippling sheet of turbid saltiness, eight kayaks waiting on the shore to cleave through. </span><br />
<br />We set off from Bambolim beach, not without a fairly wet start. A little rocking sends the kayak toppling over and it’s a fair feat for an eight-year-old to jump back in when his feet can’t touch the ocean floor. <br /><br />Kayaking on flat(ish) water is easy enough when you get the strokes right and set yourself into a rhythm. The shore slowly begins receding and not long after comes the exciting but terrifying reality that the seabed is far below you and any number of marine creatures swim in between. <br /><br />We headed inland, up the yawning mouth of the Zuari river. Ashwin Tombat, of Adventure Breaks, paddled alongside like it was a walk in the park, alternately whizzing up ahead to spot rocks and dropping behind to chat up the ones with kids in tow. Here and there, a dozen fishermen sat quietly in single manned canoes, dropping lines beneath the murky surface. There would be fresh fish for lunch in Bambolim village.<br /><br />At what we imagined was a decent pace, we approached Siridao beach. The rocky outcrop with a dome-shaped chapel jutted into the river like a thorn in its side, the odd man-made plastering of the laterite hill-face a sore reminder of how far we have gone to deface Goa’s beauty. <br /><br />A lone coconut tree stood sentinel at the edge of the outcrop. We sneaked past some rather dangerous-looking rocks with a few small eddys to emerge onto calmer water on the other side. Slowly, crevices formed by falling boulders made themselves visible along the shoreline. It was early and not a human was in sight – other than us of course.<br /><br />The water appeared calm on the surface, but surely enough the tide was pulling us along. Trees and shrubs of all sorts hugged the rocky banks. All too often, tiny fish fled the looming shadows of our kayaks, skipping as high up above the water as they could to stay ‘out of sight’ of what they probably assumed was a very large fish.<br /><br />Soon, we came upon the laterite ruins of some centuries-old pier. Was it possible that we were upon the site of the prosperous ancient Kadamba port of Govapuri? Suddenly, the scene changes. A bustling port emerges, with large wooden ships alongside, fishermen and soldiers knocking elbows in haste, children screaming as the chase each other barefoot. <br /><br />The scene changes once more. Thunderous clouds gather in the sky. There is a clash of swords and shouts of commands as the Adilshahs of Bijapur take over the port now under the control of the Vijayanagara empire. The pier buckles and sinks to the sea floor, taking with it my day dream.<br /><br />We are now five kilometres away from where we started, and beach our kayaks on a sandy stretch only accessible by water. It’s a short walk to the bend, around which lies the river heading up further inland towards civilisation. There is talk about rampant construction, birds, and fresh water crocodiles. <br /><br />It’s time to turn back. It is harder to paddle now, against the tide, arms and shoulders straining against the river. As we turn around the bend at Siridao, I nearly fall off my kayak in excitement. There’s a puffing sound and the wash of disturbed water, the distinct signs of marine mammals nearby. A pod of dolphins is barely metres away! We sit in silence, pointing vigorously each time one of us spots them break the surface as they feed.<br /><br /> As the dolphins move on, so do we. Eight kayaks with eight hungry people head back to shore for a delicious brunch of omelettes and chouriço.<div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">First published in The Navhind Times on February 06: http://www.navhindtimes.in/up-a-creek-with-a-paddle/</span></div>
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Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-20549035417244830802016-01-17T23:51:00.003-08:002016-01-17T23:51:47.754-08:00The South Indian Adventures of Sweet Brown<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We had no plan, just a goal to
reach Kodaikanal and spend a few days there. Early one Monday morning, a black
VW Polo with two and a boot full of randomness set a south-bound course. Destination
1 – Manipal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCP53KAU5oHt3IU2kDq40igcHGIABKd-Z80X2cD9Tdyk-C_mNsn4DowMwckLEe41iT8eAdctWqJd8MTm2d_fsOwKB_9cJmJeASI254ko6uTyLT7dCHmx3OiGkulaZxzWwkiw1wIUEVhTav/s1600/To+Chikmagalur+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCP53KAU5oHt3IU2kDq40igcHGIABKd-Z80X2cD9Tdyk-C_mNsn4DowMwckLEe41iT8eAdctWqJd8MTm2d_fsOwKB_9cJmJeASI254ko6uTyLT7dCHmx3OiGkulaZxzWwkiw1wIUEVhTav/s320/To+Chikmagalur+4.jpg" width="320" /></a>The seven-hour drive was hot,
flat and as it turned out fairly boring compared to what was to come. Over the
next two days, the service apartment witnessed grilled cheese sandwiches,
Pictionary and Taboo battles and a decent bit of lazing around. It was humid
around Manipal Lake but quiet and relaxing. The Museum of Anatomy and
Physiology (MAP) was quite the eye opener with its embalmed human body, baby
Cyclops and strange but true disfigurations.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJcrd1tHp1vBpuura2UTC8Rtg6XPBsfD76wrjrMklPTYkmRUuZi8a9Xnp2EucPLRVlmk3c5NSyC1lTjbZWhBAVFDJ3q69CluRgzH4JmwhVousmf3_V5nT75k4_p2wcjaUdY6nT1ZzzpL4O/s1600/IMG_20151015_175315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJcrd1tHp1vBpuura2UTC8Rtg6XPBsfD76wrjrMklPTYkmRUuZi8a9Xnp2EucPLRVlmk3c5NSyC1lTjbZWhBAVFDJ3q69CluRgzH4JmwhVousmf3_V5nT75k4_p2wcjaUdY6nT1ZzzpL4O/s320/IMG_20151015_175315.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Over the next eight days, we
picked our way across a small section of south India to places we never
imagined we’d go. Each time we planted ourselves somewhere, we’d find a host of
things to do that we mostly never ended up doing, but had fun anyway. The
drive, however, was fantastic!<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div>
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Manipal to Kudremukh kicked off routes
through forested area and miles upon miles of breath-taking views. We passed
through Kudremukh National Park which is home to a number of species of wild
animals, a horse-shaped mountain which gives the place its name, trekking
routes and waterfalls.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Delicious pork and a campfire
marked the night at Silent Valley Resort, and a trek uphill the following
morning. We then drove just over a couple of hours to Chikmagalur. This time,
the car wound its way through the Bhadra Wildlife Sanctuary, part of Project
Tiger, and the site of the sacred Baba Budan Giri Hill. There was no one else
at Winter Green Resorts, so we got the pick of cabins at a discount and the largest
bonfire we could manage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmaH4BXzweKAD5fMZEvpJ00-MWgp750PvhmgiFW-5U1JzfLtJIj5Vio27oWwn6kfgXPtaH74_GTgWNBm5vpYkABZwhhByHAg1g9hCQNDl2HIy287q4i49UQwd3U6DUPOkB1aC1bT68Y4w/s1600/IMG_20151014_193029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmaH4BXzweKAD5fMZEvpJ00-MWgp750PvhmgiFW-5U1JzfLtJIj5Vio27oWwn6kfgXPtaH74_GTgWNBm5vpYkABZwhhByHAg1g9hCQNDl2HIy287q4i49UQwd3U6DUPOkB1aC1bT68Y4w/s320/IMG_20151014_193029.jpg" width="180" /></a>The next morning, the Polo
decided it was suffering from PMS – lights began blinking on the dashboard, and
the music system involuntarily sent the volume rocketing to maximum. A trip to
the town’s chaotic garage ended in a decision to switch the route from Coorg to
Mysore, where there was a Volkswagen service centre.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was a week before the famous
Mysore Dussehra, which pulls in enormous crowds for the parade. The Royal
Orchid was renovating its rooms and bumped us up from a standard to a deluxe,
complete with bathtub, minibar and snacks. While Sweet Brown was getting her
insides checked, we stole a trip to the Mysore Zoo, which houses a wonderful
array of animals, birds, and reptiles over 157 acres. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Since the technicians said there
was nothing they could do with Sweet Brown just then, we made our way through
the Bandipur and Mudumalai National Parks to Kotagiri, driving along the
Nilgiri Ghat Roads with 36 hairpin bends with a whole lot of ‘oohs’ at the view.
It was meant to be a single night’s stay, but with a room looking across tea
plantations, it was impossible not to change our minds. So stay on we did,
taking morning walks through waist-high bushes of fragrant tea and breathing in
lungfulls of fresh mountain air.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then, a week after we’d left
home, we hit the road to Kodaikanal. We stayed outside the commercially over
run town in Vattakanal. Our cottage was a hike up muddy pathways on a steep
hill with the most magnificent view we’d seen so far. Bisons often graze in the
darkness, adding an element of thrill, the danger only slightly muted by the
presence of the guest house’s friendly dogs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUV0a4x3TQ-BmK6o71uNON0VeT40fi28FeAlRDAeDW4k96gDrpcHd73EcflMyxib88Grz4NFtrXi39wfDzPLs1_GMCA9Nnyj6YE1b4YGOGHnHOPfiSoow_7_832w_aJWZ2a7qd11IovgK0/s1600/To+Chikmagalur+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUV0a4x3TQ-BmK6o71uNON0VeT40fi28FeAlRDAeDW4k96gDrpcHd73EcflMyxib88Grz4NFtrXi39wfDzPLs1_GMCA9Nnyj6YE1b4YGOGHnHOPfiSoow_7_832w_aJWZ2a7qd11IovgK0/s320/To+Chikmagalur+2.jpg" width="320" /></a>We made a night visit to City
View to see the twinkling lights of Kodaikanal, paused at the deplorably
touristic Coakers’ Walk and stood on the edge of the cliff at Echo Point. There
were beef momos, carrot cake, pear jam and muffins in town; sweet corn on the
cob, Maggi noodles, baby carrots and boiled eggs in our cottage on the hill.
The views made the trip more than worth it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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On the way home, we stopped in
Bangalore for a few days, and took a short trip to the hill station of
Yelagiri. Sweet Brown made it back home after two weeks on the trot with two
happy faces and a boot still full of randomness. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">First published in The Navhind Times on November 21, 2015 </span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-34604627846109378082015-12-10T04:02:00.000-08:002015-12-10T04:02:01.234-08:00Italian Trail<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="text-align: justify;">I jolted awake. The train had
stopped and it was dark outside. The Swiss Alps loomed around like the build up
to a movie suspense scene. With my passport in the hands of a conductor
somewhere (hopefully!) on the train, I tossed nervously in my bunk as we waited
to chug into Italy.</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next few days opened my eyes
to a peculiar similarity between Italy and India. Not everything went like
clock-work, people were a bit loud and strangely familiar, and things weren’t
really meant for dummies like in many popular European tourist-oriented places.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The destination was Pisa, but the
train delay in Milan meant hopping onto a double-change route and an
unfortunately invalid ticket that incurred a fine. I wasn’t off to a very good
start here, and one generally hopes any vacation ends in a reverberating
climax. But who knew the events to come?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>Leaning Towers & Walking Bridges<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHHQQDs0VonsHrhHrpf37T-pV-LizF-z3GgGqFdIkMeMDcups_Ju4SUKN1QHBiaH0sfe905VmRTaGPxb1VmmhuRr-N1vSQNgt_xunN3b1FeIIHS0pTSnAq9utFfG7B0oB33KuDlk4Lr6Q/s1600/The+Piazza+Dei+Miracoli+with+the+Leaning+Tower+of+Pisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHHQQDs0VonsHrhHrpf37T-pV-LizF-z3GgGqFdIkMeMDcups_Ju4SUKN1QHBiaH0sfe905VmRTaGPxb1VmmhuRr-N1vSQNgt_xunN3b1FeIIHS0pTSnAq9utFfG7B0oB33KuDlk4Lr6Q/s400/The+Piazza+Dei+Miracoli+with+the+Leaning+Tower+of+Pisa.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Piazza dei Miracoli, Pisa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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With my schedule thrown off by
train delays, I had half a day to explore Pisa. Taking it easy, I walked across
to a nearby café for a shot of espresso and a snack. It isn’t my cup of tea,
this Italian espresso. Warm, swirling dark liquid in a cup the size of a play
set, it came across as more of a shocking eye-opener than a beverage to be
savoured.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The place was filled with the
chatter of locals, and my rudimentary sign language was getting better by the
minute. A small tuck later, I headed off to the Piazza del Duomo nearby. Also
called the Piazza dei Miracoli, or Miracle Square, the cathedral, baptistry and
tower that take centre stage here shine brilliantly in the sun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The cathedral itself appeared
more majestic than its renowned counterpart, the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Again, the
square felt like India – the mill of tourists around an ancient structure, the
threat of pickpockets, hawkers selling everything from postcards to selfie
sticks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Built over a span of 200 years
starting in the 12<sup>th</sup> century, the monument was constructed as a
free-standing bell tower for the adjacent Pisa Cathedral. It is the most famous
site in the city, nearly four metres off centre at the summit, with around 300
uneven steps to the top. Visitors line up for hours to climb to the balcony for
a view of the square.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The cathedral is imposing, as is
the round baptistery nearby, with beautiful frescoes, sculptures and carved
bronze doors. Beyond the ancient walls of the square lies a daily market that
is both vibrant and chaotic, filled with vendors from around the world selling
cheap remakes and souvenirs. It is evident that a large number of Indian
tourists pass through, as you will find one shopkeeper or other intermittently
shouting ‘<i>namaste</i>’.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cafés and restaurants nearby sell
the ubiquitous pizza and <i>doner</i>
kebabs, a Turkish sandwich filled with meat and pickles reminiscent of <i>shawarma</i>. The city - which has many
universities and therefore by default dozens of pubs - is also famous for its very
crunchy biscuits called <i>biscotti</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The following day, I took the
train to Florence an hour and a half away. It was cold and rainy, and the trip
unplanned. After wasting money on a Hop On Hop Off bus ticket, I ended up
walking around the city, discovering medieval architecture, contemporary
fashion and delicious treats. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Exiting the station, I found
myself looking upon the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella of the 13<sup>th</sup>
century, filled with Gothic and Renaissance frescoes. As I traipsed aimlessly
around the city’s cobbled streets, I passed dozens of tempting gelato stores.
With less fat than regular ice cream, and a mind-boggling array of flavours, a
double dollop of <i>bacio</i> – chocolate
hazelnut –was definitely the new travel companion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVeXCQtO7BslMAdoG0EQmtcf4DeD8VYHEYk6IG2oQ4l7RUdih1JU7ke1yNhwqNe2iY8IuQseYVXXsC37dE6y6eRdtBs-pdYBT1XG7U_WNvwYfeecQzJut65BvsNcqRmD__TWKMWF10vukV/s1600/The+Ponte+Vecchio+on+the+River+Arno%252C+Florence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVeXCQtO7BslMAdoG0EQmtcf4DeD8VYHEYk6IG2oQ4l7RUdih1JU7ke1yNhwqNe2iY8IuQseYVXXsC37dE6y6eRdtBs-pdYBT1XG7U_WNvwYfeecQzJut65BvsNcqRmD__TWKMWF10vukV/s400/The+Ponte+Vecchio+on+the+River+Arno%252C+Florence.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ponte Vecchio, Florence</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Even though nearby Milan is highly
rated as a fashion capital, Florentines are not far behind in street fashion.
The city presents tourists with a great blend of architecture and retail
therapy. Luxury goods – bags, gloves, shoes, clothes, accessories – line shop
shelves of renowned brands around the Ponte Vecchio, an arched stone bridge
over the River Arno. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Since its construction in
Medieval times, the bridge has always been a bustling passageway of shops,
initially a stinking mélange of butchers, fishmongers and tanners to the fancy
displays of goldsmiths and jewellers in the late 1500s who continue to dominate
the trade today.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After a spot of window shopping,
I went by Giotto’s Bell Tower in the Piazza del Duomo on my way back. The
free-standing tower is another elegant example of Gothic architecture,
featuring hexagonal panels tracing the history of mankind beginning with the
Bible’s Creation and on to various industries.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A short walk later, out of a
cluster of buildings, rose a colourful monument at odds with its surroundings.
The Russian Orthodox Church with its green onion-shaped domes provides a rock
solid legacy left behind by Eastern influence. Florence has played host to a
great many Russians, including author Fyodor Dostoyevsky, composer Peter
Tchaikovsky, and film director Andrei Tarkovsky.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Pizza & The Pope<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Too soon, I was on a train to
Rome, fined once more by the same conductor over not having validated the
ticket before getting onto the train. My inattentiveness was starting to cost
me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was staying on Via Cavour in
the heart of the city, offering opportunity to put Rome’s fame as a ‘Walking
City’ into practice. In the country’s capital, the full scale of Italy’s
resemblance with India emerged – persistent hawking, hard bargaining and
unsettling passes by men of certain cultural origin. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJ11InXbNJeBt_RNq-6oAhbEWKo-2yG5E4a0f0GUVva42j3svuH-QzqiV2ns5C4rDnWurFqadataLhkANoaMxYLNL2jeY6IQXkO9PmTjJLwii1NIHPOevB-e7lig0X8KqnzKsgTIXcCIx/s1600/Arancino+in+Trastevere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJ11InXbNJeBt_RNq-6oAhbEWKo-2yG5E4a0f0GUVva42j3svuH-QzqiV2ns5C4rDnWurFqadataLhkANoaMxYLNL2jeY6IQXkO9PmTjJLwii1NIHPOevB-e7lig0X8KqnzKsgTIXcCIx/s200/Arancino+in+Trastevere.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eating arancino in Trastevere, Rome</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Checking in with New Rome Free
Tours, our sizeable group was offered wonderful insights into ancient Rome as
Max peeled away the layers of the city, exposing everything from its ancient
communal toilets and propensity to throw garbage into the streets, to the fight
for power between two of its architects Gian Lorenzo Bernini and Francesco
Borromini.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Starting from the Spanish Steps,
we braved sporadic rain and shine to hear a Roman’s story about his city as he
led us to not-so-famous buildings such as the Church of St Ignatius of Loyola
with its trompe l’oeil ‘dome’ and the Basilica of Sant’Andrea delle Fratte
housing Bernini’s Angels sculptures, as well as world renowned landmarks like
the Pantheon and the Trevi Fountain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgni7hnwATQv1m67wtqQrpXalwlIq0Te84ydtRaSgo0gUqwbyN4aSktUb2ma3bLsH8BGVxjvvHJBwB9KYIvZ7ux7VQjBMZsa93lN-RFFLwfnjYPKxLAGYwWU6bwqJJq_1HhjM91KISEbItl/s1600/Colosseum%252C+Rome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgni7hnwATQv1m67wtqQrpXalwlIq0Te84ydtRaSgo0gUqwbyN4aSktUb2ma3bLsH8BGVxjvvHJBwB9KYIvZ7ux7VQjBMZsa93lN-RFFLwfnjYPKxLAGYwWU6bwqJJq_1HhjM91KISEbItl/s320/Colosseum%252C+Rome.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Coliseum, Rome</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In the night, lighting effects
bring a new dimension to the ancient structures. There’s a hue of secrecy as
you imagine the political shenanigans cooked up in the Forum, a touch of danger
as the Coliseum rears up before you, a sense of awe as the National Monument to
Vittorio Emanuele II throws perspective askew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
There are things to ponder as you
enjoy a family’s delicious recipe of spinach-filled cannelloni and lasagne,
alongside a glass of white wine. In the fun-filled, young district of Trastevere,
pubs and cafés play music and offer happy hours, less-persuasive vendors sell
boho items in a street market display, and the atmosphere is festive and
bright. I picked a local store filled with navy men for my Roman pizza
experience, enjoying the first but absolutely horrified by the saltiness of the
anchovies in the second. To wash it down, I bought a ricotta cheese and
chocolate chip slice, and a slab of homemade Parmesan to carry back with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgh9WpothIWREbphVEUBieEfXZGt-ObGOLVAoIlHi9HTheWo01KV6FcFbPSHKxw22OGyBjALlMy99Fcof0nj2tPdD0r4tWMDd7wF7ZUy4e7QNf44LBnZ14RuQ-BedncrOZ1zJFeanBTQ2m/s1600/Pope+Francis+walks+towards+the+altar+in+St+Peter%2527s+Basilica%252C+Rome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgh9WpothIWREbphVEUBieEfXZGt-ObGOLVAoIlHi9HTheWo01KV6FcFbPSHKxw22OGyBjALlMy99Fcof0nj2tPdD0r4tWMDd7wF7ZUy4e7QNf44LBnZ14RuQ-BedncrOZ1zJFeanBTQ2m/s320/Pope+Francis+walks+towards+the+altar+in+St+Peter%2527s+Basilica%252C+Rome.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pope Francis I enters the Basilica of St Peter, Rome</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Early on Sunday morning, pass in
hand, I ran five kilometres to catch my place in an already snaking queue to
enter the Basilica of St Peter for mass with Pope Francis. Inside, the basilica
is awe-striking, rising high into an eternity painted prominently on its arched
ceiling. Right on time, the head of the Catholic Church strode in, as sprightly
as a rabbit, leading the thousands in the congregation into service.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The experience was singular, and
even though I couldn’t understand a word he said – the sermon was in Italian –
it left me feeling blessed in a way. Blessed particularly with the good fortune
of being able to travel.</div>
</div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-18900212660728196882015-09-17T03:13:00.002-07:002015-09-17T03:13:35.448-07:00France: Going solo in lovers' country<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGa7LSx90Lx4ywyceleuMBbMU8mZBFR5t3IpV2-z9IbTEbcNsCOS9rWN7q-fmUrJF_-f_QewY1d_rhEpLQBq1OTpIN5PTaqiDIHjX5dGLwqyBH4dpPPGr9x8mQ0GkN8hPIIgdadWxgo4mP/s1600/Tour+Eiffel+at+night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGa7LSx90Lx4ywyceleuMBbMU8mZBFR5t3IpV2-z9IbTEbcNsCOS9rWN7q-fmUrJF_-f_QewY1d_rhEpLQBq1OTpIN5PTaqiDIHjX5dGLwqyBH4dpPPGr9x8mQ0GkN8hPIIgdadWxgo4mP/s320/Tour+Eiffel+at+night.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It is hard to escape the romantic charm of France, but
being alone does not mean you’re missing out</span></b></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I sit on the rough edge
of the farm looking out onto acres upon acres of young vines reaching for
sunlight. They are only just sprouting fruit and the harvest is months away. But
I could sit here for eternity, a dusty addition to a postcard picture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">France is where the
romantics go, holding hands as they walk down broad leafy pavements, kissing
under the shadow of a church archway or sharing pastries in a café. What was I doing
then, ambling along alone with my day pack for company? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">There were just six days
to sample a whole country that has been on my mind for years. It was
impossible, but I simply had to try. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Back in time in the 21<sup>st</sup> century<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbRTqYP9f5YsLtAIhV35sfYMkst50UR-AlIiNbRxTnl_n_0kjbtzwZWcWsZdxqpd1BRajT-RuPjswwpaZYhTrMot5BzsbUNCO5o5hXNNZO50B7mi9068WXqgRGeEYe70T_Z1LQOkUrSJH/s1600/The+River+Seine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbRTqYP9f5YsLtAIhV35sfYMkst50UR-AlIiNbRxTnl_n_0kjbtzwZWcWsZdxqpd1BRajT-RuPjswwpaZYhTrMot5BzsbUNCO5o5hXNNZO50B7mi9068WXqgRGeEYe70T_Z1LQOkUrSJH/s400/The+River+Seine.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The River Seine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Footing it around Paris
is the cheapest, easiest way to get around. So I got off the metro at Châtelet
and wandered off into three days of non-stop discovery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The city was named by a
Celtic tribe in the third century called the Parisii, but features exquisite
architecture mostly from centuries much later. Amid the notorious French upper
crust attitude, perennial stream of tourists and pavements splattered with dog
poo, you find that beautiful juxtaposition of history and modernity that marks
every ‘old city’ in the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The main sites are
clustered along the River Seine making it easy for tourists to get from one
place to the next. The Tour St Jacques stands inconspicuously, solitary remains
of what was probably a majestic 16<sup>th</sup> century Gothic church destroyed
during the French Revolution.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1eEDkBoCbBpPKSrUQhKLir9v0QYv8gtlphhN0d-_L9X6EDC3T5dzXIztSOPboAyDHocf3KdjhJ2k_Ja2TCNYL19gJBMs-aTk_SqpXYqgKnXvk1Aq3aP2SSKVb3WVvcC7CJCs73xgqfJvF/s1600/Fete+du+pain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1eEDkBoCbBpPKSrUQhKLir9v0QYv8gtlphhN0d-_L9X6EDC3T5dzXIztSOPboAyDHocf3KdjhJ2k_Ja2TCNYL19gJBMs-aTk_SqpXYqgKnXvk1Aq3aP2SSKVb3WVvcC7CJCs73xgqfJvF/s320/Fete+du+pain.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fete du pain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nearby is the Hôtel de
Ville, which has been the City Hall since 1357. It survived a fire that ravaged
the area 200 years ago and features hundreds of sculptures, and beautiful old
lamps among the thousands that gave Paris its nomenclature ‘City of Lights’. As
I moved on across the river, I became one of the last to see the colourful
‘love locks’ on the Pont des Arts. In June this year, the government removed
the thousands of inscribed padlocks left clinging to the heritage bridge by
couples as a sign of their love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The smell of freshly baked
bread hung low below the tall intimidating spire of the Cathèdrale Notre Dame
de Paris on the tiny Île de la Cité in the centre of the Seine. Spread under a
huge white tent in the shadow of France’s most famous church, local bakers
showed off exquisite pastry and bread-making skills as hungry tourists devoured
excellent samples of French pâtisserie at La Fête du Pain, or the Festival of
Bread. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A medieval stairway leads
to the Notre Dame tower that explodes into a panoramic view of Paris, the city’s
changing scapes watched over by hideous-looking gargoyles and chimera. The
gargoyles functioned as run-offs for water, while the chimera are thought to
have served as guardians scaring off evil spirits. Inside, the cathedral is
filled with awe-inspiring stained glass, carvings, statues and towering organs,
the chief one having 7,374 pipes. Built over two centuries, it was the one of
the first buildings in the world to use flying buttresses, and continues to
remain one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">From the cathedral, a
walk down the Seine brought me to the Louvre, a day tour in itself, with nearly
35,000 exhibits from around the world including paintings, sculptures, scripts,
artefacts, jewellery, tapestries and more. Tourists and locals fill the expansive
Jardin des Tuileries in the museum grounds, watched over by sculptures that
lead you on towards the Champs Elysées and the Arc de Triomphe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOPOrQGY7XsIWE8HS8Que9vI55xtuUViAcin8GVmMU52Kis_zZFhgigNfWK9A54TsdogSjnX1yvgIDzcIa2RyOLMroIerk0XGRT7HHUdl-j55IwZqt7ht-l1a1FWJm_yjHml7_nuyBThq/s1600/Scale+wooden+model+of+the+Notre+Dame+cathedral+in+Paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOPOrQGY7XsIWE8HS8Que9vI55xtuUViAcin8GVmMU52Kis_zZFhgigNfWK9A54TsdogSjnX1yvgIDzcIa2RyOLMroIerk0XGRT7HHUdl-j55IwZqt7ht-l1a1FWJm_yjHml7_nuyBThq/s320/Scale+wooden+model+of+the+Notre+Dame+cathedral+in+Paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Model replica of the Cathedrale Notre Dame de Paris</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A myriad other museums
along the way bring you up to the Eiffel Tower which lives up to its fame, but
only at night when the lights shine brightly and musicians create beautiful
melodies beneath its halo. In the north of Paris, the century-old Moulin Rouge nightclub
stands rather stifled among the buildings, its famous red windmill and décor
possibly the only remnants of its seductive past. The roads nearby are filled
with shops, selling everything from items of wild debauchery to chocolates and
curios. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And up the steps of
Montmartre, one arrives at the stately Basilica of Sacré-Cœur or Sacred Heart. Although
a later construction – built in the late 1800s-early 1900s – the basilica
stands tall on the highest point of the city, offering a commanding view of
Paris. Faithful come in from around the world to participate in perpetual adoration
of the consecrated host which has never stopped since 1885. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Vineyards & Villages<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Then I left the city far
behind, heading to Burgundy for a sampling of the vineyards and the produce
that comes with it. As the wine capital of the district, Beaune felt
understated, unrealistically peaceful and almost shy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Wide, clear roads with
medieval walls hidden at intervals, and cute dwellings with no one in sight
make it an enticing place for an extended sojourn. I was fortunate to meet
Marco Sparacino at the homestay, a young Italian sommelier full of life and bubbling
with curiosity. Together, we explored the vineyards of the Cote d’Or, or the
Golden Slope, the birthplace of some of the world’s finest wines.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The road south towards
Chalon-sur-Saône passed through Pommard, Volnay, Meursault, Puligny-Montrachet
and Chagny, with acres upon acres of vines creeping along the slopes, hanging
low to the ground on stem supports. Every so often, we’d pass through a village
– a small smattering of stone houses where engaging vintners spoke excitedly
about their products.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Marco enjoyed animated
discussions on the complexity of viniculture, as I explored the producers’ wine
caves – dark cellars stacked high with barrels ageing wines of various
bouquets. Along the way, I learnt interesting tid bits about wine, saw <i>clos</i> or walled vineyards and had my
breath taken away by a sea of cornflowers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In the town of Beaune
itself, there are historic sites including the old market of Les Halles, an
ancient clock tower called Beffroi, and the 15<sup>th</sup> century Hospices de
Beaune which hosts France’s main wine auction sometime after the end of summer.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmoUTmB92mb9pQSq1MnGpoCTS3zhtZFA9WSuryWrPOMi5VGd4IxkR1IOoQ3hWwOq4kXZ7PkUAaFgraaZFI54caLs6RfpO2RsssnjmOKHpew5jGvG7tHiXYb1IOxE2Tiqs9Cp6rAJoVWvJ/s1600/Tour+through+the+vineyards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmoUTmB92mb9pQSq1MnGpoCTS3zhtZFA9WSuryWrPOMi5VGd4IxkR1IOoQ3hWwOq4kXZ7PkUAaFgraaZFI54caLs6RfpO2RsssnjmOKHpew5jGvG7tHiXYb1IOxE2Tiqs9Cp6rAJoVWvJ/s400/Tour+through+the+vineyards.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vineyards in the Cote d'Or</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A day in the city of Dijon
was most certainly called for, looking for La Chouette – the city’s lucky owl
carving on the Notre Dame de Dijon cathedral walls, buying its famous mustard,
and taking in the beautiful Ducal Palace and its in-house Musée des Beaux Arts
which features a stunning array of medieval art. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Burgundy is the ideal
place for some quiet time. It is chic in its strong sense of culture and offers
pure experiences untouched by mainstream tourism. There are wine and cheese
tours, and even truffle hunts, Michelin-starred restaurants and miles upon
miles of tranquillity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So what was I doing alone in the one of the world’s most romantic
countries? I was falling in love, no doubt. With not a care in the world and
not a thing to come home to, I was falling in love with living in the moment.</span></div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-83511869991119887552015-08-03T04:35:00.004-07:002015-08-03T04:35:38.519-07:00Of hidden history and black sand beaches - Java & Bali<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM32b90GjN6IL3C1rfIc0HPx4rwytauB7owqWDn4fERh5y5jBIXEaoNrRz2BaJ4J_-DTEQmZJg4Nj-qFDxXyoDttV7ZpZ3jJhyhDxtUtnBy48l3EvJea4QXZG8CyZCuESYIog7R_1VITKs/s1600/Prambanan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM32b90GjN6IL3C1rfIc0HPx4rwytauB7owqWDn4fERh5y5jBIXEaoNrRz2BaJ4J_-DTEQmZJg4Nj-qFDxXyoDttV7ZpZ3jJhyhDxtUtnBy48l3EvJea4QXZG8CyZCuESYIog7R_1VITKs/s640/Prambanan.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prambanan, Java</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It was hot that day, and we had
nowhere to lie away from the heat of the sun. We watched as happy tourists
chowed their way through overpriced Continental comfort food. But it wasn’t
hunger killing us. It was having so much to do, so little time and no money at
all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvklJWbeApFeppvYqTKBDplzPt9VsBxMlLKpmMVLA0OfWFNhJg2qsdl1UeH4m5F7qlFuD7PvygYVSfAXPwc7Mtw8nqY-YSdynWO-u0ZWBUffGnzhFHdfuoIwtSAEDwLS53HfTOR_RvmFR/s1600/Borobudur+in+the+distance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvklJWbeApFeppvYqTKBDplzPt9VsBxMlLKpmMVLA0OfWFNhJg2qsdl1UeH4m5F7qlFuD7PvygYVSfAXPwc7Mtw8nqY-YSdynWO-u0ZWBUffGnzhFHdfuoIwtSAEDwLS53HfTOR_RvmFR/s320/Borobudur+in+the+distance.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Borobudur, Java</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Five days before this, we had
landed in Yogyakarta in Java, Indonesia, excitement barely contained and
pockets slowly emptying. We found our way to the Kampoeng Djawa hostel,
doorposts struggling to find air through a thick foliage of creepers and trees
of an Amazon-like garden. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The nearby Jalan Malioboro is a
major tourist attraction with shops lining the streets selling quirky wares,
delicious local fare and buskers singing for their supper. The next morning,
after an early start to a vantage point to see the Merapi volcano hissing steam
in the distance, we set off to discover two ninth century mega marvels that
marked the patronage of Buddhism and Hinduism in the now Muslim-dominated
Indonesia.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
For centuries, the black stone <i>stupas</i> of the Mahayana Buddhist Temple
of Borobudur lay ensconced in dense vegetation and volcanic ash, cut off by
superstition and tales of bad luck. Following its rediscovery through the
1800s, the UNESCO Heritage Site has now become the single most visited tourist
attraction in the country. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQn2TZiucz1iASXAumDMD1ocCwrBv11NPp4JnHiLBdMhiYB9cFB5mfAkvALFIzBeAEmukI6gj92UW1o9fvGMh3qK-C4DPDiOkgLaE54CeQ459DEgFcZnZXGJ8Sn5vr9FdJSqzZVptEiJPL/s1600/Food+in+a+warung.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQn2TZiucz1iASXAumDMD1ocCwrBv11NPp4JnHiLBdMhiYB9cFB5mfAkvALFIzBeAEmukI6gj92UW1o9fvGMh3qK-C4DPDiOkgLaE54CeQ459DEgFcZnZXGJ8Sn5vr9FdJSqzZVptEiJPL/s320/Food+in+a+warung.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nasi campur at a local warung</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
On the other side of Yogyakarta,
Prambanan rises through the mist like a series of intricately carved monoliths.
Like Borobudur, this too fell to ruin, collapsing after a major earthquake and
then being rediscovered and restored in the 1900s. Originally, 240 smaller temples
stood in the complex. Today, only two are renovated, with eight of the main
temples reconstructed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Both Borobudur and Prambanan are
rich in sculpture and steeped in mysticism. They present mysterious windows
into the past, with tales and culture so rich it could give any ardent history lover
a case of goose bumps.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
After two days of soaking in
history, it was time to head to Bali, the country’s most famous island. And not
without reason. It’s a heady mix of partying and rambunctious nightlife,
coupled with thrilling adventure sports and relaxing days overlooking terraced
rice fields or turquoise blue water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
We made our base in Ubud, Bali’s
cultural centre, where a great many decorative wares can be found. The markets permeate
a more global air compared to Yogyakarta’s Jalan Malioboro, with curios and
knick knacks made and sold with the tourist in mind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCj-kx4ahUnTY0hX-vf7GxXhPbE4s1YTXdot7zsgN-hneSIY-nmRm0_EHkeG2cWJMAQGWvs5WCjlg-5CU4vpaXT0NOUed_VYTpZk2d2XJ5voOwFP6IvUA-3iSQt-KdKQ7FFZUGuafDD6s/s1600/Black+sand+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCj-kx4ahUnTY0hX-vf7GxXhPbE4s1YTXdot7zsgN-hneSIY-nmRm0_EHkeG2cWJMAQGWvs5WCjlg-5CU4vpaXT0NOUed_VYTpZk2d2XJ5voOwFP6IvUA-3iSQt-KdKQ7FFZUGuafDD6s/s320/Black+sand+beach.jpg" width="320" /></a>In Ubud, we met Nyoman Ardika, a
friend, impromptu tour guide and driver. The young Indonesian lad was proud to
show off his country, taking us through gorgeous green countryside to black
sand beaches that marked a stark contrast to the sky blue sea. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It was here that we discovered a
love for <i>nasi campur</i> – the delicious
spread of rice, meat, vegetables and peanuts – and <i>bakso</i>, or meat balls in a hot soupy broth, and <i>bumbu Bali</i>, a delicious spiced fish recipe. We also chanced upon the
Green School along the Ayung River, made of eco-friendly bamboo structures and
other renewable materials.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Bali is a paradise for adventure
seekers too, with pristine snorkelling and scuba diving sites, and great
surfing. South west is where the non-stop party is, with Kuta reminiscent of
our very own Calangute area – you either love it or hate it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
As time wound down, our pockets
emptied at the scuba diving site in the north east of the island, we held on to
the last of our chocolate stuffed Hong Kong <i>pai
baos</i> and swore to each other to return once more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwYcoxcrPr3YLscklySXoJ5BfKyZHGoQrdMYJ5j9-zUQ6N-jCW17BVWIpP5qzurGEI00ZR7BMDs5ArbW-Z6W6gZqVCJXbV0uN68BA8m_Y6dbNupPtljwOdsYZUjOuPBJqdacWH338EQHp/s1600/Underwater+adventure+in+Bali.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwYcoxcrPr3YLscklySXoJ5BfKyZHGoQrdMYJ5j9-zUQ6N-jCW17BVWIpP5qzurGEI00ZR7BMDs5ArbW-Z6W6gZqVCJXbV0uN68BA8m_Y6dbNupPtljwOdsYZUjOuPBJqdacWH338EQHp/s400/Underwater+adventure+in+Bali.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Underwater paradise</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">First published in the Navhind Times</span><br />
<br />
</div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-79115149033729756862015-08-03T04:28:00.002-07:002015-08-03T04:28:16.372-07:008 days in England<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I raced down Buckingham Palace Road, a 12kg
backpack bouncing awkwardly behind me as the cold rain plastered my hair to my
scalp. Holding onto the five extra kgs strapped to my front, I careened down
the endless departures lounge at Victoria Coach Station, praying desperately
that my Eurolines ticket out of London would still be valid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Stomp,
stomp, stomp... Squish squish squish<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My soaked shoes announced my arrival and as
the end of the line disappeared into the bus, I just about managed to change
into dry footwear, dump my backpack in the hold and grab a seat. I caught my
breath and looked back at the last week that had all but whizzed by in a flash
of pubs, sloping grasslands, achingly polite language and a glimpse of some of
the world's most iconic structures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiag5xuf4o13AhoVWKqcRu2gNlxllCA2km-PDr4nC3gukDrW4B0w9U0WoRmMwGd_0tbarNWptRp2hv2NSZhBV8tbBB29_8uyBlIga_9Gjo64t9jSLraryycFtwF_TbTKjXfN6e-2az7Xhhc/s1600/Tower+Bridge%252C+London.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiag5xuf4o13AhoVWKqcRu2gNlxllCA2km-PDr4nC3gukDrW4B0w9U0WoRmMwGd_0tbarNWptRp2hv2NSZhBV8tbBB29_8uyBlIga_9Gjo64t9jSLraryycFtwF_TbTKjXfN6e-2az7Xhhc/s320/Tower+Bridge%252C+London.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tower Bridge, London</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US">Chester
– raspberries & races<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim4NTmfeNXFuYyBC2Z_sKAwwaKr8stiPJX0rHoryVd1OCS_x_6pZ4OfBpgtRbj62R5AR5Xog2x2ZuStbqoZQQfoqnuWp-YZnRh5Cw6M9bjxzV9bv3MV5uUmuCmoLEC4cMOMCj_R-IsVCvd/s1600/Full+English+breakfast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim4NTmfeNXFuYyBC2Z_sKAwwaKr8stiPJX0rHoryVd1OCS_x_6pZ4OfBpgtRbj62R5AR5Xog2x2ZuStbqoZQQfoqnuWp-YZnRh5Cw6M9bjxzV9bv3MV5uUmuCmoLEC4cMOMCj_R-IsVCvd/s320/Full+English+breakfast.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Full English breakfast</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My first experience of England was right
out of the little handbook of stereotypes. Yoghurt and raspberries went down the
hatch before fancy fasteners of feathers and ribbons were strapped on and heels
clicked towards the race track in Chester, a town 270 kms north of London. We
smiled, shook hands and sipped on beer, huddled under colourful umbrellas in
the Dee Stand. 'There they come!' ...and there they went, horses thundering
down the track, out of sight in barely a flash and lost in the overwhelming
drama of the races.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It's a long drawn tradition that is more of
a social event than a sport, women trying to outbest each other in surviving
the longest with the least cover in 10 degrees C and everyone enjoying multiple
tastings of the local brew. And yes, there’s betting. Generally anyone who wins
buys the rest a beer, so in the end, everyone wins!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 宋体; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;">Chester,
though a small town, is quite popular on race day. The main thoroughfare is alive
with all kinds of shops, and buskers keep the central square bright and spirited.
There are ruins of an old wall dating back to Roman times in 70AD designed to
keep out invaders. The circuit around the city was completed in medieval times
and forms a walkway peppered with interesting historical sites.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 宋体; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US">Wales
– mountains & meadows<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Chester beautifully complements the quiet,
village life of Betws-y-Coed in Wales. Here, in the west of the United Kingdom,
the resolutely tongue twisting words feel out of place in the simplicity of
life. Satisfying full English breakfasts (complete with black pudding and
bangers), steaming pots of tea, and crisp morning air are ideal energy boosters
before a long trek along the River Llugwy and the Gwydyr Forest without a soul
in sight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuivTG5UD5rFfVDkdpo0ugLLany7izAsnHPM_qqal5mHGCRle7NaDXcLz4DC94JHZfu-vnERBibiqr3lGNvEn4oyj6ClQ0PaeRgENAiUDqT9ouLcpJlMdAMMqd0BHQwejy3Ga49uD0L3w_/s1600/House+made+with+Slate%252C+Betws+y+Coed%252C+Wales.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuivTG5UD5rFfVDkdpo0ugLLany7izAsnHPM_qqal5mHGCRle7NaDXcLz4DC94JHZfu-vnERBibiqr3lGNvEn4oyj6ClQ0PaeRgENAiUDqT9ouLcpJlMdAMMqd0BHQwejy3Ga49uD0L3w_/s320/House+made+with+Slate%252C+Betws+y+Coed%252C+Wales.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">House made with slate in Betws-y-Coed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Ardent hikers with a good sense of
direction take a short bus ride to the nearby village of Llanberis at the foot
of Mount Snowdon to climb the tallest peak in Wales. On cloudy days, it’s hard
to see the path, so greenhorns – like me – opt for the train ride instead.
There’s the National Slate Museum offering glimpses into the mining and
production of Britain’s peculiar grey construction material.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 宋体; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A hot Cornish pasty and cup of jo keeps the
heart from standing still when you see a man jauntily ride down the street on
his horse wearing jeans and a t-shirt like it’s the height of summer in 1965.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHZp2Gos7NNmj32dlW5z_n1Y4F8r27EN6VZrwdFM1s9k8H6GIhURJ-0UbCKLU0uSc0tnh0_GL8pfU-Mp4s8mtyGocAgdIrfEzJwBPAkPQOcxuCzM-aLfd62kLY6m9UmdX_TgIQ8EVZr0a/s1600/View+from+the+Snowdon+Mountain+Railway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHZp2Gos7NNmj32dlW5z_n1Y4F8r27EN6VZrwdFM1s9k8H6GIhURJ-0UbCKLU0uSc0tnh0_GL8pfU-Mp4s8mtyGocAgdIrfEzJwBPAkPQOcxuCzM-aLfd62kLY6m9UmdX_TgIQ8EVZr0a/s320/View+from+the+Snowdon+Mountain+Railway.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mount Snowdon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US">Liverpool
– Beatles & Beer-battered fish</span></b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYUrxYjP3lq4MkC5AoMKGg-unSv2OuUooJeXixIYK2gfgRpv32IpD4wc6_dylnxc_zhZibKKtdADj_OLG8cBxP-tia0joNq_XEFv9gITXQhBogMDn5F5WaDOQT9pzF2e1qsLf383y5sfg/s1600/Fish+and+chips.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYUrxYjP3lq4MkC5AoMKGg-unSv2OuUooJeXixIYK2gfgRpv32IpD4wc6_dylnxc_zhZibKKtdADj_OLG8cBxP-tia0joNq_XEFv9gITXQhBogMDn5F5WaDOQT9pzF2e1qsLf383y5sfg/s320/Fish+and+chips.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fish and chips</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Liverpool is starkly different. It resounds
with modernisation and the whipping noise of the wind as you take the ferry
across the River Mersey. You’re already singing ‘Penny Lane’ as you step off
the dock and head straight for the Beatles museum. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Located at Albert Dock and Pier Head, the
Beatles Story takes fans on a journey through the lives, times, culture and
music of the Fab Four. With its replicas of famous pubs from the Beatles’ era,
videos of fan hysteria, memorabilia, and recorded audio conversations of people
closely connected with one of the most famous bands in music history, the museum
– and its Fab 4D family entertainment video – brings the beat group to life for
hardcore fans and regular tourists. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 宋体; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;">A
greasy meal washed down with beer is ideal to warm you up against the chilly
wind, but I will sadly admit that my first meal of fish and chips in England
will be my last. Served traditionally in newsprint, this beer battered chunk of
haddock or cod served with an enormous pile of thick chips and boiled peas was
a long-standing stock meal among the masses. That is, until chicken tikka
masala took over! As a Goan, it was glaringly evident that the meal would have
had a more satisfying effect had it been one of our tastier local morsels, even
bereft of any condiments. The chips, however, were delicious.</span><div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbRPcItpOgGC4fWRqUpm7gEowktVmtX0nB7N-IbDOjY9Yts2wt_dVPOTlNuxFo3Ijt0dIdTYtDhfzwesRP0ObSNDL52hS6AiqtU9qM5-NdiASI7u5vAkZbSKDMs59Q_Sj5D2BoWIM2Oe-X/s1600/IMG_20150513_153935.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbRPcItpOgGC4fWRqUpm7gEowktVmtX0nB7N-IbDOjY9Yts2wt_dVPOTlNuxFo3Ijt0dIdTYtDhfzwesRP0ObSNDL52hS6AiqtU9qM5-NdiASI7u5vAkZbSKDMs59Q_Sj5D2BoWIM2Oe-X/s320/IMG_20150513_153935.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diaries at Portobello Market</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US">London
– mementos & memories<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Further south in London, a walk down the
Portobello Road Market in Notting Hill is an adventure in shopping. Everything
from cheap clothes to vintage fashion, farmers’ produce and gourmet cupcakes, overpriced
curios and deliriously beautiful antiques lie wedged one among the other,
eagerly waiting to be hunted out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">To be blessed with bright blue skies with
about 16 hours of sunshine in England on an eight-day vacation is nothing short
of a miracle. It’s only natural then to take a walk through London’s giant
breaths of fresh air. All through Hyde Park – past Kensington Palace where the
young royal couple and their two babies live – you discover how much wonderful
weather means to the ordinary Brit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0yFCdoHs-FiJBpAKsmMtTZ3I_VkZRmQhRTJXPlDKSNyl4qUgCaZbEztsexQOOfa9Ns7Jk6CqS7pCOSB12X9rCVCQvCdMtp3BjUe0V_ws9ufKs3kPsCyiYvWrbJdJQ7EtSADd4ppcB-I7l/s1600/Big+Ben%252C+London.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0yFCdoHs-FiJBpAKsmMtTZ3I_VkZRmQhRTJXPlDKSNyl4qUgCaZbEztsexQOOfa9Ns7Jk6CqS7pCOSB12X9rCVCQvCdMtp3BjUe0V_ws9ufKs3kPsCyiYvWrbJdJQ7EtSADd4ppcB-I7l/s320/Big+Ben%252C+London.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Ben</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Families and friends make it a picnic,
there are games played, dogs walked and even horses trotted. Ducks and swans
greedily snap up nibbles put down by warm-hearted tourists. Buckingham Palace
and The Mall suddenly emerge on the other side, stately and prim. If you’re
lucky, as I was, the Queen might zip by in her Land Rover as she arrives from
Windsor Palace to Buckingham right before the changing of the guard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Soon Westminster Abbey and Big Ben loom
into view, and further down across the bridge, you see the overpriced but
beautiful London Eye. Just there, we stopped for a drink of Pimm’s at the
Udderbelly Festival, marked by a giant upside down purple cow and dozens upon
dozens of picnic tables filled with sunshine and summer drink lovers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We passed Shawn the Sheep statues, some of
the 100 painted, each by a different artist to be auctioned at the end of
summer. Ahead rose the 200 foot tall Tower Bridge, one of England’s most iconic
symbols and an engineering marvel during its construction in the late 1800s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiy4xlVaBzngr2EoHl8hpiO5v8UcylXqKtvAocwWUnNDj2RZ_xNVx7EIojdFhDg38SzY4uDrivc1di51z1MKLNv1gjptoen8WYnkGnaTCdCwwkBuFMjZnwmUvpx5N5WcFTkpEwZIh21G73/s1600/Statues+of+Shawn+the+Sheep+from+Wallace+%2526+Gromit+are+painted+and+auctioned+for+charity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiy4xlVaBzngr2EoHl8hpiO5v8UcylXqKtvAocwWUnNDj2RZ_xNVx7EIojdFhDg38SzY4uDrivc1di51z1MKLNv1gjptoen8WYnkGnaTCdCwwkBuFMjZnwmUvpx5N5WcFTkpEwZIh21G73/s320/Statues+of+Shawn+the+Sheep+from+Wallace+%2526+Gromit+are+painted+and+auctioned+for+charity.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shawn the Sheep statue for charity</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Other important structures include The
Shard skyscraper, the Millennium Bridge known as the ‘Wobbly Bridge’ before its
modifications, St Katharine Docks, the Tower of London, Shakespeare’s Globe
Museum and the new Crossrail Roof Garden at Canary Wharf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Rain might have marred the following day,
but didn’t deter a visit to the Emirates Stadium in Holloway with a chance
glimpse of Arsenal legend Charlie George, and a nip to the pub at Covent Garden
to warm up and say cheers to a lovely time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">That night, as the bus rumbled towards the
white cliffs of Dover to cross the English Channel towards France, I thought
about all that had transpired over the past eight days. The UK was so much more
than I imagined it would be, and if you played it right, not nearly as
expensive at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 宋体; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-29812954671482336562015-02-25T03:23:00.001-08:002015-02-25T03:23:50.223-08:00Hidden Gems of Goa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background: white; line-height: 16.85pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Just ‘cuz you haven’t HEARD of something doesn’t mean it aint
AMAZING!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 16.85pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 7.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The season is beginning to wind down. You’ve
experienced all the necessary evils, visited all the regular haunts,
been there and done and are thinking, is that all there is? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 16.85pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 7.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Happily, the answer to that question is a resounding, NO!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 16.85pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 7.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">How ‘bout going off-road, down a barely lit trail
and discovering things – right here at home – that have been staring
you in the face but you haven’t quite noticed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4979991912842px; margin-bottom: 10px; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 16.85pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 7.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">There is so much more to Goa than the beaches, restaurants
and nightclubs that everyone and their mother flock to. These are
experiences, places and services we need to hold dear, to encourage
without spoiling. Here’s just a few of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b>Uncovering
history at Chikhali Caves<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
Several years ago, four underground caves were
discovered that proved the existence of prehistoric settlement in Goa. Pot
shards, found at the caves in Mormugao taluka, prove that it is one of the oldest
known sites of human habitation in the state. It is possible that these were
once used as burial chambers, and as such can be considered holy in the eyes of
history lovers. For a place that cries itself hoarse about eras that began with
the arrival of Vasco da Gama, Goa certainly offers awe-inspiring eye-openers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b>Luxury
bazaar at Le Souk by Amarya<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
The Saturday Night Market is one of Goa’s big
draws, being more of a fun experience than a shopping excursion. When the
pockets are deeper and the shopaholic soul restless, a trip to <a href="http://amaryagroup.com/le-souk-amarya/index.html">Le Souk by Amarya</a>
in Ashvem might be a good idea. It’s a luxury bazaar that has all the aura of
the fashion world cascading out of Middle Eastern-inspired décor. It includes
Indo-French collections at The Shop by Nana Ki, contemporary home textiles and
accessories at The Bohemian Project, apparel and home furnishings at Shades of
India, whimsical Bollywood-inspired bags at Paris Goa, unique handcrafted
luggage at Nappa Dori, fine jewellery at Van Andel & Peace, beauty and skin
care offerings at Bottega di LungaVita, men’s wear at Jonas G, specialty
haircuts by Guy Staumont at Le Studio Haircut and products by Royal Enfield and
Leela Art Palace. There’s also Le Café for nibbles and juices, La Crêperie for delicious
pancakes and Nespresso Bar for a caffeine fix.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b>Deluxe detox
at The Beach House<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
This might be a rather indulgent way to begin Lent
– or wind down the season of decadence – but it’s a good option to get all the
holiday season toxins out of your body with minimal self-motivation. The
retreat in Sernabatim, south Goa, is hidden away from the temptations of city
life, and provides a sojourn of rest and relaxation. A number of treatments are
available, with clients starting off on a screening process that assesses their
physical, psychological and physiological systems which goes into developing a
tailor-made programme for the length of their stay. <a href="http://www.thebeachhousegoa.com/">The Beach House</a> also mentors guests
at the resort and after they return home to help maintain their new, healthy
lifestyle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b>Georgian
artisanal cheese by Maia<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
Cheese platters are the ultimate classics at sunset
events, where you want a bit of formality but couldn’t bother with rustling up
a spread for guests at dinner. One can never have enough cheese but it isn’t
always Camembert or Roquefort that steals the show. Thanks to the tourist
influx, there’s a whole smörgåsbord of cheeses available in Goa. But way down
south, in the sleepy breezy village of Palolem, Maia Donadze brings traditional
Georgian cheese to Goa, made from Indian milk but using techniques learnt back in
the Eastern European country she calls home. <a href="http://maiacheese.in/">Maia
Cheese</a> offers a variety of products, including feta, cream cheese, quark, buffalo
mozzarella, smoked mozzarella, blue and ‘bree’, and also does cheese tables at
weddings and other occasions. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b>Eco e-waste
with Group TenPlus<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
It’s the age of electronics and short attention
spans. Combine the two and you have new gadgets making themselves at home in
cars, rooms and pockets. What happens then to all the waste? While some of it
can be palmed off via online classifieds portals such as Quickr and Olx, much of
it needs to be binned. <a href="http://www.grouptenplus.com/index.html">Group
TenPlus</a> in Saligao provides complete e-waste solutions from collection to
disposal in Goa that is all recycled and kept out of landfills. The company
does not put any of the electronics up for resale, and ensures that all
equipment that could contain sensitive data – such as mobile phones and
computers – is shredded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b>Scrumptious
Saraswat food at Suwadik<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
Even as a resident of the state, eating Goan food
in a restaurant is most often restricted to fish curry rice, crumb fried fish
and a host of Indo-Portuguese dishes. Places that serve satisfying
pre-Portuguese inspired food is generally restricted to the ‘aunty’ in the
two-bench chai shop who will churn out <i>thali</i>
after <i>thali</i> of delicious lunch. In
Panjim, Chef Keshav Nadkarni’s Suwadik restaurant serves the quintessential Saraswat
Hindu cuisine in an environment where you don’t have to roll up your sleeves,
swat off the flies or share your table with strangers. Accompanied by a Mario
Miranda-style painting, diners relish <i>tisryanche
dangar</i> (clam cutlets), fish <i>thalis</i>,
mackerel pickle, <i>bharlele</i> <i>bangde</i> (stuffed mackerel), the ever
popular <i>sungtache lonche</i> (prawn
pickle), <i>bangdyachi uddhemethi</i>
(mackerel curry) and sweets including <i>kharvas</i>
(made from cow’s colostrum milk), <i>tavsali</i>
(Goan cucumber cake) with vanilla ice cream and <i>nachinyachem satv</i> (red millet pudding).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b>Luxury
yachting on board Lady M<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
Lay off the boring five-star dinners and turn it up
several notches. Goa’s quiet backwaters, bordered by lush mangroves and teeming
ecosystem are lying in wait. Captain Roberto Amaral, who owns Cancio’s guest
house in Aldona, offers guests and walk-in visitors the chance to soak in Goa’s
hinterland beauty on board his 42-foot yacht that he calls <a href="https://www.facebook.com/LadyMGoa">Lady M</a>. The catamaran and its
smaller speedboat cousin have been used in movies and advertisements and
provide stunning visuals of tranquil village life in Goa. Lady M has a spacious
forward deck for parties, a specially designed fly-bridge, ample aft deck
lounging area, and offers everything from sunset cruises to overnight trips
with food and beverages, and even a DJ! Want to make things extra special? Book
a full moon cruise.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b>On and Off
the Road <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
Goa’s hinterland roads have long been the haunt of
riding and driving enthusiasts. The open tarmac, rich hues of vegetables
growing in open fields, the rush of wind – and not to mention the hearty aroma
of roadside snacks – make the state an easy, yet enjoyable ride. Since 1999, <a href="http://www.blazingtrailstours.com/">Blazing Trails Tours</a> has been
riding standard Royal Enfield Bullets across the length and breadth of the
country. The group of carefree souls, who once had an office in Saligao, offers
a number of tours in India and South Africa. If they’re out on tour, there are
other options. Based in Assagao, Peter Paulo Dos Santos and his friends
established the <a href="http://www.classic-bike-india.com/">Classic Bike
Adventure</a> project with a fleet of more than 35 Enfield Bullets that offers over
a dozen rides as well as custom tours. And if you feel like something dirtier,
get your gear on and head down hundreds of kilometres of deserted forest tracks
with John Pollard at his <a href="http://www.farmoffthegrid.com/off-the-grid.html">Off The Grid</a>
homestay in the Western Ghats.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b>Pimp Your
Ride at Speed Accessories<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
Sometimes you don’t want a regular ride, and with
the vehicles market virtually exploding in Goa, it’s almost certain you will be
lost among the stampeding herd. To stand out a little without looking cheap,
head to Speed Accessories in Caranzalem, Panjim, where enthusiast Kenneth
Fernandes owns an exclusive little outfit that furnishes your ride with some of
that swagger you always wanted. Opened in 2006, Speed Accessories does
everything from chic bumpers, 3D floor mats and fancy new alloys to projector
headlights, LED work and custom car wraps. Based on the client’s budget,
Fernandes imports accessories from Singapore, Thailand, the UK, Germany or
Italy. He accepts new clients only by appointment and never takes on more than
two cars a day, ensuring quick, quality work you are bound to love. So sweeten
your new car or doll up old Betsy; it pays to be different. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<b>Village life
at Olaulim Backyards<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
They have never advertised, and probably will never
need to. This is the ideal that one usually holds standards against. It is
quiet, eco-friendly, warm and very, very local. The homestay in Olaulim,
Pomburpa, allows guests to soak in the kind of environment our forefathers grew
up in, with a few modern flourishes such as an azure blue swimming pool,
comfortable beds and convenient WCs. With just two cottages and a tree house to
choose from, there’s never a crowd and one is rest assured that the environment
is as taken care of as you are. From water and electricity conservation and
composting, to recycling and natural furnishing, Savio and Pirrko at <a href="http://www.olaulimgoa.com/index.php">Olaulim Backyards</a> certainly put
their back into it. Locally sourced fresh seafood and vegetables are cooked on
a traditional wood-fire and seasonal fruit are always on the table.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-64758859287935310732014-11-20T21:25:00.000-08:002014-11-23T21:26:49.812-08:008 ways to enjoy Goa without the sea and sand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Go ahead, defy your overseas
friends in their adamant insistence that having fun in Goa only involves drunken
dancing in a club and a gorgeous tan from saltwater swimming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It’s been said time and again
that Goa is much more than just the beach. But most of these articles tend to
be published during the monsoons when a day at the beach is pretty much a wet
blanket. But it doesn’t always have to be so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Here’s a chance to get away from
the crowd-choked areas that call all and sundry during ‘season time’ and still
have photographs that will make your social media followers go green.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<b>Karting:</b> Feel a bit of the adrenaline
rush and zip around a track where you can’t endanger the general public. You
don’t need to be a speed junkie to enjoy karting; a little competitive spirit
will do just fine. Children and adolescents find racing around bends bordered
by rubber tires quite exciting, so it’s also possible for parents to keep them
busy while they catch up on local gossip. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
Race around the
karting tracks in <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Goakarting?rf=227721447292813">Arpora</a> or <a href="http://www.goatourism.gov.in/entertainment/gokarting">Nuvem</a>. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
(<a href="http://www.thegoavilla.com/goa/sport/goa-karting.html">http://www.thegoavilla.com/goa/sport/goa-karting.html</a>)
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<b>Boating at Mayem Lake:</b> Remember those
school trips as a child? Or perhaps even a family trip where you were plonked
into a pedal boat and forced to pose with the sun in your eyes? It doesn’t have
to be this traumatic. Mayem Lake has its own charm with its placid water, lush
greenery all around and a large shady park to finish some reading in. Goa
Tourism runs the Mayem Lake Resort with self-contained cottages should you feel
like soaking in the vicinity. In the nearby Kumbhar <i>vaddo</i>, artisan families make Ganesh idols out of terracotta – a
change from the regular clay idols.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
Try boating
options at the <a href="http://www.championsyachtclub.com/mayem-lake.php?gclid=Cj0KEQiA-aujBRDqj772vpGfgooBEiQAzWAZUoTno9KLRiBJ2pdF89niI6TqMlJRE7ErMm39BeCJDooaAjcY8P8HAQ">Champions
Yacht Club</a>, or stay at the <a href="http://goa-tourism.com/book-details.php?id=12">Mayem Lake Resort</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<b>Live in a Portuguese mansion:</b> Pretend
you lived in a bygone era without the stiff frills of aristocratic society.
There are a number of old Portuguese mansions across Goa that offer a trip back
in time. Some built as far back as the 17<sup>th</sup> century, they are filled
with antiques, paintings and curios that each tell a story; and rooms that
whisper rumours about the people who lived there over the ages.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify;">
Both <a href="http://siolimhouse.com/">Siolim House</a> and <a href="http://casaboutiquehotels.com/CasaBritona/index.html">Casa Britona</a>
were originally built more than 300 years ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<b>Go off the grid:</b> Yes, literally. Leave
everything behind and live without a fridge, fan or easily accessible shops. Is
the city soul in you already scared? Don’t be. Tucked away in the Western Ghats
is a farm that indulges in what it likes to call ‘micro tourism’ with simple
eco-friendly solutions, lots of outdoor activities including an overnight trek
in the wilderness and a fusion of multi-cultural cuisine out in the wild.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sounds too good
to be true, but <a href="http://www.farmoffthegrid.com/off-the-grid.html">Off
The Grid</a> certainly delivers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Pedal your way around Goa:</b> Before the
festive spirit leads to all sorts of lazy indulgent malaises, repair that
forlorn bicycle and pedal into the hinterland. Stay away from the touristy
areas where over-enthusiastic bus drivers can turn your legs to jelly. Try the
stretch from Chandor to Quepem and its surrounding areas where you can stop and
admire the golden fields.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Stop at the <a href="http://www.palaciododeao.com/index.htm">Palácio do Deão</a> in Quepem to
admire an ancient legacy of architecture, art and décor, and perhaps grab a
bite to eat. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Kayak down a river:</b> Stretch those arms
and get yourself up a creek. With a paddle though. Goa has more beautiful
rivers than you’ve cared to notice. Exchange loud-mouthed tourists, pesky sand
bugs and the stench of jet ski fuel for a light kayak and oars, thick foliage
bent double over the river banks, and perhaps a mocking monkey or two.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.goakayaking.com/">Goa Kayaking</a> has a number of options.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Stuff it:</b> Eat more spoonfuls of
indulgent food than your brain can comprehend. When your workout programmes
reward you with a cheat day, an all-you-can-eat buffet is what you ought to
gift yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Do justice to
that famous appetite of yours at <a href="http://www.coffeeheavengoa.com/pages/home">Coffee Heaven</a> or <a href="https://www.facebook.com/houseoflloyds">House of Lloyds</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Make some high-flying pals:</b> These will come
without the pretentious behaviour affiliated with the human sort. Grab a pair
of binoculars and head into thickly wooded areas. You’ll get a lesson in
silence (switch those phones off and stop chattering), patience and
observation. There’s a vast range of species out there so you might want to lug
along a copy of ‘The Book of Indian Birds’ by Dr Salim Ali, the 13<sup>th</sup>
edition of which has illustrations by Goa’s own Carl D’Silva.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Get a personalised
introduction to Goa’s avian treasures with <a href="http://rahulalvares.com/bird-watching-wildlife-goa/">Rahul Alvares</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Don’t overthink it; simply get
that calendar out and cross out dates. Friends and family will thank you for a
refreshing change to the fun times they’re used to. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">This article was first published in <a href="http://www.goastreets.com/8-ways-enjoy-goa-without-sea-sands/" target="_blank">Goa Streets</a> on November 21, 2014.</span></div>
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Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-2873264280426470142014-10-27T00:46:00.002-07:002014-10-27T00:47:27.678-07:00Spice up the season in Goa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4979991912842px; text-align: justify;">The Fun, The Unusual, The Wild and The Serene</span><br />
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If you told your buddies that you weren’t really looking forward to ‘the scene this season’ and they gave you a ‘what’s-come-over-you’ look, know that you haven’t flipped a lid. Sometimes you need to change things a bit, leave the haze of parties and beach trips behind and do things a little differently. Instead of hopping from one bar to the next, one dinner plate to subsequent serving for lunch, take a shot at some fun, unusual things to do this coming season.</div>
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<strong>Crash a wedding</strong></div>
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This is the season of weddings after all. You’ve probably been to one before, but there’s something so exciting about doing things you’re not meant to. Don’t go with your entire gang of drunken buddies and avoid dressing like you want to kill the fashion sense of the season. But it’s great to make random conversation with an interesting set of people, or ask the pretty girl or cute guy across the lawns for a dance. And then disappear into the night like Cinderella. Not before wishing the happy couple of course!</div>
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<strong>View the relics of St Francis Xavier</strong></div>
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This happens only once in 10 years, so if your memory of last time’s visit is fuzzy or if you’ve never been to it before, it’s about time you did. The Catholic saint’s body has been lying in state since it arrived in Goa in May 1542! Despite two burials after his death, St Francis Xavier’s body was found to be incorrupt until the end of the 17th century. It was in the 19th century that the current cycle of decennial expositions began. This year, it will be held between November 22 and January 04.<br />
Contact: 0832 2284710<br />
Website: <a href="http://sfxexposition2014.com/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;">sfxexposition2014.com</a></div>
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<strong>Learn how to water ski</strong></div>
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We’ve all seen the parasailors, the jet skiers and the banana boat riders, and we’ve lost our twinge of jealousy having done it ourselves. Now it’s time to get a little more adventurous and ski on water. Get in touch with any one of the numerous water sports companies along the coast and feel the adrenaline rush as a cable pulls you along on skis behind a speeding boat.<br />
Website: <a href="http://www.atlantiswatersports.com/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;">www.atlantiswatersports.com</a></div>
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<strong style="line-height: 22.4979991912842px;">Witness a Combat Cage Fight</strong><br />
<span style="line-height: 22.4979991912842px;">In late November, Goa will see a new, different kind of entertainment. Combining a variety of martial arts, the Combat Cage Fight at Tito’s Courtyard promises to showcase the complexity and beauty of self-defence skills surrounded by the vibe of Goa’s nightlife that we know and love. With six bouts, one including women fighters, this unusual event is set to leave a mark this season.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 22.4979991912842px;">Tito’s Courtyard – 0832 2275028, 2276154, +91 9822765002.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 22.4979991912842px;">Saunta Vaddo, Tito’s Lane, Calangute Road, Baga. Website:</span><a href="http://%20www.titos.in/" style="color: #0088cc; line-height: 22.4979991912842px; text-decoration: none;"> www.titos.in</a></div>
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<strong>Volunteer at an old age home, orphanage or kennel </strong></div>
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When you think of it, there’s a lot for you to be grateful about. Sometimes we need to share that with those who haven’t got very much. Instead of wasting those semester breaks in the company of your PlayStation or exhausting your excess compulsory leaves expanding in front of the television, leave a little room for some volunteering. Lend a listening ear at an old age home, play some music for children at an orphanage or hand out some much awaited tummy rubs at your nearest pound.</div>
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<strong>Cheer on FC Goa at an ISL match </strong></div>
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Yes, this is not the Premier League and yes, our standard of football has yards to go, but haters will be haters and we’ve got to start somewhere. The Indian Super League has proved an excellent way for domestic football to get going. So grab your pom poms, banners and jerseys and head to the Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium in Fatorda to watch veteran international players show off their skills right here at home.<br />
Tickets at <a href="http://www.bookmyshow.com/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;">www.bookmyshow.com</a></div>
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<strong>Tour crib county</strong></div>
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Where else in India can you take a leisurely walk or drive in your pyjamas and see nativity scenes that sometimes reflect completely disconnected themes? Across Goa, Christmas is celebrated with much revelry, but it’s the competition of the cribs in south Goa that can make your celebrations a little different. From Christmas trees made of straws depicting concern for the environment to banners with social messages, and some very traditional ones, the creativity never ends.</div>
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<strong>Make your own guitar</strong></div>
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Thought you were cool when you made your own Hallowe’en costume? Think cooler when you make your own musical instrument. Join Chris Horton at Jungle Guitars in Baga, where he shows you how to build classical or steel string guitars from scratch over 15 days. With more than 20 years of experience, he will take you through its construction, from choosing the wood to varnishing. It might be a bit heavy on the pocket, but how many people do you know can boast of such an achievement?<br />
Contact Chris Horton. +91 9823565117,+91 8308162326.<br />
Website: <a href="http://www.jungleguitars.com/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;">www.jungleguitars.com</a></div>
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<strong>Whip up a storm with culinary classes</strong></div>
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After the success of Masterchef Australia, pretty much everyone thinks they can throw a few ingredients into a pan and receive gushing compliments. Learn how to do things the right way with some classes in your favourite style of cuisine. With the season of giving coming up, you can ready yourself to lay out the perfect spread for family and friends.<br />
Website: <a href="http://www.cookingclassesgoa.com%2C/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;">www.cookingclassesgoa.com,</a><br />
<a href="http://www.injuco.org/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;">www.ritasgourmetgoa.com</a></div>
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<strong>Discover the Story of Light</strong></div>
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Here’s an artsy version of all the incomprehensible physics quips from the Big Bang Theory. The Story of Light Festival from January 14-18, 2015, will throw cross-disciplinary scientists, artists and philosophers together to translate quantum physics and the universe into exhibits, workshops and installations around a planned pedestrian route in Panjim.<br />
Website:<a href="http://www.injuco.org/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;">www.thestoryoflight.org</a><br />
<strong>Give your insides a makeover</strong></div>
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Did you ever think that maybe your internal system – that effectively keeps you alive – might need a little overhauling during party season? For all the tightrope walks you put it through, hopping from one party to the next, it needs a bit of rest and relaxation. Head to a detox centre, and we’re not talking about illegal substances here. Most offer detoxification programmes focusing on rejuvenation, cleansing and stress reduction based on the ancient Indian science of ayurveda. It might be a bit rigorous, but believe me, your body will thank you for it.</div>
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<strong>Juggle me joy</strong></div>
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If everything goes according to plan as it has been over the last six years, juggling convention InJuCo might return to Goa in January next year. If you’re expecting clowns throwing striped balls or oranges in the air, you’re highly mistaken. Here, a variety of performance artists showcase everything from the popular trapeze, acrobatics and hoola hoop to lesser known but equally mindnumbing arts such as poi, kalari payattu and acro-balance. The non-profit event features artists, some with strange names such as funny man Mr Banana and escape artist Monsieur Gusto, from all over the world.<br />
Website: <a href="http://www.injuco.org/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;">www.injuco.org</a></div>
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<strong>Walk back in time</strong></div>
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You could uncover a lost world in Panjim just by looking a little closer to the signs. If you nodded off in class while the History teacher droned on, you’re guaranteed to be snapped wide awake by this activity. Take a walk with the Goa Heritage Action Group, which organises tours in the state’s capital city and points out bits of the past you would never have seen otherwise. You’re sure to have several ‘aha’ moments that reconnect with a dusty old schoolbook.<br />
Tel: +91-832-245-9109<br />
Website:<a href="http://%20www.%20goaheritage.in/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;"> www. goaheritage.in</a><br />
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<strong>Gardening glory</strong></div>
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Stop complaining about the price of vegetables in the market and grow some of your own. It’s the perfect run up to making your New Year’s resolutions by getting in the groove and then committing to it long-term. You’ll get a bit of a workout in – bending over, raking, digging – and you’ll be eating fresh, organic veggies without those disease inducing pesticides. Green Essentials’ website even provides a calendar to help you schedule your gardening tasks.</div>
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Tel. 99606-43245/0832-2443124<br />
Email: <a href="http://info@greenessentials.in/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;">info@greenessentials.in</a><br />
Website:<a href="http://%20www.greenessentials.in/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;"> www.greenessentials.in</a></div>
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<strong>Loosen your tongue</strong></div>
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No, don’t hit the bottle. Sign up for a language course and learn how to say your favourite phrases a different way. There are many foreign language institutes in Goa, but there are also many that teach Indian languages. With travel a favourite activity among the middle class these days, learning a new language will help you make your way to the core of the destinations you’ve always wanted to see and the cultures that have never stopped intriguing you.</div>
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Whatever it is, choose to do something that’s not run-of-the-mill, whatever age you’re at. You owe it yourself to be able to look back at experiences you can remember and learn from, not just (although equally fun!) days and nights of partying that turn into one long blur.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">First published in <a href="http://www.goastreets.com/fun-unusual-wild-serene/" target="_blank">Goa Streets</a> on October 25, 2014</span></div>
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Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-61268404464407708642014-10-15T03:16:00.002-07:002014-10-15T03:17:35.143-07:00Young, Smart & Committed to Changing The World<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4979991912842px; text-align: justify;">The Goa hub of the international World Economic Forum’s Global Shapers initiative is addressing global issues at the local level</b></h3>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4979991912842px; text-align: justify;">Social media is a lot of things, chief among them being a superb out for venting. We’re always expressing our happiness, sadness, rage or disgust on the latest trending topic. But when it comes to actually getting down to doing something about it, people often pass the buck. It’s either out of their control or someone else’s job.</span><br />
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Not these youngsters. This group of 14 Goans has joined the World Economic Forum’s (WEF) international initiative to improve the state of the world, one project at a time. Around the world, thousands of Global Shapers are making a difference, from providing furniture and household items for displaced people in Gaza to encouraging young Costa Ricans to vote.</div>
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“These are young people exceptional in their potential, their achievements and their drive to make a contribution to their communities for building a more peaceful and inclusive world,” says Tallulah D’Silva, the curator of Global Shapers Community Panjim Hub.</div>
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With 50 per cent of the world’s population under 27 years of age and a majority in urban areas, the World Economic Forum began to look at engaging young people in the solutions to global challenges. The Swiss non-profit started this global network of people between the ages of 20 and 30 in 2011 and by June this year, more than 344 Global Shaper Hubs had been set up.</div>
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In Goa, the hub was formed five months ago after D’Silva received a call from the WEF. She then recruited youngsters she knew had the passion and drive to make a difference here.</div>
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“The Panjim Hub is involved in a number of different projects at the moment,” says social worker and photographer Fabian Franco, continuing, “One of the projects is promoting grey water recycling systems using plants and biogas systems in institutions.”</div>
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This is their G2H2O project in which they opt for plants over a conventional sewage treatment system to convert waste to clean water. Another similar project is their Trash2Gas initiative in which they hope to use wet waste to generate biogas that can be used to run a community kitchen, or light public spaces.</div>
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In Karmali, the group has joined hands with the Mitsuko Trust and the local panchayat to come up with a low-cost eco-friendly toilet to improve sanitation. The community in Old Goa is currently grappling with increasing population density, lack of water and sanitation facilities, which pollute water bodies and put the nearby Karmali Lake bird population at risk.</div>
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To combat this, the Hub’s Ecoloo Project is looking at eco-friendly, cost-effective individual and community sanitation modules with grey water recycling, minimal water usage, built with long-lasting materials, with plants grown in the root zone that can be used as food.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_9oExIaF9vRLxz_VxZaBHWfbRj_1sykNbkHvZWd8GmaGYzL64H0LDOdsiKavDtbbrqfy0wiKBjnPCDqygnPIuN0PBF9opCBYnIKANu8_HRNuXMwxRbVx-8hjwqj9TgmJdqSlPRHmcTjrE/s1600/P8020494.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_9oExIaF9vRLxz_VxZaBHWfbRj_1sykNbkHvZWd8GmaGYzL64H0LDOdsiKavDtbbrqfy0wiKBjnPCDqygnPIuN0PBF9opCBYnIKANu8_HRNuXMwxRbVx-8hjwqj9TgmJdqSlPRHmcTjrE/s1600/P8020494.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Recently, Viola Rodrigues, Mrinmayee Thakur and Chenelle Rodrigues assisted D’Silva with a series of nature trails to help students from city schools connect with their environment. “The objectives of the trails are to promote outdoor learning, understand local biodiversity, identify and document local flora and fauna, and connect to natural systems and understand the role they play,” the Shapers explain.</div>
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They’ve conducted two trails for students of Our Lady of The Rosary High School – one in Dona Paula and the other in Bambolim – and a third for the Little Penguins School in Old Goa.</div>
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The Hub will soon launch a Career Speak initiative for young school and college students to encourage them to choose careers that go beyond the typical ‘first choices’ of engineering and medicine. And this is just the start. D’Silva elaborates, “We are currently involved in preparing a tree policy for the city and are documenting and mapping tree avenues and different species. There are also plans to introduce urban farms in the city as a collaborative effort with Green Essentials and the Corporation of the City of Panjim.”</div>
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Goa’s Shapers come from across professions and spheres of interest – from professor Varad Sabnis, student of Environmental Studies Gabriella D’Cruz and research associate Atul Borker to journalist Anwesha Singbal, psychologist Krystal Cardozo, engineer Nitish Wagle, teacher Chandrakant Shinde, and the youngest Tarika Khan.</div>
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Being a part of the Hub is a way for them to make a change in society while also exposing themselves to the ideas and voices of youngsters from around the world. Entrepreneur Raghuvir Mahale is looking forward to using information technology to make life easier and improve daily life. “I also want to get exposed to a lot of knowledge from around the world, and learn new things that can be implemented in Goa,” he says.</div>
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The group meets every month, either at a small café or at the curator’s office, discussing ideas and making plans over hot <i>chai</i> and <i>bhaji</i>. They often work on implementing their projects on their own time after office hours, and gain inspiration from the shapers around the world who are already well on their way to making a difference.</div>
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The global community lends its support through forums and offers opportunities to exchange best practices on relevant issues – from selecting Shapers to Hub governance, and sharing insights with WEF colleagues on regional issues and pressing world challenges.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4979991912842px; margin-bottom: 10px; text-align: justify;">
“I look at being part of the Global Shapers Community Panjim Hub as a way of helping each other with new projects, building a network not only in India but across the world and giving our community work international exposure,” says Franco.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4979991912842px; margin-bottom: 10px; text-align: justify;">
This motley group of youngsters believes in making the change they want to see, and the next time we think of complaining about something, we might want to take a leaf out of their books first.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4979991912842px; margin-bottom: 10px; text-align: justify;">
To learn more about Global Shapers, visit their website at <a href="http://www.globalshapers.org/" style="color: #0088cc; text-decoration: none;">www.globalshapers.org</a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; line-height: 22.4979991912842px; margin-bottom: 10px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">First published in <a href="http://www.goastreets.com/young-smart-committed/" target="_blank">Goa Streets</a> in August 2014</span></div>
</div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-85845497848038346602014-06-24T01:18:00.002-07:002014-10-15T03:17:51.280-07:00Singing in the rain for Sao Joao<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<strong>Lift your spirits with this celebration of life</strong><br />
<br />
According to Christian tradition, more than 2000 years ago, St John
the Baptist gave a little leap for joy in his mother’s womb when she
heard a greeting from Mary, who had just become pregnant with Jesus
Christ. His mother Elizabeth would scarce imagine that a
strange recreation of this event would become a major part of his
birthday celebrations in a tiny state on the western coast of India.<br />
Tourists might be mildly surprised to walk through villages across
Goa on June 24 to the sound of raucous singing and young men
jumping into wells. The Catholic feast of São João (or ‘St John’ in
Portuguese) is one of the most awaited celebrations of the
monsoon season. At no other event can one splash old aunties and uncles
with cold water from the well, run amok on the village roads in the
pouring rain singing famous Konkani songs and get away with it.<br />
Villages in north Goa put a little more vigour into the festivities
compared to those in the south. Across Anjuna, Assagao, Calangute,
Chapora and Siolim, preparations for local entertainment programmes get
underway at least a week to 10 days before the feast. What started as a
local celebration has now spiralled into organised chaos, with
nightclubs joining in the fun.<br />
Throughout the month of June, pre São João events send cash registers
ringing with one of the last big parties before Independence Day in
August.<br />
While some simply spruce up a regular party with the ‘São João’ – or
corrupted Spanish- Portuguese mix ‘San João’ – tag, others open up
their swimming pools and throw in some foam to get with the spirit of
the celebration. Whichever one you show up at, generally married
with suffixes like ‘bash’ or ‘shuffle’, you’re bound to have a good
time.<br />
<br />
But despite the high society revelry, the real festivities are the
ones you see in villages – where boys and men wear headgear called
‘copels’ made of fresh leaves and seasonal flowers, knock back a drink
or two, and distribute juicy fruit and traditional sweets to all who
visit. Carlton Carvalho recalled the celebrations being much the same as
they were when he was a child 20 years ago. “I used to go with the
entourage through Fatorda, all of them without shirts, wearing copels
woven at home. At each house they visited, they would jump in the well,
and the residents would give them a drink. It was fun watching them jump
into the well and then climb out of it.”<br />
Residents keep their wells at the ready, removing meshes or covers
and laying out a thick rope to help revellers out of the dank darkness.
Heritage lover Sanjeev V Sardessai suggests that many of these
traditions have very useful beginnings. “The custom of jumping into
wells would ensure that the people’s main sources of water remained
clean. No one would jump into a dirty well. Back in the day, it
was their way of protecting the resources,” he said.<br />
Not long after the prayer at the local cross or chapel, a motley
group of men, young and old, make the rounds of homes in the village,
playing local traditional instruments like the ghumot (an earthen vessel
with one of two openings covered with the skin of a monitor lizard) and
the kansallem (cymbals).<br />
To join in the fun, you can sing along to local Konkani songs, many
made popular by Goan singers over the years. Tradition dictates that
‘Viva San João’, a composition by Siolim tiatrist C Alvares, be sung
with much gusto as it invites revellers to have a drink as they
might not get any the next day.<br />
It appears many take the strain “Choll-re, pie-re, tum illo ghe-re.
Falean kain mevonam” pretty seriously. And all too often tragedy
strikes. Not a year goes by without at least one case of drowning or
near fatality. Emergency services, including ambulance teams, fire
brigades and the police, are generally on hand to avert
such situations, while priests sound warnings against excessive drinking
and misbehaviour. It’s hard to stay away from the fun though. Some
villages, such as Candolim and Loutolim, organise a boat parade
or ‘sangodd’ in which beautifully decorated boats are sailed down the
nearest river to the sound of a brass band and folk songs. Villagers
come out in support wearing vibrant costumes and chanting “Viva San
João, viva San João”.<br />
<br />
In Siolim, the celebrations are taken to new heights with the
Traditional Boat Festival. A custom followed over hundreds of years
involved residents of Chapora, Anjuna, Vagator and other nearby villages
sailing their canoes up the creek, garlanding the cross with a
whispered prayer and returning. It soon developed into a parade
of colourful floats, following which just over two decades ago, a
cultural committee got things a little more organised. “We host the
parade and give out prizes for the best decorated boat. Later in the
evening we hold an entertainment programme with cultural songs, tiatrs,
folk dances and even fireworks at the end of the show,” said Sylvester
Fernandes, president of the San João Traditional Boat
Festival Committee.<br />
Thousands of people throng the banks of the creek, spilling onto the
roads, to watch the line up of innovatively decorated boats –
from mermaids and crocodiles to wells and swans. Coveted cash prizes for
the boat parade winners, spot prizes and famous entertainers including
Francis de Tuem, Laurie and Luis Bachchan keep the visitors coming back
year after year, including some from the south. In some villages, the
uninitiated might notice a bunch of revellers smacking thick hard stems
of coconut palms on the ground. This symbolises an aversion for Judas,
who betrayed Christ for 30 pieces of silver. Often, a stuffed effigy of
Judas, not unlike Old Father Time, is carried about before being set on
fire.<br />
The feast of São João is also an important time for newlyweds.
Known as ‘javoiache fest’ or feast of the sons-inlaw, it’s a time for
families to show off the men their daughters have married. “According to
this tradition, a recently married man visits his wife’s village. He is
adorned with a copel of fresh leaves and flowers and joins in the
celebration of jumping into the village wells,” explained historian
Maria Lourdes Bravo da Costa.<br />
At each home in which a wedding was celebrated in the last year,
the daughters offer ‘dalis’ or a platter of seasonal fruit such as
mangoes, pineapples and jackfruit fresh off the trees while the
sons-in-law hand out that most favoured Goan beverage – a shot of feni –
to keep the spirits up and the cold away.<br />
Sardessai, who promotes the forum Hands-On Historians, believes
that this tradition was connected with procreation. “Seasonal fruit
provide vitamins and minerals that we might lack during that time of the
year. Sons-in-law were given local fruit so they remain healthy and
were able to provide a grandchild to the family. It’s a celebration of
life!”<br />
Many youngsters are now either too busy to follow traditions or find
them too time consuming. It is heartening to watch those who continue to
follow them, for as much as the nightclubs might call, it is the joyous
manifestation of faith, the comfort of culture and joie de vivre
typical to Goa that is bound to keep the São João tradition alive.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">First published in <a href="http://www.goastreets.com/singing-rain-sao-joao/" target="_blank">Goa Streets</a></span> </div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-29050934750724401642014-06-02T01:46:00.003-07:002014-10-15T03:18:16.899-07:0048 Hours In Panjim<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere along the way you suddenly find yourself with two
days to spare and the feeling that you really don’t want to do your chores.
Kick off the mundane and don’t settle for reruns of Breaking Bad and How I Met
Your Mother. Instead, get out and rediscover those memories of skipping class
for hot samosas, pedaling furiously down back lanes or sneaking off with a
teenage crush to a quiet spot. This time, we’ve picked Panjim.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Day 1:</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Morning</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kick it off with some puri bhaji at Café Tato in the beating
heart of the city. Everyone’s got their favourite spot for bhaji, but with
Tato’s you can’t really go wrong. Follow it up with a plate of mirchi bhajis.
As one of the city’s oldest and most popular cafés, you’re sure to spot someone
familiar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take a walk around Panjim – you don’t have to go too far to
browse through the stores. You would agree that the shopping here is far from
the best, but you never know what new belt or random t-shirt with a quote about
feni might catch your eye. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You could either walk down 18<sup>th</sup> June Road and
enjoy the bustle under tree-lined streets, or weave your way through Fontainhas
and S<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ã</span>o
Tom<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span>.
It is evident the early fathers didn’t spare much thought for the traffic of
the future and the cramped lanes in Panjim’s Latin quarter could make walking a
slight hazard. But frankly, it’s quite worth it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’ll find some interesting curios at the Velha Goa Galeria
to add to your collection, and the walk up to the Maruti Temple provides a neat
view of life below. Cycling around these streets is even more enjoyable as it
lets you cover greater distances without missing out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop at the General Post Office and send some snail mail to
a long-forgotten friend.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Afternoon</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The perfect start to an afternoon could only be in the
centre of Fontainhas with some delicious home cooking at Viva Panjim. It’s best
to sit inside on a hot afternoon, particularly when you’re not too keen on
having a local whiz by on his bike inches from the al fresco seating. The food
here is reasonably priced and unpretentious, and will bring back dozens of
memories of the times you have shared with friends and family. If you’re lucky,
they might still have a tipple or two of this year’s urak.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spending the day off at home in Goa is made fulfilling with
an afternoon siesta. If you live close to the city, sneak home for an afternoon
kip. If not, head to Miramar beach and you’re sure to nod off under one of
those palm fronds. Catching up on reading at the beach makes for a delightful
way to spend the afternoon alone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Evening</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the heat has dissipated a little, it’s time to bring
out your swimmers and hit the beach. Make the most of the closing of the
summer, taking the short drive to Vainguinim beach at Cidade de Goa in Dona
Paula for a few hours of wading in the shallows.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You could join in a game of football, should some of the
locals be kicking one about. Or let out your inner child and build a sand
castle or sculpture. The sinking sun steeps the myriad faces of stress out
across the darkening sea and there’s nothing like a swell dinner to make the
rest of it magically disappear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Panjim’s latest entrant on the bistro circuit is not one to
miss. Black Sheep Bistro has made the cut and raised the bar with some fine
twists on Goan classics and a nice selection of spirits and wines to go along.
It’s open for dinner, and keeps it home grown by using only locally sourced
ingredients. So you might want to take a rain check on that beef roulade
craving since most of our buffalo meat comes from out of Goa.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dinner done with, hop across only a furlong away to Café
Mojo for some groovy tunes and a few drinks. If you’re looking for somewhere a
little less cramped, Butter in Patto has a little more elbow room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Day 2:</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Morning</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You certainly cannot be expected to wake up bright and early
after a night on the town. But for those of you who are supernatural and do hit
the road running, take a walk on Miramar beach, or by the fields – the last of
them anyway – in Taleigao. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’d like to get reacquainted with a higher power, a
visit to the chapel at Raj Bhavan in Dona Paula is a beautiful way to start the
day. Even if you do forget to register your car number in advance, there’s a
lovely look-out spot close to the entrance of the Governor’s Palace where you
can soak up some energy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Goa Marriott Resort and Spa lays out a lovely brunch on
Sundays, the ideal way to squeeze out any remnants of a hangover. You could
also opt for the much more reasonably priced offerings at Not Just Omlettes on
18<sup>th</sup> June Road.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Afternoon</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A good brunch could either perk up your spirits or slow you
down. For a case of the former, pop into the gaming arcade at Caculo Mall in St
Ines and unleash your bowling skills at the alley, drive like a maniac in the
bumper cars or try your luck at pinball.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To cure a case of the latter, you could catch up on some
reading at Kala Academy or under the shade of the trees in the Campal garden.
There could be an interesting play or tiatr being staged at Kala Academy, so
you can buy a last-minute ticket and enjoy a bit of Goan entertainment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Evening</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As evening jogs on, take a slow walk down the Panjim
promenade. Look closely at the heritage buildings as you pass by – the old Goa
Medical College, the State Bank of India building, old Secretariat – and
visually wipe out the present. Imagine life in black and white when residents
mostly walked and the annoying sound of today’s vehicle horns were replaced by
the chirping of birds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Close the evening with a ride on the ferry across the
Mandovi River to the rooftop tables at Terry’s. There’s not a sight more
beautiful than the twinkling lights of a city you have called home, served
alongside the wash of the river down below and some fresh catch from the sea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">First published in <a href="http://www.goastreets.com/48-hours-panjim/" target="_blank">Goa Streets</a></span></div>
<br /></div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0Goa, Inde15.2993265 74.12399600000003414.319374499999999 72.833102500000038 16.2792785 75.414889500000029tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-59321140087077830072013-11-24T19:59:00.000-08:002013-11-24T19:59:19.476-08:00Bhutan: Trek to Tiger's Nest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi54WiICOnE8_oCbBkTDpoTom7K-Dl75GHOQl-xlqtcIdTnMRtTDRaXTmbk2IQNVfUDIfSGBeeD718NtssESXaQExuQf6ToTb3U3nzIvS78IHKbMe5irRS6yxAlCr2nyBfKMQ1JbMmO6HHU/s1600/Taktsang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi54WiICOnE8_oCbBkTDpoTom7K-Dl75GHOQl-xlqtcIdTnMRtTDRaXTmbk2IQNVfUDIfSGBeeD718NtssESXaQExuQf6ToTb3U3nzIvS78IHKbMe5irRS6yxAlCr2nyBfKMQ1JbMmO6HHU/s320/Taktsang.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiger's Nest, Paro</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">I put Paro on the itinerary only because of
Taktsang Valley. Ok, and because it is one of the more historical towns in
Bhutan and looked pretty in pictures. If we hadn’t entered Bhutan in a bus (or
truck or smuggled ourselves across the border), we would have flown into the
country’s only international airport in Paro. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">In any case, by the time we hit the town,
we’d already been to Thimpu and Punakha. It was a Tuesday, which was Pedestrian
Day in Paro. From the gate of the town, we walked several hundred metres to the
square. I was certain we were in the wrong place, that there was somewhere else
we would have to go, somewhere more, ummm, populated. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">A small tower stood in the main square,
surrounded by a garden, where little children squeaked in excitement after
school. There was an archery tournament in a field nearby. We would have to
check it out sometime, and try not to get pierced in the bum accidentally. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">The hotel was cheap, decent (ish) and
served by a restaurant downstairs. We got a ride to Taktsang the next day. At
the base of the hill were the obligatory souvenir stalls selling prayer beads,
flags and other knick knacks. Piles of pony dung peppered the rocky ground and
the pungent smell of the animals and their faeces hung in the air.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">A 40-something European gentleman and his
wife were selecting rides. We were young and full of vigour; surely we weren’t
going to take the ponies to the half-way mark. Five minutes into the walk and I
thought, ‘hell, this is easy’. Then came the uphill climb. While it was nippy
getting there, I ought to have been smart enough not to wear my sweater. After
all, exercise does make you work up a sweat. I bore it out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">The path was probably hewn into the rock
over the ages. Taktsang or ‘Tiger’s Nest’ Monastery was built in the 1694, but
held sacred for centuries earlier. Legend has it that the revered Guru Rinpoche
flew to this location on the back of a tigress to meditate sometime in the 8<sup>th</sup>
century. Seated precariously, on the edge of the cliff-face, the monastery with
its four main buildings, chortens and caves, was rebuilt after a fire in 1958. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFD54ZE6zEYa6JN1R3IkWflkoXHuhFbVvJVU9lbf2yfB6RzeuRm6CWX866JQAYWOhEsjkCPEjnC8ig2Op9cvlHMkfBwWwO0FlqF6IYqZMwhugd9pRaoEYqiMDME4b4Xsh0mn69md6s4Okp/s1600/Taktsang+through+the+trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFD54ZE6zEYa6JN1R3IkWflkoXHuhFbVvJVU9lbf2yfB6RzeuRm6CWX866JQAYWOhEsjkCPEjnC8ig2Op9cvlHMkfBwWwO0FlqF6IYqZMwhugd9pRaoEYqiMDME4b4Xsh0mn69md6s4Okp/s320/Taktsang+through+the+trees.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taktsang through the trees</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">We plodded on. Up ahead, the European
gentleman was not on his pony anymore, but instead behind it, urging it forward.
On and off he would climb onto its back, helped by the guide, but the pony
seemed to want the day off. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Between the trees on certain turns of the
path, glimpses of Taktsang peek at you. It’s a good way to motivate you on,
particularly if you start having second thoughts about the walk. Soon, we were
at the little restaurant where you can tank up with water and a bite. The next
point at which you can get the strange tasting butter tea the Bhutanese love is
at a little kiosk run by a toothy, smiling old lady along the steps to Taktsang
(It’s free and served out of a mug).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">The road gets nastier here. I realised how
much more fit I needed to be (or turn miraculously into Heidi of the hills) as
elderly Germans passed us with their hiking sticks, a senior Japanese lady bent
forward to tie her shoelaces and continued on, and Bhutanese pilgrims raced by
with barely a heavy breath. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">We strung up our prayer flags, took a few
mandatory pictures and began climbing down the stairs. Already I was dreading
the walk back. Stairs have never been my best friend. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">But the view from Taktsang is worth every
uphill climb, every second thought, every penny spent getting to Bhutan. Chilly
wind from the valley whips at your face, threatening to tear off your nose. The
wood panelled rooms are comparatively warmer, and because you were on too tight
a budget to afford a guide, you sidle up to the ones speaking English and catch
snippets of their stories.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">As usual, I got lost, roaming room to room
for at least half an hour before I was heated up enough to grunt ‘where the
hell were you?’ when I finally found my travel buddy at the ‘Personal
Belongings’ desk. We chatted with the sentries, who like most Bhutanese were
dressed in traditional ‘gho’s.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">We trudged back up the stairs, stopping to
take pictures by the waterfall as a web of colourful prayer flags fluttered
maddeningly in the wind. I couldn’t help but wonder how they tied them across
cliff faces like that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">The Dzhong we saw the previous day had nothing
on Taktsang. Sure it was beautiful in its own right, majestic and royal with
its pretty wooden bridge across the pebbled river and gilded tops. Truth be
told, visiting Bhutan had always been a wish, but it was Taktsang that actually
yanked me there.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtOOSaW2fmTu0j6TEGVcUrHZ2MIFnH0HkDYSYm_zvISviZl1KAnPe8abvOQ01GxD6LDRsV0RyKpTYo5VKrOpH5tvjyf628rLF1lrrt0OdORlV7tXG1dcNJPY8aHv05vXl0olL3_kJuQFem/s1600/The+Dzong+at+Punakha.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtOOSaW2fmTu0j6TEGVcUrHZ2MIFnH0HkDYSYm_zvISviZl1KAnPe8abvOQ01GxD6LDRsV0RyKpTYo5VKrOpH5tvjyf628rLF1lrrt0OdORlV7tXG1dcNJPY8aHv05vXl0olL3_kJuQFem/s320/The+Dzong+at+Punakha.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A dzhong</td></tr>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IN">How
I got to Bhutan:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Flight from Goa to Calcutta, train to New
Jalpaiguri, rickshaw to Siliguri, bus to Phuentsholing</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IN">Where
I stayed:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Thimpu: R Penjor Lodge (spacious, clean,
nice views, neat café attached with free wi-fi), Hotel Tandin</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Paro: Hotel Peljorling (the walls don’t
quite keep the cold out and the bathroom is a bit dingy)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Punakha: Damchen Resort (lavish for my
standards)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Phuentsholing: Hotel Bhutan</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IN">What
I ate:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Ema datshi (chilli and cheese, Bhutan’s
favourite dish)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Pork (with lots of fat)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Chicken rice with cheese and chillies</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IN">Points
to note:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Indians are one of the very few
nationalities allowed into Bhutan without a visa and on a pre-arranged tour.
However, one must obtain a permit, easily available in Phuentsholing, for five
days, extendable only in Thimpu. Carry photocopies of all your documents and
keep your permits with you at all times. They will be stamped at every check
post.</span></div>
</div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-61266712951701631402013-11-04T03:38:00.000-08:002013-11-24T19:52:47.177-08:00Coonoor: That little slice of paradise<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-IN">I felt like an explorer travelling an
unknown land. Unending undulating grass-covered hills, punctuated by tree
cover, silence enveloping the scene, wild buffalo grazing contentedly by the
pool of clear cold water.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKvzesqfki25ODO2zdjpVGpqSIBnb-k9xguChyphenhypheni8Vq76uBddYQboM_3HwkK97dvW5segNTogNsp6OtIUvq31a_y1CHmYA15FbJGb-IJBwFerkkubm5OQT0xQBKVx-By_1rBVySm3QN8BZB/s1600/Parsons+Valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKvzesqfki25ODO2zdjpVGpqSIBnb-k9xguChyphenhypheni8Vq76uBddYQboM_3HwkK97dvW5segNTogNsp6OtIUvq31a_y1CHmYA15FbJGb-IJBwFerkkubm5OQT0xQBKVx-By_1rBVySm3QN8BZB/s1600/Parsons+Valley.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parsons Valley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-IN">Zooming in as far as my camera phone would
allow, I pressed down to capture the scene. The click shattered the silence, in
unison the wild buffalo snapped their heads towards me, eyes full of confusion.
</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">Of course I wasn’t the dreaded majestic
tiger that roamed the Nilgiris, or the cunning panther that stalked them in the
underbrush. I was a stupid weak human who would shit bricks if they took three
steps towards me. The big male at the head of the herd looked at me
threateningly. I wanted to somehow melt into the wet grass under my feet.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">Dorai was unflustered. He stood with his
hands behind his back, his lungi loosely knotted to allow the chilly air to
whip around his sinewy calves and looked at the scene before him. If the short
elderly guide was laughing in his head, his face did not show it. Perhaps this
had happened before.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">We quietly moved on, me hoping we could get
as far away from the herd as possible. The big male watched us until we were
out of sight. At that moment, I felt adventurous, even a little brave for
facing off a herd of two dozen buffalo like that. In truth, there was nothing
brave or adventurous about it. I wasn’t chased by bison, startled by a leopard,
harassed by a band of rambunctious monkeys or even attacked by a swallow and
lived to tell the tale.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">I was simply getting a lesson, just the
basics, in being one with the wild.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">It was my first time staying in a national
park, hopefully not the last. Parsons Valley is part of a cluster of valleys,
reservoirs, and wildlife sanctuaries that make up the Nilgiris. Spanning 2,479
square kilometres, the Nilgiri Hills are huddled in the westernmost part of
Tamil Nadu, near the borders of Karnataka and Kerala in south India. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">They are home to a wide range of flora and
fauna, including large pockets of eucalyptus trees that give them the name
‘Nilgiris’ or ‘The Blue Hills’, and the largest concentration of tigers in the
wild. Sambar deer are much larger in real life than one would have thought,
even at 200 metres away. And they are very nervous. Flinch, and they scamper
off to hide. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">Rows upon rows of pine trees seemed to have
the only man-made affectation. The government could have planted them randomly
to give the hill-side a natural effect, but this is just nitpicking. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">Here the grass gave way to a soft carpet of
dead pine needles. On my left, a few foxes ran up the hill and then paused to
observe us. We ducked under a low branch to enter an archway of sorts made by
another species of tree. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">The path was obviously used, but there was
no one in sight. How in the world did a wild cat pick its way through the twigs
without snapping one? Here I was announcing my arrival to all and sundry with
an orchestra at every step. I gave up trying and hurried along, keeping my eyes
on Dorai. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz5fNPhqA4lQn2_G55M_mLus-QAb_ZZW7cHh3aZ_9M9MTje2UId1dk6dkK9Awc3gtRk6HwNqnV1TrJIFq-LJ9Wub5EKJ74cBtIL40vxMDsyyLcjsdW6u9yZ10cjQfz1-dR_QG0AtuERpAQ/s1600/A+view+of+Parsons+Valley+retreat+from+the+cafeteria+window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz5fNPhqA4lQn2_G55M_mLus-QAb_ZZW7cHh3aZ_9M9MTje2UId1dk6dkK9Awc3gtRk6HwNqnV1TrJIFq-LJ9Wub5EKJ74cBtIL40vxMDsyyLcjsdW6u9yZ10cjQfz1-dR_QG0AtuERpAQ/s1600/A+view+of+Parsons+Valley+retreat+from+the+cafeteria+window.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Parsons Valley Retreat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">He had a peculiar sense of fashion – white
lungi and white shirt, a suit coat (yes, you heard me right) and gumboots.
Every so often he would unhitch the second knot of his lungi and retie it to
maintain the knee-length that is so common with working south Indian men. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">A panther had made a kill only a couple of
days ago, he said. Perhaps the carcass was still there. It was close by. Images
of Animal Planet flashed by – the stench, buzzing bluebottles and swarming
flies, coagulated blood. I sniffed the air, bracing myself for the onslaught.
Nothing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Dorai pointed but I couldn’t see a thing.
Suddenly we were almost standing on top of it. I had never felt so stupid
before, having watched endless hours of television shows on the subject. I
could make out the spine, but that’s something a baby would do. There was a
mass I thought could have been the head, and some stringy stuff that was
presumably a few entrails left behind. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">The panther had done a fair job of cleaning
up. You could smell the carcass, now that you were so close, but the rain had
probably subdued it. The cat could have still been in the vicinity – the
pickings of wild boar, sambar, buffalo and rabbits seemed great. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">We climbed up an embankment and suddenly it
looked like one of the views I had travelled from Goa to see. It didn’t look
like the pictures, simply because the image online was of Avalanche Lake and I
was on the banks of the Mukurthi reservoir. But it was breathtaking all the
same.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">I zipped up my jacket against the chilly
wind and we sat there, soaking in silence and the greenery. Not a honk, not a
wail, not even the tinkle of a cow’s bell. This was perfect.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IN">How
I got there:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">From Goa to Coonoor: Via bus (KSRTC) from
Goa to Mysore to Ooty and a local to Coonoor</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">From Coonoor to Parsons Valley: Four-wheel
drive (they send you one if required at extra cost)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IN">Where
I stayed:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Parsons Valley Retreat (Rs1800 per person
per night including breakfast, lunch, tea + snacks, dinner). They made a
bonfire and put some logs in the cabin so we wouldn’t freeze to death.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IN">What
I ate:</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">In Parsons Valley: delicious array of south
Indian food</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">In Ooty: Chocolates from Modern Stores</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Published in the Navhind Times Panorama: http://www.navhindtimes.in/panorama/breathtaking-parsons-valley </span></span></div>
</div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-14079197724279557442012-07-17T01:10:00.000-07:002012-07-17T01:10:10.849-07:00'Cry, the beloved country'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The Woman pushes the baby born<br />
From a suffocating drowning world<br />
Into a one with air<br />
Thick with pollution<br />
<br />
And She lies writhing on the floor<br />
Her lungs screaming for air<br />
Her body drawing rasping breaths<br />
While She struggles to live<br />
For Her children<br />
Without race, religion or caste<br />
Bigotry, alliance or prejudice<br />
She is all<br />
She is none<br />
<br />
<br />
Yet we are delivered<br />
A race apart, a religion apart, a caste apart<br />
From the brother born with us<br />
<br />
<br />
While She dies, crying<br />
We draw Her blood<br />
As we fight to live to die<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Love the people. They are the country, the nation India. </i></div>Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-28845684478928123262012-07-17T01:08:00.000-07:002012-07-17T01:08:55.527-07:00My cold shadow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
</div>
A cold shadow hangs over my shoulder<br />Watching everything I do<br />But more importantly,<br />Remembering everything I say.<br />It's a reason to be mute<br />To think only thoughts<br />Never out loud<br />Silently hoping they will go away.<br />
<br />
<br />
But mostly they never do<br />They stay there long after they're forgotten<br />Coming back to say "They hate you<br />Remember what they did."<br />Even if most of it was supposition.<br />Leading me to sometimes hate a sharing world<br />A loving and caring world<br />Where I let loose all I carry with me.<br />
<br />
<br />
It's hard to say things when they hurt<br />When I want it to be hard to hurt when they say things<br />When I say things, when anyone says anything.<br />To be cold and insensitive<br />But I am drawn to live in a 'civilised world'<br />With rules and boundaries<br />Sometimes good, sometimes bad.<br />
<br />
<br />
I must behave like this or do things like that<br />Wear clothes like this and sit like that<br />Eat like this and not drink like that<br />Be a friend like this and not an enemy like that<br />My cold shadow sees all I do and hears all I say<br />And tells me I'm rarely doing right.<br /><br />How funny, to be myself, I really must be somebody else.</div>Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-67403951552672153072012-03-16T06:18:00.000-07:002012-03-16T06:18:16.677-07:00Kuala Lumpur and Melaka<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We behaved like complete idiots; even scared away the one traveler with us as we checked out the seats, poked the cushions to see how soft they were, discreetly gauging how low the chassis was and wishing we were rich enough to afford the tickets for the top deck. When the double-deck bus finally moved out of the station, we were forced to sit down, buckle up and fall asleep. The three of us woke up the next morning in Kuala Lumpur and forgot to wish Vikas a very happy birthday.<br />
<br />
Took a taxi. It was the last leg so we permitted ourselves to splurge a bit. Equator Hostel was no more than 200m from Imbi station and the owners couldn't have picked a better location - we had a local chomp shop next door for cheap food and great conversation. Like every place else we visited in Malaysia, it was point, pay and eat.<br />
<br />
The caretaker at the hostel was ruggedly suave, and very friendly. It was our first hostel where we had a common loo, but that too was spotless. Shoes were left out the front door and the array of slippers and sandals stood bare testimony to the hostel's popularity.<br />
<br />
Of course now that we were in Kuala Lumpur, we had to go see the Petronas Tower. It's hard to imagine hundreds of people spend the day in this 88-storey metallic monster pounding away at their keyboards, while visitors outside stand agape at one of the world's tallest buildings. Zipping upwards in that elevator towards the sky-bridge on floors 41 and 42 among a clutch of other tourists made me feel like I was on a day-trip at school. It might do acrophobics good to stay away from the glass-panel edges, but the view is stunning and would probably be even more so when the city lights wink in the dark.<br />
<br />
The Menara KL was a far cry from the Petronas buildings. The telecommunications and broadcast tower loomed large on Bukit Nanas, or Pineapple Hill, so we were quite sweaty after having traipsed around in circles trying to find the entrance from Raja Chulan monorail station. The hope of a look-see from the revolving restaurant at the top of the thousand foot or more tower remained a flight of fancy; the charge to take the elevator up was exorbitant.<br />
<br />
T, D, G and J made it to KL too after Langkawi so to Zouk it was for Vikas' birthday party. It was the biggest and fanciest club I'd been to and the first where I ran into a "Club Dress Code". I was probably the only girl in there wearing trainers after the realisation dawned on me that Goa's shorts and slippers deal wouldn't make the cut. It was a Thursday but the crowd and DJs still gave us a good time.<br />
<br />
Hangovers don't do anyone good the day there's a journey to be made. And crowded bus stops with delayed transportation don't make them any better. Typically, it's safe to say your bum will be in the seat for about two and a half hours, but the confusion of coloured buses, long lines and busy people left us still waiting with our tickets for the corresponding ride long after we ought to have reached Melaka.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, a delayed arrival was the least of our worries. Little Nyonya Youth Hostel had a shared Indian loo, with no toilet paper. I wasn't too happy to have to bother climbing down the creaky wooden stairs, bumping past the breakfast table in the kitchen and up a couple of slippery tiled stairs to relieve a protesting bladder in the middle of the night. It would have to do, and our Japanese dorm-mate was kind enough to set the fan on rotate so the hot, humid air would blow off blood-sucking mosquitoes.<br />
<br />
The narrow winding lanes and greenery brought back memories of home along the road to the Dutch quarter housing Stadthuys Town Hall and Red Square. There's a sense of satisfaction and achievement to stand looking at a scene you've seen only in photographs. It brings perspective, respect and a strange understanding and connection to read the plaques detailing historical moments. You re-create times, erasing the present goings-on with dated nobles wearing fancy formal clothes on their way to church, or local vendors looking for a good deal, horse-drawn carriages, a coarse argument between beggars and a barefoot child peering longingly at a girl in a rich dress.<br />
<br />
Melacca was colonised by a good many empires, including the Portuguese, the Dutch, the British and the Japanese. It's no wonder then that the 'Historic State' is full of museums - dedicated to general history, Dutch influence, architecture, culture and costume. There's much to miss out if you don't tarry long enough - the peculiar Nyonya cuisine, the antique goods on Jonker Street, Malaysia's oldest mosque with its pagoda influence - the Kampung Kling and the Chen Hoong Teng Temple. Catholic pilgrims might make a trip to the Church of St Francis Xavier, who was briefly laid to rest in this port city in 1553, before his body was brought to Goa.<br />
<br />
A Famosa, that Chinese deco restaurant milling with people, beckoned for lunch. The stooped old man at the door appeared to be a member of the owners' family, which made thousands of rice balls daily to serve hungry customers. It went well with the roast duck and had to be one of the best meals I'd eaten in Malaysia. It's a must-visit along with one of the many kopitiams offering deliciously hot white coffee, strangely relaxing in the sweltering heat. Strolling along Jonker Street after the sun goes down brings the strains of live music - we enjoyed the Metallica covers on the corner - haggling over prices of antiques, families stopping for a snack on their way home and Malaysian Tamils sending a slightly warped sound of India to the ears.<br />
<br />
We emptied our pockets at the satay stall, trying to taste every kind he had in fried and steamed versions. There couldn't be a better way to end our visit to Malaysia - stuffing our faces with a local snack, chatting about the days just passed, laughing over gaffes in public, simply happy being completely broke.<br />
<br /></div>Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-19985257670562981282010-12-18T02:04:00.000-08:002012-03-16T06:26:12.570-07:00NRP Sagres<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1c256DDkrFcGgIPIkP1zwDaZcD4LLnnUw3Wloz_ImvyXt6M7bghB-9rzxU8PftU3xmMz-P7CCjyVOJc7RFBClBg10upPbsAJFGg0Q7K0aZBdqGcQtqoOpkgMDF9OBaHaJCPBYQdBpWt9/s1600/DSC_2616+copy.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595499770489077778" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1c256DDkrFcGgIPIkP1zwDaZcD4LLnnUw3Wloz_ImvyXt6M7bghB-9rzxU8PftU3xmMz-P7CCjyVOJc7RFBClBg10upPbsAJFGg0Q7K0aZBdqGcQtqoOpkgMDF9OBaHaJCPBYQdBpWt9/s320/DSC_2616+copy.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 214px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
It was an invitation for the boss, filtered down by editorial discretion and busy schedules to the photographer and me. There may have been a slight departure from the norm, wherein the sibling went along on my pass to see the beautiful Portuguese sail ship, but better sense prevailed. We needed to get the picture captions right.<br />
<br />
So I went along in my Raggedy-Ann best, looking fatter than ever in a certain polka dot (not large, I might add) number. We got lost to start with. Not surprising - I was present. No matter, when we finally arrived, there was a certain chill in the air snatched away by the lights picking out the outline of the masts. But the light mist was undeterred by a stealthy wind creeping across the Arabian Sea. Clicks and I paced the length of the three-masted barque on the dock, ignoring our bladders and awaiting the signal to step onto the gangway.<br />
<br />
The Consul General of Portugal Antonio Sabida Costa shook hands with the other guests waiting outside and nodded at Clicks. I melted into the tarmac. Best to be unseen for fear they might turn me away on account of shabby dressing. When it was time, the first few guests climbed the gangway and down onto the deck, to be greeted by the commanding officer Luis Pedro Pinto Proenca Mendes and several other important looking people. The Portuguese were perfect hosts, staid and reserved in their crisp white uniforms. The trainee sailors, uncomfortable in their new waiters' roles, weaved through the crowd carrying wine and bites. Clicks and I left the wining and dining for later.<br />
<br />
Not many were familiar; they all looked high-society and proper in their starched shirts. The band struck up, softly picking out the soulful melodies on the Portuguese guitar strings while Sonia Shirsat's versatile voice broke through the whispered conversation with melancholy Fado renditions. We positioned ourselves in a spot where no champagne flutes would be tipped and no fancy china would be bumped off the tables. Watching the ambassador's wife sing along, seeing the wistful look to a far-off countryside in her eyes, made me belong in a small way. A very small way. Most of me felt like a sore thumb with bright blue nail-polish. After the guitars were packed away and the good-looking sailors began weaving through the crowd with tasty tid-bits from Portugal, we made our way to the important people. Work beckoned.<br />
<br />
Predictably, Clicks did his job well. Predictably, I tagged along like a lost puppy, jotting down names and trying not to get pushed away. When our stomachs decided we'd caught enough in frames, we planted ourselves within reach of the buffet table. That's when we met him. Adrian Melo de Melo. South American-born Portuguese who liked "making funny". Actually, we met his voice first. A deep polite timbre from over the shoulder which suggested we try the bacalhau. Needless to say we pigged out on the tender cod fish. I tried, very hard indeed, to listen to the voice explain trivia about Portugal, but I was more interested in the bacalhau for the moment. Then Adrian lost himself in the crowd.<br />
<br />
Just when we were deciding whether to leave or take some more pictures, the voice piped up again. Would we like to see the bridge while we wait for dessert? Yes, we would. We found him clicking away at a computer showing us how the navigation worked, giving us perspectives on how much of the sailboat disappears under water in a storm and how high the waves rear before they crash onto the deck. Dessert was being served when we got back on deck. The pasteis de nata were quite unlike anything I'd ever tasted. They appeared savoury but were incredibly delicious, lightly crunchy on the outside and melt-in-the-mouth soft and sweet on the inside.<br />
<br />
Then my bladder sent urgent signals to my brain. I needed a pee spot before a puddle (not made of sea water) appeared on deck. So it was back to Adrian and he took us downstairs to the loo before we got a private tour of the spaces below, spaces most other guests did not get to see. First up came a showcase of ancient navigational instruments that are apparently still used by the greenhorn cadets as part of their training. They were taught to steer their course with the help of the stars and the sun, and find out other important data that would take them safely around the world and me over the edge.<br />
<br />
The officers mess, with plush seating and fancy paintings, along with an ancient map of Goa caught my attention. We spent a while there before moving on to the Captain Proenca's office, where Adrian handed us a tiny Sagres tie pin. It was a deep red in the office, and although it appeared a little cramped, it was fancy when you thought of what the ship was actually meant for - training sailors. We were shown into the room where presidents met and treaties had been signed, the long oval wooden table standing testimony to names that made decisions affecting millions... And not everybody gets a chance to have a picture with the ship's captain (unless you're on a cruise, which we were most definitely not!).<br />
<br />
I had my first trip into the roaring heat and noise of the engine room and marveled at things that didn't make much sense, but made me thankful for anyway. We spent ages chatting with Adrian, asking him questions about the things he loved, about sailing and travelling. He seemed to love what he was doing, but he dearly loved home too. We were introduced to the man who made the luscious pasteis de nata, made broken conversation with him in French and laughed at how he was fleeced by the local taxi driver.<br />
<br />
Adrian told us about Portugal and the Somalian pirates who still prowl the waters. How many of the attacks are never reported and how it still is perilous to be on the high seas. And long after we called it a night and left with a "Muito Obrigado", Adrian's words still rang in my head. "There are three kinds of people in the world - those who are alive, those who are dead and those who are at sea."<br />
<br />
We salute all sailors.</div>Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-47540409089641947832010-07-12T05:17:00.000-07:002010-09-13T03:10:37.088-07:00LangkawiA word of caution to book tickets for our ferry to Langkawi in advance was flung into the hot breeze as we enjoyed our last day in Penang.<br /><br />We woke up an hour later than usual and had to contend with taking the unbeaten track to Malaysia's spectacular beach destination.<br /><br />Over-stuffing ourselves with free breakfast at the BnB in Penang, we waddled our way to the ferry station, only to hear the next ride was late that evening.<br /><br />So we opted for the bus and found ourselves in a rickety unit, not unlike the ones at home, sitting among locals getting to work or returning from school. But it took us from Butterworth to Alor Setar, the capital of the state of Kedah, where we waited at the shelter for a bus heading towards Kuala Perlis. An hour and a half later, the right bus rattled to a stop, picked us up and wound its way to our ferry point.<br /><br />Heavy-headed from the groaning travel, we endured a 45-minute ferry ride to Pulau Langkawi, the Jewel of Kedah. We spied knob-like islands in the sea as the ferry bumped along the surface of the glassy Indian Ocean and we were greeted by Langkawi's sentinel eagle which stood guard at the entry to the tourist destination .<br /><br />Our taxi driver knew where to take us, and threw in a free conversation about the sights and sounds of Langkawi. A fierce Malay, the squat man with a keen foot insisted that the island was the best part of Malaysia.<br /><br />......<br /><br />This was by far the best hostel as far as value for money goes. Based on trust, you take what you want from the fridge and browse the internet only to add up your own usage and stick it on the front desk. You can cook your own meals, provided you wash up after yourself. Bang opposite the beach and sitting nestled close to brunch spots that served "No American" food, the hostel was our home for three days.<br /><br />We took a walk to Pantai Cenang that first evening and couldn't stop marvelling at the wonderful blue of the picture postcard ocean. All along the sidewalk towards the beach were stalls selling anything from curios to bikinis, flower-print slippers and bags. It was tourist exploitation at its exorbitant best.<br /><br />Prawns the size of my fist lay curled up on display platters beside red snapper and some of the largest kingfish I've ever seen as we walked past the numerous shacks, restaurants and pubs juxtaposed with hawkers' stalls on the sidewalk. Five minutes of haggling and we had three pairs of slippers to carry home, all at a "special price".<br /><br />Another item we got at a special price was beer. At nearly half the price compared to the rest of Malaysia courtesy Langkawi's duty free status, drinking Tiger Beer was no longer a second thought. Hangovers were washed away with a large brunch of beef rendang, nasi lemak and a salty batch of crunchy chicken feet to go on the side.<br /><br />Hiring our tiny car with Tielke and Anne ensured the road trip around Langkawi was full of chatter and culture quirk swaps. First stop: underwater world. Giant gouramis floated by with grotesque smiles, silent spectators behind protective glass panels to our gawping mugs. Space-age jellyfish glowing neon in the dim lights propelled themselves around their cubic world while sea-horses darted under ocean vegetation to shield themselves from the prying eyes of curious visitors.<br /><br />Back into the blazing sun, the air-con was turned all the way up as the car wound its way to the cable car and bridge that would give us a glimpse of Thailand. But it was the curse of the holiday horror when we saw the signboard that read: Cable car - Under maintenance for two days. Inconvenience regretted. Bah... something had to go wrong on this trip, and we'd flown across the seas to see this. This was the sight that brought upon the split-second decision to visit Malaysia.<br /><br />Cursing, we stomped our way up the stairs to the Seven Wells or Telaga Tujuh Waterfalls, where a gushing stream tumbled over stoic boulders to collect in rocky pools, overflowed into a new waterfall and new pool over and over again. At the handicrafts bazaar on the way back, knick-knacks made of bamboo, wood and coconut shells filled up empty corners in backpacks, small reminders of our visit and little gifts for friends and family.<br /><br />Hungover from the beer at 8 the next morning, we dragged ourselves to Pantai Tenggah right in time to hop into the speed boat as it lifted its prow clear of the water. With wind in my hair and water everywhere else we meandered through the smattering of rainforest islands reminiscent of those flying mountains in the movie Avatar only these were in the sea, making one stop at Pregnant Lady island (it really does look like a pregnant woman lying down) and then heading on the Geopark.<br /><br />I have no words to describe how absolutely awesome it is to swim in the middle of a volcanic lake. The warm water slips away into a bottomless depth, a swimming blackness that is both slightly frightening and exciting at the same time. It stretches hundreds of metres to the other shore at the base of the wall of rock that rears straight up into the sky and stops just short of eternity.<br /><br />We left fellow tourists still swimming and playing in its pristine waters to walk the narrow bamboo path back to the jetty, tip-toeing past the bands of ravenous, mischievous monkeys munching stolen Snickers' bars.<br /><br />Colourful fish bounced sunlight off the backs when breaking the surface at the island beach we visited on our last stop. The sea was cool and very clear, and the white hot sand made children skip into patches of shade from the trees where their parents sat on gnarled roots with the picnic bags.<br /><br />We spent our last few hours in Langkawi on the shores of Pantai Tenggah, wading in the shallows under the heat of the afternoon sun before we paid our bill and said our good-byes.<br /><br />The ferry would take us back to the mainland, from where we caught our "supercool" bus to spend Vikas' birthday in Kuala Lumpur.Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-16528519565481478452010-02-22T05:28:00.001-08:002010-07-12T04:28:26.287-07:00Penang<div>It didn't take long to figure out that night trains between KL Sentral and Butterworth, Penang, were not very popular. There were all of nine people in our coach, five making up a group of giggly schoolgirls on a day trip to the Malaysian capital.</div><br /><div>From 34C outside, our bodies struggled to cope with the freezing 16C in the train as it chugged along the coast, lights ablaze and air-con whirring.<br /></div><br /><div>I was desperate to find a <em>tandas</em> as soon as we got off, so had to use the ferry toilet as it crossed from the mainland to Georgetown. Bladder relieved, we picked our way to the first hotel we stayed in out of India.<br /></div><div>...<br /></div><br /><div>Georgetown is a wonderful mix of culture - Chinese, Malays and Indians living shoulder-to-shoulder in a mass of buildings that trace the city's history as a trading base for the British and later as a waterfront commercial and financial hub.<br /></div><br /><div>On our first day, we just walked around the little streets, getting used to trudging in the sun as the humidity hung heavily. Georgetown rightfully holds its UNESCO World Heritage Site title, with architectural samples preserved in the colonial splendour of the Eastern and Oriental Hotel, the Islamic Museum and Leong San Tong Khoo Kongsi (the Khoo clan-house).<br /></div><div>...</div><br /><div>Penang revolves around its food - there are stalls everywhere, sending delicious aromas of simmering duck, beef and seafood wafting up to your delighted senses. You slump down on a plastic chair at one of the many tables, thankful for the shade of the large tent just a furlong from the jetty. Now how do you pick your supper?</div><br /><div>I have a simple formula for food. First is the price - if it's within your budget, take your pick. After that, I just point to what looks good and say "May I have that please?" Works wonders everytime.<br /></div><br /><div>Penang puts on a food show quite unlike anything I've seen. And this is not for the tourists. It's part of everyday life. People walk in, wave to those they know, find their flavour for the day and wash it down with Guinness and Tiger. Perfect. We were part of their lives for three days, cheering on football teams and wolfing down satays until our prawn mee, laksa or thai rice came along, and then alternating between craning our necks to watch the game and struggling with the chopsticks to gobble our food.</div><p>Later, we'd saunter down China town, stopping at the food stalls (again!) to see what was cooking, digesting what we'd already eaten and stocking up again. It was a gastronomical adventure at sickening levels. Two things I wished I'd eaten again before leaving was the peanut ball dusted in sesame seeds and the square pork snack. Awesomeness in batter.<br /><br />There were strange multi-coloured momos steaming on bamboo-leaf stoves, one bite sending a blast of seafood tastes across your mouth and filling it with soft meat and subtle juices. But the fist-sized white bun stuffed with pork didn't quite catch my fancy. It tasted like someone had forgotten to salt the dough, while the stuffing had an odd kept-in-the-cupboard taste. Perhaps I'd picked one that had been in the larder for a while!<br /></p>...<br /><br />With all the food swimming in your belly, there's nothing like some good sight-seeing on foot to finish it off. Pouring sweat in the humid heat, we took in the sights and sounds - the red and gold Chinese temples, quiet Burmese ones with giant reclining Buddhas and majestic Thai spaces.<p>Penang Hill gives you the best view ever of Georgetown, and when the sun goes down, you find the lights twinkling across the port city and find yourself in a wonderland. It's worth braving the skewed electric train up the steepest hill you've seen. On the way back, don't forget to hope for a Chinese New Year celebration at the Kek Lok Si temple.</p><p>Lady Luck was with us that day as we joined in the celebrations with a thousand lights turned on simultaenously, the sky lighting up with fireworks at dusk with the giant Buddha looking on from a distance.</p><p>The Temple of Supreme Bliss truly puts a visitor in thrall as the Buddhas peek out from every corner of the Pagoda of 10,000 Buddhas - the main pagoda of the site.</p><p>They seem to follow you as you make your way across the state of Penang to Balik Pulau, guiding you to find the beauty of Malaysia. Batik cloths and open fields mark this little town as does its very own kind of laksa and the carts selling the creamy, but odd-smelling durian.</p><p>Staring out over GeorgeTown from the balcony of our cozy hotel, we sipped our last Tiger beer in Penang, watching the stars tease us into considering another night's stay.</p><p>But our time was up and we had places to go and things to do, more importantly catching the ferry to Langkawi at the crack of dawn.<br /></p><div></div>Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-42719488077565779662010-02-16T23:02:00.000-08:002010-02-21T20:20:21.322-08:00Day 1 in KLIt was a blast of hot air and the most massive airport I've seen. Kuala Lumpur's Low Cost Carrier Terminal was expansive, steamy and clinically organised.<br /><p>We took the free ride to the railway station. When you're travelling on a tight budget, you'll take anything that's free. You could tell they were palms as we landed, but up close you realise just how different they are from coconut trees. They cover the wide stretches between the airport and the city centre, filling up every space with large pokey green leaves.</p><p>My first taste of Malaysia had to be the national dish - nasi lemak. Of course we were conned into taking the 'set meal' which also included a drink that promised an immediate brain-freeze (all drinks in the country are like so). The creamy coconut rice softened the sharp spice of the tender beef rendang, while the peanuts and dried anchovies were - to me - an unexpected, but nice combination with the whole meal. I finished it off with two slices of cucumber. Can't forget the veggies!</p><p>Jonathan decided to have mee udang, and it was one of the best choices he's ever made. Prawns hiding among the noodles in a tangy hot sauce... yum. Unfortunately, Vikas kick-started his vacation with a soupy mixture that set his ass on fire, while his brain whirled trying to find out what he was eating. I could have sworn one of the bits in there was a windpipe!</p>Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-49105603968325859952009-11-27T03:12:00.000-08:002013-11-04T03:57:04.017-08:00A journey to 'Scotland' in India<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For most of the journey I slept. It was either drift away or chuck up, so I drifted.... into bouts of fitful sleep where I constantly dreamt of falling off the edge of the world.<br />
The closer we got to destination Coorg, the more relieved I felt. Motion-sickness had pretty much evaded me following a year of bus journeys not less than an hour long, cramped amidst kind (but mostly non-deodorant wearing) villagers. But for some reason it reared its ugly head on this trip.<br />Winding roads and twisted trees, lack of oxygen (or so I felt) and the smell of air-conditioning didn't make the situation any better, so I stuck my head to the seat and forced myself to sleep.<br />
I nearly screamed and threw up simultaneously when told the coffee estate was another 40kms further than we'd thought. Prepared to kill, my hands clutched the sides of the seat and the car wound its way up the hill until we were lost in the clouds.<br />
...<br />
Three kilometres up a stone track in a jeep devoid of suspension, I looked at one pair of eyes obviously sick of the journey and another suspiciously silent and hidden behind sunglasses. The third pair alternated between the rough road and the cigarette butt. Fuming and procrastinating, I was probably vocalising what everyone else felt but politely chose not to say - screw this journey and screw the roads in slightly more explicit terms.<br />
The cottages were bare, shorn of luxuries in the most literal sense of the word. I could already imagine rats and snakes crawling through the chinks in the wood. But I wasn't worried about that. Thanks to Mr Sinus, someone would be up all night looking like she was being asphyxiated. It obviously wasn't the brightest idea to sleep in a log structure of sorts with wildlife creeping in and you creeping out every time you felt like a leak. Heaven only knew where the loos were.<br />
...<br />
I was happier on the journey going back than I was getting to Coorg. Not because I hated the place, but because I enjoyed it. We slept in a four-bed room with attached bath (hot water and all), spent the night in the balcony feasting on Coorgi-style pork, chicken, pakoras and KF. The trek was one I enjoyed after ages, despite the invasion of leeches, some of which - don't ask how - got up my shorts and stuck to my thigh. Blech. <br />
We saw our first white elephant in the far distance... <br />
It rained and poured, I got drenched and couldn't breathe, my struggling respiratory system echoing across the room and ensuring it was a topic of conversation the next day. Huh<br />Our home for the weekend was nestled in a valley full of coffee plants and the clouds could be seen suspended mid-way between heaven and earth.<br />We ate "home-cooked" meals, drank lots of strong coffee, played 'guess the nationality of the new guest' and forgot we lived and toiled in a dusty city a hundred miles away...<br />
I've never been to Scotland, so I'm not sure why it's called the Scotland of India, but Coorg estates are some of the nicest places to spend a holiday. Just don't drive there. Bring your chopper.</div>
Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-83181891919305718932009-08-24T02:15:00.000-07:002009-08-24T03:51:37.130-07:00The miraculous making of a conditional cook<p>Ever since I've been thrown far far away from home on work, it's been taken for granted that I'd learn to look after myself. Part of that has happened, part still taking place. Even in college, there were people you had to learn to like, others who forced you not to like them and those who made your life living hell even though you wouldn't like to admit it.</p><p>But apart from all the humdrum of making life a life, something just doesn't fit. I've actually had to get down and dirty in the kitchen (take a check on those filthy minds, people) and cook my own meals. </p><p>At home with the omnipresent mother, there's never a chance that you'd get into the kitchen, whether she asks you to or not. At college, you have to put up with the hostel food and you aren't allowed into the kitchen, whether you like it or not. In your own tiny rented heap-of-clothes-and-beer-bottles-away-from-home you have to spoon your own food into your mouth whether it tastes like food or not.</p><p>Roommates have given up charity cooking for one reason or other. For whatever reason, I've put on the apron and got down to work. Logically since my grandmother is the world's best cook, my mum and aunts coming in a close second and the sibling a distant third (though he would think otherwise) I would have turned into an amazing cook among the likes of Jamie (at home or elsewhere), Curtis and probably Nigella.</p><p>But as fate would have it, I've inherited half my father's cooking gene. He makes breakfast i.e. eggs - scrambled, bulls-eye, omelette, boiled. He also makes rice, curry, fish and fries better than McDonald's. And that's about it. As for me, I make noodles - cup, Maggi, Top Ramon with cheese, tomato, peas, capsicum and maybe some potato. <em>Note to reader: Quit making gagging noises. </em>But, I have also devised other ways of surviving on one stop shop consumerism. Bingo Mad Angles, Twix, the odd Bounty, salted cashew nuts and cheese.</p><p>I've actually been on the lookout for Nature Valley bars for the past year and cheese nachos for a few months. They seem to be off the shelves. Cookies of any sort are good, as long as they've got bits of chocolate in them. Pringles are for when I'm feeling rich or slim, either of which is rare. Although I have only recently discovered the "joys" of working behind an apron, good food is rare to come by.</p><p>I ate some chicken at a restaurant some time ago and slumped into slurpy reminiscence of mother's thick steaks and beef burger patties, cold chicken salad, chick peas and Aunty Lee's spinach and corn quiche and stuffed squid. Scrumptious. In sympathy of your deprivation, I will kindly leave out Nan's bakes, Aunty Rachel's awesome chocolate gateaux and light eclairs and finger-licking dishes made by my mother's other sisters. <em>Note to reader: She has six. </em></p><p>To my undeserved credit, I have managed a prawn and fish curry, thrown together a fish macaroni and cheese bake, a miraculously unscathed vegetable and prawn pulao, a hardly-get-it-right parsi style fish curry and a few veggies the recipes of which I conjure up on my own. After all, it's my own to eat.</p><p>Oh MOTHER! Where art thou?</p><p> </p>Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229774315550875407.post-25558216305157403192009-08-04T03:02:00.000-07:002009-08-04T03:15:12.225-07:00To those who "were there"<p>I want to thank you<br />Very sincerely<br />For showing me the kind of friend<br />I would not like to have<br />And more so, not like to be</p><p>You leave an unexpected brokenness<br />That only fools will dwell on<br />Perhaps I was finished with you<br />Before we even started<br />You're not even worth the pain</p><p>But haven't you realised?<br />You've caused a lifetime of damage<br />To someone who believes in close friendships<br />You are the thorn permanently stuck in flesh<br />That is bleeding the hurt away</p><p>Fly foul memory, away for eternity<br />Rest not on white hearts blinded by the ideal friendship<br />Take with you the thick palor of hopelessness<br />Take your pent-up, ghastly frustration<br />And vent it out on me.<br /> </p>Dielle DSouzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17904292039422610675noreply@blogger.com0