Take a chance on me …

vagabondess

Strangers. The word is so knotted in itself, it tells you to not trust it, to not let it close, to not let it into your world. Because its strange, unknown, unseen, mysterious, unfamiliar. Yet there are those strangers that that voice in your head implores you to trust in one glance.

And listening to that voice is what makes all the difference between a calculated tailored holiday and an unexpectedly dynamic journey.

I know, nothing of what I say or what anyone else says can convince you to trust them, that whole group of strangers out there, who could have given you an experience of a lifetime, that whole demographic who is right now outside your world, that whole bunch of people who could be potential thieves, crooks, mobbers, terrorists, etc etc. Because if you don’t trust your own voiceinthehead, there is no chance you are going to trust them.

But let me tell you what I would have missed, if I hadn’t trusted these strangers.

- A day long excursion to a vineyard in rural Veneto, where I spent all day plucking grapes and jumped into a cartload of grapes at the end of the day to squish them with my feet. And lunch was served on long wooden tables, cheese and Panini and wine, while old Italian villagers played wooden instruments to back up old Italian songs.
- A day long trip to Zaans Schaans that ended up with me being driven up to a little dutch fishing village for a realtime dutch experience
- A three hour cycling trip through the streets and bridges of Rotterdam with stops at some of the uncliched unknown Jazz bars for music and conversation.
- A night long exploration of some of the most amazing alternative bars of Lisbon’s Bairro Alto and interesting insights into the Fado tradition of Alfama.
- A classy tour of Amsterdam’s famous district ending with a brilliant Jazz bar that played soulful live music.
- Three hours of a free Tango workshop in Bratislava.
- Four hours of non stop Salsa in one of the coolest Salsa bars in Madrid.
- An invitation to a concert and dance class in Vienna
- A two hour walk through Berlin’s music festival, grooving to some unknown musicians beats in the dark woods with about fifty people connected only by the flames of their lighters.
- Two days of binging on every sort of real Tapas that Spanish people eat (not only the touristy versions) at small unfashionable Tapas bars with glasses of refreshing Summer drinks.
- A six hour long chat by the canal in Berlin, punctuated by long stories of Mumbaiand Bremen
- An evening playing Kubbs (an unknown Austrian game) by the river in Innsbruck
- A crazy insight into Egypt’s bargaining market at Khan-e-Khalili
- An evening in Nairobi’s national park spotting gazelles and lions.
- An informative day spent walking through the Oktoberfest that did not involve beer and was actually fun!

Sometimes then, its worth taking the chance. And I have never been proven wrong.

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26 . 07 . 2011
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Love they say, feels like this.

vagabondess

The Atlantic breeze, alternately cold and warm whistles in my ears as I trudge up the steep cobblestoned streets. Its late afternoon, but in an European summer where the sun doesn’t set till almost nine p.m. late afternoon is a relative and deceptive term.

I walk along innocuous looking doors, which right now are closed and a picture of peace, but in a few hours will turn into noisy ghettos of a lively crowd that will gather in these narrow streets regardless of whether it’s a weekday or weekend. In a few hours the doors will open to the deep soulful strains of Fado music and respectful silences, to the accompanied Ginja filled cheering of an exceptional performance by an old pot-bellied strummer. In a few hours, the streets will be lined with teenagers holding their dogs, getting drunk on cheap beer and doing ginja shots. In a few hours the smell of marijuana will occasionally float by and Brazilian music will pound through some of the wooden creaking doors. For Bairro Alto is a completely different picture when the sky changes color and life is just waking up.

On another afternoon, I walk past dinghy derelict buildings, each one flaking history, hiding history, making history, and at times sidelined by history. The streets look somehow misplaced, the people look tiredly at you, some with a tinge of expectation, some with plain curiosity and some with an unfathomable expression. The laundry hangs outside the windows like a charm, blowing in the breeze, warding off the evil eye maybe. The old ladies in their knee length black skirts and boyish beach shirts nosily cackle along the road while I try and pass them up in the narrow street. But then I have to stop because a noisy tram trundles down the steep slope, a forgotten yellow in motion, a piece of another time and place, put into this century, for your touristy benefit only. It runs through the entire length of Alfama, the heartwarming, heartbreaking authentic, color filled district of joy and codfish, mussels and wine. The organised chaos is an oxymoron that lives in Alfama.

Custard explodes in my mouth on my first bite of pasties de Belem. The blue river lulls me into a trance on a hot afternoon at Torres de Belem.

The Jerinomos Monastry at first look, an old church, big and forgettable, turns into a meditative experience with the cloistered courtyard and manicured lawns. And a wooden statue of Christ up in the gallery instead of at the Altar.

It’s all known. But strangely exciting. Its welcoming and comfortable. It’s alien and new. It’s old. It’s sweet like the deep red wine they make. It’s salty like the sea air. It’s true, unsold, untouched by crass mass produced neon signs. It’s honest and cheap, folded, hidden and then suddenly its naked. It’s still family owned, clustered, lonely and cramped, and sleepy. But it’s love at first breath. And that’s when Lisboa claims it’s place in my heart. My heart claims it’s moments in Lisboa.

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26 . 07 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Portugal

Whoever said three is a crowd ..

vagabondess

… never took a picture of themselves with two other pairs of feet. :-)

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9 . 05 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, And I once met this person ..., Greece

Stop. Wonder. Contrast. Smile. Shrug. And then walk on.

vagabondess

A Wednesday afternoon in September. The water in the canals is calm and lazy, the people around are calmer and lazier. I am standing on one of the thousands of bridges staring at the reflection of my arms in the grey depths, gulping in deep breaths of a cool summer breeze. A raft floats towards me, the sole navigator looking lazily over the reflections around him. Floating. Figuratively. And Literally. I watch in bewilderment as he floats away. It’s a working Wednesday afternoon.

In another city far away, to which my mind immediately runs to, people are running, sweating, shoving, grasping, clutching and sweating some more. They have HAVE to catch the train that leaves at 2.46 p.m. as the next one is only after four whole minutes! All of them. Without exception.

A little park by the canal. With tree houses and wooden ladders propped up against the machan. For children to have some fun in the evening while their parents sit by enjoying a smoke.

In another city far away, the five thin trees that line an apartment building in a crowded suburb are being torn down to make way for parking space for another two cars. The last gulmohar tree was chopped down ten years back to make space for a water tank.

9 a.m. A young man zooms by in a business suit, the crisp folds of his sleeves in place, the tie flying casually around his neck, his laptop slung on his shoulder, resting on the seat behind him. On his bicycle. His sleek black shoes glint in the morning sun as he stops at the traffic lights, adjusts his hair and resumes cycling again.

In another city far away, a young man is hanging by a single hand’s grip on the open door of a train that is going at speeds of thirty miles an hour. He feels the smelly wind sweep his hair back as the sweat trickles down his shirt. His brown shoes have been stepped on by a hundred other shoes already. He is glad he made it into this coach.

A rainbow flag hangs proudly outside the door. No one looks at it twice. People cycle by, walk by, pass by and don’t blink twice. The flag is no longer needed to be an assertion or a declaration; by now it’s a nice decoration. For what it stands for is not a deviation. It’s everyday life here.

In a country far away, women are unknowingly being made to marry men who haven’t come out yet to the world for fear of being socially delineated. Or worse still, even after they have informed their family. For how can his family handle this unpleasant truth, this seemingly demonic spirit that’s inhabiting their son’s mind?

A busy street with a hundred souvenir shops selling fake boobs and fridge magnets with naked girls on them. Another hundred little restaurants that are cooking up stale pastries, yummy street delights and assorted cuisine proclaiming authentic cooking. And the board that catches my eye carries a name that is more familiar than my own name. But here, it’s just another restaurant with a golden picture of a man wrapped in a cloth walking with a stick

In a country far away, a person with that name and that silhouette has given his life for his country and has become the most important name in the history of the nation. There are at least five streets in every city bearing that name and he is the face of the name that is the face of the currency. To top it all, people with that name are running the country.

The smell of pure marijuana wafts through the open windows of this coffee shop, as I walk past it in wonderment. I stare at the decorations on the outside vaguely trying to understand the connection between the name, the images and the history of my consciousness. I grew up with this image, its on the main wall of every house in my country, it’s a tiny paper cutting in my wallet and its printed on every calendar made in one of the hundreds of indigenous languages.

In another country far away, he is being worshipped ardently by millions of mothers to protect their sons and daughters from the knowledge of drugs, sex and alcohol.

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9 . 05 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Netherlands

Where do we go from here …

vagabondess

Wheels on my feet
and nowhere to go
unless you lead me
with a will to show

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8 . 05 . 2011
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Asian Adventures, Sri Lanka

Vanity Bare

vagabondess

blue hair, a stud pierced through my tongue,
black nails and shoes that don’t match,
jeans that start inches after my top has ended,
but the important question is …

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24 . 04 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Netherlands

A new meaning to ‘Polo’?

vagabondess

On the Buda side of the city, atop the mountain stands this equestrian statue.

The specialty about this horse is that the horse and the rider are completely green and patina covered from years of exposure to the air. Only the balls on the horse are shining golden brass.

Unlike other statues that require you to admire them from afar, its said that if you rub the balls on this horse, you will be blessed with good luck. Would you rub a horse’s balls for luck?

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24 . 04 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Hungary

A city in a heartbeat

vagabondess

The neon glow is not harsh here,
unlike the rest of the city
for it’s softened by the sea
that infuses its salt smell
along with the waves
into the tepid air
Of a slow evening.

All that remains
is just a golden warmth
that seeps into my soul
into my backpack,
as I sit here
on the gentle curve
of my city’s neck
watching the girls and the boys
some laughing with the
freedom that only youth
once gave
and some exalting
in the lovers touch
that steals it’s moments from
a day’s worth of exhaustion
to bring a smile
to the hand that is held.

The orphan child
gives a shy toothy grin
as she extends her hand to thrust
a pack of peanuts
towards me
that I buy,
knowing fully well,
I don’t need them.
For now she skips her way to
the next group of people
who will ignore her,
but my penny got me
her smile.
Next, the chai comes along
On a bicycle.
‘I also have coffee madame’
I say, it’s a Mumbai evening
and how could it go without
one chai at least?
‘Of course!’ I say.

The haggard looking policemen
come along,
thwacking their authority
on the unsuspecting lovers
who are dreamily pointing to the sea,
for they are the custodians of
not-love in this city.

The occasional celebrity walks by
walking their dog
all shiny and classy
in their sleek body suits and
new sneakers,
demanding glances
for even fame needs some assurance
in a dying twilight

Across the bay
the lights have started twinkling
in the governor’s house
with the leafy edges
and the lone man on this side of the
promenade can only look
and dream of a time
when he too
will live on the leafy side.

A few feet away,
the road curves,
into the tall buildings
and powerhouses.
The place from where we all
have come for a respite
and we will all go back to
when this reverie is over
when the sky is black
and the wind has turned.

But not yet.
Not yet because you, my love,
look the prettiest under this indigo sky
when the sea is still orange and
when my hopes are still diminishing
but there is still a thin sliver left
that says
you will always take me back
when I want you to hold me
unconditionally.

Because I freeze you
like this in my memory
to relive you again
in a heartbeat.

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24 . 04 . 2011
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Asian Adventures, India, Mumbai

Mirror Mirror on the wall, is that my face at all?

vagabondess

She lived her life in compartments,
Always fragmented, never a whole
And when the devil came to take her,
He never knew the face of her soul

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22 . 04 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Italy

A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving – Lao Tzu

vagabondess

Then there are the people you meet on your way who sometimes make you stop, think and evaluate. Sometimes you get the courage and the inspiration to change the course of your life. Yet sometimes, you are happy picking up little traces of their lives and merging them quietly into your own – so as to not radically change your direction but to enhance the journey.

Here are a few people who I met who took my breath away with their perspectives, their experiences and sometimes the pure joy they exuded. Some of them I am still in touch with, some I know I will meet again. Some I may never see again – but that’s why the internet is such a good thing :)

Sometimes I wish I had a place to hang my towel – Lockie.

Lockie left home 7 years back to travel and never returned back to Australia. He has spent the last 4 years cruising around the globe on his bicycle. There is no continent that he has not been on, barely a country I can conjure up where he has not been and hardly a thing that I can google that he has not seen. A few of the stories that he told me included wrestling with a Lion who attacked his tent in Ethiopia, escaping the Chinese guards at 2.00 a.m. on a freezing winters night to make his way into Tibet, cycling through ice fields in Kazakhstan and camping by the pyramids and sleeping under the shadow of the Sphinx. His way of travel is exactly what Chris McCandlees was trying to find (those who have seen Into the Wild will know what I am talking about). Spartan and absolutely demands-less, he carries his whole world on his bike. And his entire life does not weigh more than twelve kilos including his tent, little stove, clothes and two books (because you cannot cycle for days through ice fields with more weight). And you would think that someone like that has to be slightly crazy? One meeting with Lockie and you will be surprised to find yourself staring into the face of honest contentment and and unreal peace. He is so much at ease with himself and his surroundings wherever he is that you start wondering if any connection makes any sense at all.

He makes his way from one country to the other absorbing, feeling, observing and loving the world for all its glories. Sometimes though. He says, only Sometimes I wish I had a place to hang my towel.

Let’s go around the world. Twice – Rica.

One morning I got a very bubbly happy loud and cheerful email from someone called Chitless Foodie. And that’s exactly how she turned out to be when she turned up at my house.
Rica had been on the road for three years already – traveling from the US to Europe, to Asia, to Australia – and was on her way back home when someone asked her if she wanted to participate in a rally for raising money for Minefield victims. On impulse she said yes and the next thing she knows she is traveling with a travel partner in their adorably decorated car Pedro. The aim being to go overland from London to Oz. By the time she reached UAE, she had already raised money to clean up a mine-field in Kosovo and was on her way to raise money for helping landmine victims in Laos. Rica too is like Lockie in the way that she too has been to about hundred countries, tried all the food there is, played with Penguins, checked into a Kerala Ashram for a while and seen Asia more than most Asian people have. However when I met her, her enthusiasm did not seem to have waned in a bit for visiting these places again. She was HAPPY to do it all over again for the cause.

See you somewhere on Earth – Pat and Bro.

Patrizia and Bro have been cycling around the world on their Tandem Bike since 2003 – they have tandem-ed their way across all the continents including the Antarctica. For most parts they haven been traveling – with brief stop overs in a couple of countries to save up some money. When I met them in UAE they were on their way to Iran to make their way up to Tajikistan and Uzbekistan from Iran. Imagine that? My guess is that’s what you do when you have run out of countries to go to! The thing with Pat and Bro was that they are so beautifully committed to their dream together that it makes you crave for a perfect travel partner like that. Seeing them operate is like seeing one person function – a routine that is so fixed when the unload and load up their tandem that they don’t need to exchange one word about who is going to do what. Its clockwork precision, but that’s what the world has come to expect from the Swiss haven’t they?

I want to write about Arabic Women Poets – Kelsey

Kelsey was one of those complete sweethearts that I was lucky enough to have staying with me for a few days. What set her aside was her complete openness and curiosity about the culture she is visiting. Kelsey is a 22 year old student from a small university in Virginia, US. Not many students with that profile have the gumption to actually leave home and go wandering around the Middle East with an objective of something as esoteric as writing a thesis on Women Poets in the Arabic language. But when Kelsey came to my place she was already 2-3 months into her soujourn and what amazed me were the insights she had already gained into the lives of Arabic people specially women. When having stayed here for 3 years, I had almost no clue about their lives. What amazed me was the sheer fearlessness of the young girl from a small town in Virginia who though scared at the prospect of wandering around alone in the Middle East for a year, specially with the notorious reputation that this region carries, took the plunge and was already emerging a winner.

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22 . 04 . 2011
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And I once met this person ...

The Many Faces of Innocence – II

vagabondess

In your shriveled skin,the once-future
is now etched in the wrinkles of the past
I ask of you, you with the knowing smile,
Teach me the faith you quietly nurture

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21 . 04 . 2011
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Asian Adventures, India, Ladakh

The Many Faces of Innocence – I

vagabondess

In your chubby red cheek,
Is the innocence of a promise,
The joy of the unknown
and of the future you will seek

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21 . 04 . 2011
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Asian Adventures, India, Ladakh

How do you know where you are?

vagabondess

As a tourist, you know you are in:

UAE
- When wherever you stand you can see at least four garbage bins at your disposal
- When you realise that in the last 72 hours, you have been in an air conditioned environment for 71 hours and forty five minutes.
- When the longest walk you took in the last three days was the four hour shopping trip which started from the north end of Dubai Mall and ended short of the south end of Dubai Mall, because your feet felt like they were breaking into pieces.
- When you see a Maserati, an Audi, couple of Ferraris, a vrooming Lamborghini, couple of stray Bentleys zoom by you while you were busy clicking pictures of the Rolls Royce and Maybach parked in the ‘normal’ parking lot of the mall.
- When you land in this country thinking this is the Middle East and then get confused if you landed in the correct country. Because this place is either Kerala or Philippines – and you are unable to decide.
- When everything you see, visit or go to has the words Jumeriah, Dubai, Zayed, Al Wasl, Burj, Makhtoum or Emirates in its name.
- When the tourist bus you signed up for to take you around the city keeps dropping you at malls at every stop.
- When everything that the guide book describes ends with an ‘est’. Example: WidEST Road, RichEST Hotel, TallEST building, LargEST mall.
- When you miss an exit or the correct turn while driving around and then have to drive to the moon and back to get back to where you wanted to go.

Jordan
- When every man on the street looks at you like you not wearing any clothes
- When every man thinks you will go out with him if he quickly poses the question – everyone including the salesmen in stores, hotel receptionists, cleaning boys, waiters and cab drivers
- When through the evening car after car that passes you by is filled with teenage boys, wearing all black and with gelled hair, blasting loud arabic music with the windows rolled down and they all stare at you like you have three tails and a big red nose. Or well, like you have no clothes on.

Cairo
- When all the buildings around you are the same dusty, dry and tired shade of ochre and merge seamlessly into each other
- The cars on the street look like they are from the first batch of cars that were rolled out of automotive companies’ assembly lines when the industrial revolution started
- Everyone around you smokes. Everyone. Inside airports, outside airports, inside cafes, restaurants, hotel lobbies.
- When everyone on the street always looks angry and is swearing loudly – including the shopkeepers, the waiters, the hotel owners, the reception boys, the cabbies, the tourism touts.

Turkey
- When from any spot you stand on, you can see at least 5 crimson flags fluttering in the wind
- When you continuously head the word ‘chok’ being repeated in the conversation so much that it seems like half the words in the language are called ‘chok’

Budapest
- When anywhere you go, you are about 1.5 minutes away from a McDonalds
- You see buildings around you with bullet and grenade holes in them
- When the ground floor of old crusty buildings have been painted in bright green and pink and blue while the first floor onwards they are sooty dinghy natural blacks and browns

Rome
- When there are couple kissing very VERY passionately, almost eating up the others face for a long long time by every fountain, in trains, on train stations completely oblivious to the world
- When every second building ha s a huge historic story to tell
- When every street has at least three Gelato shops selling incredibly yummy Gelato.

Salzburg
- When everything you buy ranging from soap to cheese to shoes is somehow linked to Sound of Music
- When everything you buy ranging from soap to cheese to shoes has Mozart endorsing it.

Berlin
- When everything you think, know, imagine and talk about has been represented in graffiti on some dinghy wall in the city
- When people very nonchalantly are drinking beer on public buses, trains, while waiting for buses and trains, on the streets, in their cars, in the supermarkets. Pretty much Everywhere.

Amsterdam
- When every third shop is a sex toys shop. With claims like ‘The best vibrating store in town’
- When every second shop is a ‘coffee shop’
- When you see people cycling to work in complete formal suits and a laptop slung around their shoulder
- When you see lots of girls giggling uncontrollably, totally stoned.

Vienna
- When you create a competition in your head about who wins the contest on occupation of most billboards – McDonalds or Intimissimi

Pisa
- When everyone you see on the streets is walking in only two directions – from the train station towards the tower or from the tower to the trains station. Noone ever goes anywhere else
- When people are making very very VERY strange poses in front of the tower. My favourite being men trying to poject the tower as jutting out from between their legs and getting their girlfriend to click this picture. Errrmmm.

Nairobi
- When you see giant vulture like birds hanging around in droves on every tree lining the arterial roads of the city
- When you have national reserve parks in the MIDDLE of the main city

Bali
- When everything on the streets is sold in millions of the local currency. So a ragged t-shirt bought at a roadside shack could cost you a few millions in Indonesian Rupaiyah
- When Ram and Sita form the core design for everything that’s on display in the local handicrafts market

Thailand
- When the most common site is an OLD obese Caucasian man in shorts and a loose beach shirt walking around holding hands with a nubile pretty young thai thing
- When every second shop is a massage parlour

Ladakh
- When the landscape and weather change every hour
- When the only food available is in roadside shacks and all of them serve Maggi Noodles.
- When you see blue-green-red-yellow-white prayer flags fluttering everywhere and Om Mani Padme Hum scratched on every possible surface

Jaipur
- When the air is thick with strange smells, notably human waste, anywhere you go
- Cows plonk themselves in the middle of the road and no one thinks that’s weird.
- All the buildings are painted bubble-gum pink

Goa
- When every second shop is an alcohol shop or ‘wine shop’
- When everywhere you see, you can see at least two men in their hippie outfits and dreadlocks wandering around with vacant eyes
- When anywhere you see, you see obese Caucasian oldish people guzzling beer.

Mumbai
- When every vehicle on the streets is loudly honking their horns for no apparent reason
- When drivers do not believe in the idea of indicators or driving lanes.
- When standing in a queue is an unheard of concept
- When everyone is rushing around at top speed like they are about to miss their appointment with the President Obama,
- When you have an airport right in the MIDDLE of the city flanked by a huge slum with millions of birds flying around it to feast on open garbage

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21 . 04 . 2011
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Africa, An Europhile's Diary, Arabian Days and Nights, Austria, Egypt, Germany, Goa, Greece, Hungary, India, Indonesia, Italy, Jordan, Kenya, Ladakh, Mumbai, Netherlands, Rajasthan, Thailand, Turkey, UAE

From here …

vagabondess

If I reach out to you now,
Will you paint my fingers crimson
Or will you watch them burn
Will you take me to the end with you
Or abandon me at the turn

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20 . 04 . 2011
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Asian Adventures, India, Rajasthan

It of course happens in India …

vagabondess

Since one Katrina Kaif is clearly not enough, two are pasted right up there on the wall next to Durga/Kali/Devi and offered incense sticks for consumption

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20 . 04 . 2011
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India, Rajasthan

Vendor’s Vendetta

vagabondess

Cries of joy resound off the yellow walls of palaces.

A combustion of smells including cattle dung, incense sticks, spices, burning wood, engine oils, open urinals, roadside chai and sweat gives new meaning to the term olfactory overload.

A dry cold wind leaving white flakes on the skin and parched lips piercing through layers of moisturising creams and lip balms.

And then the visuals come through to form such bursts of colour that all the other senses are forgotten in an ecstasy of images. The stained glass in the palaces that dances in the evening sunlight, the twinkling lights of a floating palace over the lake, the violent orange sunsets and then the most vibrant of them all, the colors that the vendors infuse into the Rajasthani canvas.

This is Rajasthan Part 1: A Vendor’s Vendetta against the natural parched brown landscape of a desert country overcoming shades of brown, beige, tan, sand and ochre to give the place its vivaciousness.

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20 . 04 . 2011
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Asian Adventures, India, Rajasthan

No longer a spot on the map. Its a real place.

vagabondess

‘Here. Take these keys. Let’s go’
Huh? What?
‘The keys for your bike. You want to see the city don’t you?’
(a slow deliberate uncomprehending) Yeaasssse …
‘Great. Let’s go’

Sixty seconds later, a bike is thrust into my hands.

‘Come on. Let’s go’
Oh! (comprehension dawns clear and bright as it can on a cool summer dutch evening)

Another sixty seconds later, I am struggling to keep my balance, trying to deal with all the motions linked with biking my way across the city – keeping the balance, slowing down when someone is crossing the street, slowing down so as not to run into Tom’s bike, looking up at the trees and the houses and pedalling at the same time. All the while trying to deal with the fact that this is actually happening.

I have just met Tom, an hour back and we have just finished a quick rice noodles and boiled vegetables dinner. I have dumped my backpack in his hallway and have prepared myself for a relaxed evening, probably wandering around his little neighbourhood, talking and clicking a few pictures. What I have not bargained for and am more than happy to trade my boring vision for is a three-hour bike ride across the city of Rotterdam with Tom and Hyuri, through the increasing coolness of a late September evening, breathing in the sights and sounds and the first shocks of an out-of-practice-biking amateur.

I am quite wobbly on the bike – having last touched a bike at the age of ten or so – and take my time to adjust to the momentum. I run into Tom, I run into Hyuri, I run into a couple of trees. I stop at traffic lights, and then I am unable to start biking again. I struggle to listen to their excellent commentary of the city’s sights and sounds as I hold on TIGHT to the handles of my bike as my knuckles turn blue, lest it goes flying off leaving me sitting on the street. But thirty minutes later, I am sailing through the streets like I have done this forever, like I could take ET’s bike and sail into the moon and not ever have to worry about stopping at another traffic light or worry about sticking to my lane.

Tom is an incredible host. He takes me around to the famous Rotterdam docks first, then to a few of those famous buildings that I cannot remember the names of, to the Kubuswoningen, the cube-shaped made by Piet Blom, to the famous house over the street by the bridge that’s been squatted on and then finally three hours later we cycle onto the Erasmusburg, the beautifully lit Swan-bridge.

To be really honest, I have not expected all this hospitality. But what I get from Tom is the best evening I have in Netherlands. From the bridge, we drive to a little bar by a tiny canal, where we manage to find a table by the water. We move our chairs to the edge of the water, put our feet up on the railing and talk about Beer, India, Netherlands, Dutch history, Jazz music, the Taliban, Kenya, Donkeys, New york, Diwali, Hinduism, Amsterdam, Pink Floyd, the Sea, Spain, Environmental issues, Global Warming, Germany, Weed, being sick on the road, Europe, what it means to be an asian girl travelling alone, the difference of worlds, the squatters law, the Uffizi gallery in Firenze. Never once through the next two hours does the conversation stop, waver or die. Then we move to his favourite Jazz bar a few streets up and talk more about the English, Jazz music, Bollywood, Salman Khan, cricket, China, stand-up comedy, the Scottish accent, the tallness of dutch people, Van Gogh, Gouda cheese, French fries, Quentin Tarantino, all the while listening to some extremely soulful jazz being rendered by the in-house band.

And when this evening ends, I never have thought it could be so difficult saying goodbye to someone you have met for three hours. Rotterdam is no longer a dot on the map now. Someone has made it a real place in a span of one evening.

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16 . 04 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Netherlands

O’ Wien

vagabondess

From up in the mountains, I breathe you,
I watched you grow from old to new,
In you I lived and in you I will end,
But today for you I ache,
Tomorrow for me, will you ache too?

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15 . 04 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Austria

Transition

vagabondess

The things that I let go, and the things I hold,
One keeps me warm; the other lets me go cold,
One they call meager, one they call rich,
Neither they nor I can tell which is which.

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15 . 04 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Germany

Walls of Passion

vagabondess

Berlin, the city that stole my soul, is a graphic explosion of colors, murals, expressions, shapes, freedom, ideas, design and above all, passion. And all of this is succinctly and not-so-subtly ensconced in the graffiti contributed by artists from all over the country and I presume the world.

A walking tour of the Alternative Berlin (not the Berlin of Brandenburg Tor and Holocaust Memorial, but the Berlin of back alleys and crumbling art galleries) revealed a vivid side of Berlin that started my infatuation with the city – walls covered with wit, stories, indignation, anger, laughter, just plain cheekiness, political statements and mostly rebellion. Here are a few images that stuck to my memory.

Massive Walls that are covered with graffiti have you wondering, how the hell did the artists get up there and get time to make such intricate and detailed works of art if graffiti is not exactly legal in this country like all other countries. I guess, at some point even the authorities are also human and they do see the humor in this so they turn a blind eye to there indulgences of creativity.

This one is an actual 3-D mural that causes a little disturbance of reality. I was fooled too.

The ‘East-Side Hotel’ that lies just opposite The WALL/ East side gallery proclaims its Love of Berlin

Some are just incredible stories.

‘Knut’, the polar bear was born in the Berlin Zoo and caused a mega-massive Media Frenzy over his magical birth in the zoo which did not recede over the next few months. Some peopel got mighty frustrated with the unduly attention (but can you blame the poor bear? At least he was cute. Paris Hilton gets it for NOTHING!).
Anyways. So this picture depicts a very nasty polar bear holding up the artist at gun point because he is protesting against this insane hype about Knut.

This picture has about 20 stories of different origins and characters hidden in this space. Every character you see in this picture has a different history, reference, meaning and reason for being here.

This little Blue and White Space Invaders mosaic is a brilliant story.
Apparently a french artist called “Invader” has installed this blue and white tiled mosaic in different cities across Europe in barely noticeable locations in the city. And if you lay out a map in front of you and join the dots on all these cities across the map, it makes up the exact shape of the space invaders creature in this mosaic.

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15 . 04 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Germany

Kechak

vagabondess

Kechak Kechak Kechak Kechak.

The fifty odd thin frail men with bare torsos cluck their mouths in rhythm, all the while moving around the small stage in pre-ordained steps, the remnants of an ancient dance, carried through to this century. The stage is aglow with soft gold from hundreds of tiny earthen oil lamps. A dark blue evening is descending thickly outside, and the open green fields behind the stage are visibly darkening ever minute. I watch mesmerized as the oldest story of Indian mythology is replayed on stage by these Indonesian artists in the twilight

I am in Bali, Indonesia, a world away from the world. The small airplane that took off from Jakarta in the evening, coursed through a violently orange sky before landing on the small airstrip that constitutes the Balinese airport. The tepid air was thick with a days worth of rainfall and the smell of anticipation rolled around in the air. I checked into my hotel and my second evening in Bali found me wandering into this ‘theatre’ to watch the Ramayana being played out, Balinese style.

The Kechak dance is a hypnotizing hour – long performance, originally a trance ritual performed by a troupe. The entire story of the Ramayana is unfolded before an enthralled audience without using words. The drama is conveyed only though dance and the ‘Kechak’ sound. The story starts with the 150 odd men dressed only in checked black and white cloth tied around their waist, walking onto stage, clapping and dancing to tell the story of an mythical Indian prince, who was misunderstood, mistreated and who eventually went on to win a ferocious battle over evil in the form of the ten-headed Ravana who he demolished over a ten day battle. These men are ordinary real-life people, thin, dark, with lean bodies and faces that you would pass on the road a million times and not notice. Yet, right here on stage on an evening like this, they hold the power to keep your eyes riveted on them.

Somewhere along the course of the dance, the protagonist of the story, Rama and his wife Sita and brother Lakshman appear on stage. These three look very different from the kechak dancers – they are light-skinned, have beautiful features, graceful arms and dramatic make-up on their faced, They are also dressed differently – in rich red and gold and orange clothes with a gold crown and jewellery, to clearly distinguish them from the commoners.
These are followed by the quintessential Ravana – a big-bellied, massive-mustached, dark skinned, wild-haired Rakhshasa (Demon-king), who captures Sita and flies away with her. The rest of the story unfolds with monkey actors playing the Vanara army, a winged Garuda and a theatrical presentation of a ten-day battle that eventually leads to Ravana being vanquished. A lifetime’s story depicted in one hour of a Balinese evening.

All through this, the Kechak men never stop. While the main actors do their part on stage, the Kechak men never stop repeating ‘Kechak Kechak’, their tempo rising and falling with the rise and fall of the story, never faltering in their step, never stopping and never tiring. As their voices finally rise to a crescendo, they end their story with a ball of fire in the middle of the stage. A thick silence descends over the audience, who by now sits fascinated by the stirring performance they just witnessed.

That’s the Bali I recommended visiting beyond the surfing boards and the bars.

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9 . 04 . 2011
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Asian Adventures, Indonesia

Sketch the Trees and the Daffodils …

vagabondess

Canvases that radiate warmth. Sunlight mixed with paint, splashed in abstract abundance. Brush strokes so bold and then so delicate, so distinct yet somehow merging into the million other distinct blobs of paint on the scene. You see the words they say and want to reach out to the artist’s loving hands.

I have always been a fan of Van Gogh’s master brush. But the heat of his art hits me for the first time for real, when I walk into the spacious Van Gogh museum on a cool September afternoon in Amsterdam. Wide open spaces are enclosed inside the building, a brown wooden staircase gives you to access the upper galleries. The white walls that extend beyond two floors are comforting, creating a perfect afternoon for Vincent Watching.

So I set off with trepidation, sort of expecting to be overwhelmed, with a tinge of fear and a respect that deepens with every canvas I walk by.

Van Gogh’s troubled life is not unknown, a masterhand who shot himself at the age of 37, cannot be without his share of deep secrets and disturbed history. If his progressively vivid palette was any indication of the activity and proposed incoherence in his mind, is left to anybody’s guess. What does stay imprinted on my memory is the love and the effort that the artist poured into his paint. Specially in his Arles and Saint-Remy days.

I walk slowly through the aisles, stopping, reading, staring, marveling, listening to the audio guide that has excellent explanations of every painting that’s up on the walls. So I listen to the narrator’s calm voice talking about the deliberate coarseness of The Potato Eaters, the multiplicity of the Sunflower paintings, the composition of ‘Bedroom in Arles’ and the delicate falling of the ‘Chestnut tree in blossom’, and am taken back to a sunny France, more than a century ago where Vincent spent his time, writing, sketching, painting, thinking, wondering and creating magic with his sunfilled yellow oil paint, the crimson color of his own blood, the varying tones of blue and the fresh greens and anything and everything in between. And finally giving in.

The only disappointment being that The Starry Night and Café on the Terrace are not in the Van Gogh museum.

Two hours later, I walk out of the museum store, armed with a few cheap posters, postcards and an indelible brush stroke painted on the landscape of my life.

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25 . 03 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Netherlands

Sign in the viewing window …

vagabondess

… of a tiny shop in Amsterdam

“Please do not ask for medicated drugs like Ecstasy, LSD or Valium. This is Amsterdam. Not Disneyland”

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24 . 03 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Netherlands

Ladakh. A promise fulfilled.

vagabondess

A little bald head peeks around the corner, its little eyes twinkling in the sun. A moment later a deep crimson flash, as the young lama runs out of his spot behind the brown wall into the dark space beyond the open door. I watch in complete fascination and with some understanding as he is followed by a few more lamas. Older, walking instead of running, barely smiling, leaving a sense of complete peace and austere harmony behind them. A lifetime’s dedication to learning and reconciliation with god, confined to the premises of this monastery. A life that could have been different but wont be.

An early morning. The sun is not yet above the horizon. But the golden light is already stirring up the glacial calm of the night. The white peaks are aglow with anticipation, the gray tar road is calling. My hands are blue from the cold, but my eyes are wide open, barely believing what they see. The red walls of the little building contrast against the merging yellows and greens and grays in the background as I lean out of the car to breathe in a living moment of purity. A morning that will never come again, has just gone by.

The car puffs and huffs and puffs up the steep rocky path that should have been a road but isn’t. Snow has started descending soft and flaky on the windscreen before me, while the blizzard is speeding up on the peak a few hundred metres from where we can see it. The Khardungla is majestic beyond all description, frozen in time above the rest of the world. Literally. There is only one way from here. And that is down.

6.00 a.m. – A little Buddhist village at sunrise.
10.00 a.m. – Sunny green meadows. Bright sun.
11.00 a.m. Snowflakes on the windshield at 11.
12.00 noon – The highest motorable road in the world. Blizzard.
2.00 p.m. – Rocky mountains. No hints of any sort of vegetation. Only cold wind.
3.00 p.m. – A river cuts a deep gorge through colored stone. The cold water bubbles its way over boulders and shadows reflect deep in the running stream.
4.00 p.m. A desert. Few square kilometres of actual veritable desert. With sand dunes and camels. Caught in the middle of glaciers and mountains.
5.00 p. Leafy lanes of a tiny camp where we empty our backpacks and catch some sleep before a dinner and campfires.

Landscapes that change by the hour. Landscapes that stay imprinted in the mind long after I have passed through them.

Aquamarine blue? No.
Cornflower blue? No.
Sapphire blue? Nope.
Sky blue? No No.
Cobalt blue? Naaaah.
Azure? Navy? Maybe, but no.

Pangong Blue? Yes.

The prayer flags of Ladakh. Om Mani Padme Hum. Strings across the sky. Fluttering against the cold wind, waiting for the gust to carry their message to another part of the world. The red, yellow, white, blue and green of printed cotton. A memory captured in sepia.

A simple people. Red cheeked children. Poverty visible. An unfulfilled future. Infinite beauty.

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24 . 03 . 2011
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Asian Adventures, India, Ladakh

Galerie Tachales, Berlin

vagabondess

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23 . 03 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Germany

A spot on the map. A gap in the heart.

vagabondess

Berlin remains. The Berlin of my dreams.

The Berlin covered with a million designs made by free spirits and loving hands.
The city of graffiti artists and cans of paint, the walls of freedom and expression.

The Berlin of Galerie Tachales.
Of twisted sculptures of wrought iron and rusted metal.
Of dark doors and darker stairwells,
With millions of colors splashed on its damp walls.
Of violent love and a resolute silence.
Of a sandy courtyard and spirited conversation.

The Berlin of History.
Of the East Side Gallery, with the speaking murals.
Of Brezhnev and Honecker kissing.
Of the massive elegance of the Reichstag and an evening of utter chaos at the Branderburg Tor.
Of Checkpoint Charlie postcards and a gray memorial to the Holocaust.

The Berlin of a quiet evening by the canal.
With Luce.
Of an evening embedded in time, of beer bottles and packs of smokes.
Of conversation that lasted seven hours and was never stopped or repeated.
Of shared dreams and lasting memories.
Of a blue twilight and a postponed sunset.
Of a cool breeze and warm soup.

The Berlin of Knut, Jamaica, Space Invaders, a crashing superman outside the Jewish Museum, Turkish sweets and Currywurst.

The Berlin of an entire afternoon spent discussing the wonders of ice-cream.
And the quandary of choosing an ice cream flavour.
The difficulties of choosing the cone or the cup.
And of looking at the happiness of children eating ice creams.
The Berlin of love.

The Berlin of music, of African men playing drums in parks,
Of a street band performing at the Brandenburg gate
Of a duo of music makers making music with every hand and leg on strange instruments – but in perfect harmony.
Of a Peruvian band weaving their magic at night by the railway station.
Of a music festival with a throng of young people grooving to drums in the cold dark woods.

The Berlin of beer on the streets, beer in the train, beer in the buses, beer on planes, beer in airports, beer in supermarkets, beer in everywhere.

The Berlin of efficency. The Berlin of crisp metal sheets and large bahnoffs. And rickety moulding buildings. Of glassy towers and dilapidated houses. Of Tattoos and horses. Of huge green parks, implausible stories and resonant joy.

Berlin remains a part of me lost in time. Berlin remains lost in me.

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23 . 03 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Germany

Submission. Here I come.

vagabondess

In every country that one visits, there comes this moment when something or someone hits your senses with full force, leaving you startled for a split second before you smile, stop being ‘you from India or Dubai or wherever’ and completely submit yourself to the fact of being ‘you in that land’.

My moment of ‘being in Italy’ started innocuously enough. My first evening in Firenze, I was meeting a few people at Piazzale Michealangelo for sunset and an apertivo. Having grown up on a staple diet of American television and Michael Jackson, I confidently strutted up to the bus station, put on my most touristy-local friendly smile and asked the oldish Italian ticket vendor for ‘one ticket to Pee-ah-za-lay My-kal-an-jay-lo please’.

To which he slowly looked at my face, bought all his fingers together, and waving his hand slightly in front of his face (the most famous gesture italians are known for) and with an expression of utter patience mixed with profound pain and a slight hint of eye-rolling, said with slow deliberation “ Pee-ah-za-lay Mee-kel-an-jay-lo” and then proceeded to shove the ticket in my general direction.

After the split second shock, once all the italianness of that moment, that man and that evening sunk in, my face broke into a huge grin and I bowed in complete submission to Italia. Yes. I am here and this is Italia. And never again in my life will I make the mistake of Mykalangelo-ing a Meekelanjaylo.

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23 . 03 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Italy

And it’s all in your wake. Did you know?

vagabondess

On crazy busy days, when I put a full stop to the steam engine that life at work is and take a moment to stare out of the window at inconsequential things, I cant help but wonder, where did this madness, an insatiable thirst to experience new, to see new, to feel new come from. This maddening desire to take a destination and make it my own, to live and breathe maps, travelogues and explorations. I think I owe it to 5 people.

The first two being the awesomest Mom and Dad. See, the thing is when you are a child, you barely know what you want. But you do know that you are enjoying going out with the Mom and Dad to new places. The oldest holiday I can remember taking was when I was about 2 years old – to a place none other than Kashmir. Now now, I know you might argue that its not possible to remember something from so far back, specially if you are a chubby little kid running around in pink frilly frocks (blush), but I do! I really really do!.I remember meeting this other kid Gaurav (how the hell do I remember someone from decades back when I cant remember seeing people I saw yesterday in my office, I have no idea.) and going out to explore the garden of our hotel with him. This was like a million years ago.

Coming back to Mom and Dad. The best thing did was to take us out for those minimum of two holidays every year. It could be a big one, small one, far or near. But there was always a holiday. It could be plane travel, bus journey, train time, but there was always a voyage to be done. And without anyone realizing, that became a indivisible part of who we were. And who I am. Of corse, international vagabonding was not possible then, so we went local with a bang – Kashmir, Simla, Manali, Nainital, Rest of Uttaranchal, Delhi, Agra, Jaipur, Udaipur, Mt Abu, Rest of Rajasthan, a whole lot of Maharashtra, Mysore, Banglore, Ooty, Goa, Ganapatipule, Alibag, the western ghats, Pune. It’s a pity we never go around to getting more east than Delhi, but hey, with all those school and college and classes and work schedules, it was the best that could have been done. And today the thirst to see more has been passed on, with me being unable to survive three months before taking off somewhere to get my sanity back. So yeah – thanks mom and dad for this most brilliant gift of incessant travel. I owe it to you.

Secondly, Priyanka, the girl I befriended on the fourth day of our holiday together when Nim decided to take that shower. That story will of corse stay a code, but she gave me the next big gift in a way she probably doesn’t know. She made me quit my job and go to Ladakh with her, a trip where we met 2 other awesome girls and since then its been a crazy drama of travel and madness. I shudder to think that had I not trusted Nim to carry along with him 2 women who dont know each other and gone on a holiday with Pri (who by the way I dint know till I met her on the eve of our departure from Dubai airport for a ten-day holiday in Turkey and Greece), I might still be stuck in some god-awful place with no chance for redemption. Ladakh made me sit back, re-evaluate what I was doing with my life and the truth was revealed to me in some instant along that trip – that I wasn’t doing enough. In fact I wasn’t doing anything. And that was the jolt I needed. And now here I am full stream making plans for LatAm and such other destinations, and I cant help but stop and say thanks to Priyanka.

Ameya-the light of my traveler soul. If I ever bond with anyone else like this over uninhibited travel, the way I did with him, then god bless us all. Ameya has been a very mad source of inspiration, his spiritedness, his dance-with-the-wolves-yet-have-fun behavior, his infectious desire to explore and his maddeningly crazy speed of thinking travel – thanks for Sri Lanka and everything else to follow babe.

Lastly Dorota – for actually going ahead and doing what I am only dreaming of doing since 2 years and giving me all the inspiration I need for the next one year to make my sole dream come true – and for all those lazy afternoon walks talking about thousands of things to see and do while we are alive, I owe you one and more.

And lastly, this dedication to writing about it all, of chronicling the moments that time would soon erase from memory, I learnt from reading Nick Kembel, a friend I once met.

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23 . 03 . 2011
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Uncategorized

I once landed in a land with names like …

vagabondess

Matzleeinsdorf, Schwedenplatz, Schlachthausgasse,Heiligenstadt, Weidlingau, Schonnburnner, Margaretengurtelgrasse.

Got my tongue rolled around itself and came back.

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22 . 03 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Austria

Jumped into a cartload of grapes? Sure!

vagabondess

A Vineyard in rural Veneto, Italy.

Its summer in Italy, but up here in the north, the day is a pleasant mix of sunlight and shade as a cool breeze blows through my hair.

It’s around ten a.m. A pair of clippers in my hand I start tugging at bunches of luscious grapes that are ripe enough to be severed from the vines and taken away to make wine. I cannot believe I am about to start a day that promises to be a lot of what dreams are made of.

It turns out even better.

When lunch is served at noon, we come back to long wooden benches spread out below the shady leafy trees. There is fresh bread and cheese from the farm, with their own wine. With extremely engaging company of a myriad assortment of Veneto-ians, I settle down to one of the most memorable meals of my life. Fresh Italian Paninis are served with more wine as a couple of old Italian villagers pick up old wooden instruments and start making music in a corner of the dining area. Sitting there listening to the strains of Italian music, enjoying a complete sensorial overload of cheese and wine, shade and breeze, conversation and laughter, I cannot help but feel really happy. In my core, in my heart.

And then just when I think, this can’t get more fun, this happens. A La-Walk-in-the-Clouds. Can I do this for a living please? ;)

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22 . 03 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Italy, Special Events

Pieces of an Extraterrestrial Earth

vagabondess

Pieces of terra firma that surprise the senses. Landscapes that look like they could not have been a result of just evolution. This could not be only the earth aging or a volcano erupting. They have to be the combined force of much less science and many more aesthetic inspirations.

A glimpse of another planet put here by little green men. Or a master’s touch, the sculptor of the world got whimsy and in a creative burst put all his joy into this stretch of a few square kilometres. Or just a figment of the world’s hypnotized imagination.

Vagabondess’s recommendations on Once-in-your-life-you-must-see phenomena

Cappadocia, Neveshir, Turkey

When ‘Fairy Chimneys’ are the key attraction in a place, you sure do expect magic. And experiencing that magic at sunrise, floating around in a balloon at 400 feet above the ragged, jutting peaks of Cappadocia is a sure enchantment of a unique kind.

Moonland, Ladakh, India.

I watch the landscape change from rocky mountains to soft yellow wrinkled skin.l I get out of the car and stretch my hand only half believing what I see. A patch carved out of a valley otherwise rocky and black, is all soft yellow and powdery, crumbles under your footstep and is fittingly called Moonland.

Pamukkale, Denizli, Turkey

White stalactites gleaming in the sun. Clinging on to the sides of a hill while the sun goes up into a bright blue sky. The rising light reveals massive terraces of still water gleaming with sun diamonds, while a hard white puffy surface looks like a Castle of Cotton has been built into the mountainside. A pretty white blob on an otherwise barren landscape. Pamukkale (Cotton-Castle) takes my breath away.

Chamarel, Mauritius.

Violent lashes of red soil, merge smoothly with soothing hues of blue soil. Orange soil blends with tinges of green. Yellow lies next to purple and indigo completes the palette. A veritable rainbow. Only this time its at your feet, in the soil, spreading before you for over half a kilometre and leaves you wondering.

Meteora, Kalambaka, Greece

Giant columns of rock shooting into the sky through an otherwise low green landscape, Meteora takes your breath away in an instant and then doesn’t give it back to you till you have huffed and puffed your way up to the Monasteries located to precariously and skilfully on the heads of these spires. A random creation of art by someone up there.

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21 . 03 . 2011
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Africa, An Europhile's Diary, Asian Adventures, Greece, India, Mauritius, Turkey

Vagabondess’s Top 5 pictures from 4 years of travel

vagabondess

Optimum Utilisation of Space and Ceramic Resources anyone?
Placed outside a small shop in the winding lanes of Oia, Santorini.

Superman turns into Clark Kent. Forgets to stop flying.
Placed outside the Jewish Museum in Berlin.

Instructions scrawled by a street artist on the streets of Rome
Read Carefully

Really? If you dint show us, we would have never guessed.
Placed on the door of the toilet of a bar in Mykonos.

Everyone knows Amsterdam and the legality of Weed. Not everyone knows about the menus.
‘Coffee Shop’ in Amsterdam

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20 . 03 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Germany, Greece, Italy, Netherlands

I am a Disco Dancer. Tetetenya! (sang to the tune)

vagabondess

May 2009: 19 years after 1982.

So we are in Mykonos, P, N and I. It’s our last evening on our ten day holiday and that’s a bit depressing because we have had a fabulous time tripping over Istanbul and a lot of Greece.

So on our last evening out we decide to celebrate by using up all our balance Euros, by going to some expensive restaurant and getting us a few cocktails.

Happily, we make our way to the seaside throng of bars which have started filling up as sunset approaches and take our place at a table by the sea waiting for the catty, red haired, lips-pierced waitress to serve us our drinks. After a while the lady walks up to us and we notice her stunning blue eyes and her original blonde hair beginning to show at the roots of the flaming red tresses. Her overall punk look adds flavour to her accent as she walks up to us and purrs “Okay dahrlings, what do you want?”. So we ask for our Martinis and Vodkas to which she smiles and starts walking away.

Then she stops.
Looks back.
And says ‘where you guys from?’
‘India’.
And then the most incredible thing happens.
The red-blonde haired, blue eyed girls with cat make-up an obviously migrant east-european worker in the Greek island of Mykonos bursts into a song ‘Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy. Aaja Aaja Aaja’. And starts dancing to her own singing.

Don’t think either of us have been more stunned ever since :)

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20 . 03 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Greece

Three years of adventure. In three days.

vagabondess

The Dream comes true.
The sunrise in Colombo
The freeloader
Alex,Judy and Ohmygodwehatedeachother Helga.
Eagles Rest
I can see two little eyes inside my shoe!!!!!!!
The Jungle trail
The Oasis
Kandy
Pinnawala
Slumming it out
Last night magic
The End

The Dream comes true.

Three day long weekend. Dint want to spend it lazing on my couch dreaming about going to places. Instead wanted to ACTUALLY go to a place. So went through the airfares and more importantly through the list of countries, Indians can enter without a visa and there! The pearl of the Indian Ocean beckoned.
Everything was perfect.
– Not an exhausting long flight
– Perfect Flight timings
– Not too expensive to live, commute and eat out
– Green Mountains and lovely beaches calling me.
– Rustic as rustic can get. A very different landscape from the manicured landscapes and tailored cityscapes of Europe.
– Unknown to me.
– NO VISA required. Bahhh!

There. So the decision was made. Was going alone. Had a great host living in a fabulous house in Kandy. I prefer the mountains to beaches anytime and considering I had just three days, spending them in the mountains was what I was gonna do.

Was I lucky or what. Just 3 days before I was to fly, a friend of mine called me to say that his impending China trip was cancelled, but he needed a holiday like right NOW and hence he wants to come to SL with me. Now nothing could get more perfect.
This guy A and I have been dreaming about travel since forever. Wanderlust kills us both when we are working, we live,eat,sleep,dream voyages to South America, Transsiberian journeys in Russia, holidays in Kiev, Bratislava and Budapest, hitchhiking on the autobahn and such other things. Our travel dates never matched before this and for ages we had been wondering if we would ever get a chance to travel together.
And then this plan was made in 10 minutes flat. Talk about ironies or just plain good luck.

The sunrise in Colombo

So he flew to Kandy half a day before me and I met him at 5 a.m, at our hosts house in Colombo.

The host, Georg, lives in this fabulous Ikea-showroom lookalike house on the 24th floor, with the coastline spread below on the right and the city of colombo unraveling itself on the left. The lights of a still-dark morning were shimmering over the city when I stepped into his balcony, suspended over the earth and watched in wonder as the sunrise slowly unfolded like a pink transluscent film over the world. This was Friday morning.

We then made our way to Colombo station, had a kickass cup of chai at the station, traveled in the three wheeler, bargained like hell with the driver, got amazed by the cheapness of everything around, met some really friendly people trying to make an easy buck out of us, took a train to Kandy, sat in the viewer compartment (its all windows and seats, all facing in the opposite direction of the direction in which the train is going!) and then after paying the maximum one can pay to get the first class viewer seats, slept our way through to Kandy due to exhaustiond from the night-long flight.

The Freeloader

Reach Kandy. Brunch. Some serious Sri Lankan food. and duping.

Vegetable kottu. Sri Lankan Rice and fish curry. And an old man who came and spoke to us politely so we asked him to join us at our table. He ordered for pizza and chai and also some packed stuff to take home with him. Amicable conversation – he told us about his wife and children and his cars and his estate in Kandy and his job working on the port and how he would send me a packet of some real Ceylon tea to Dubai as a gift.
Then the bill came along and he just sat there waiting for us to pay. When we said “Sir your share is 200 rupees” , he looked at the waiter and asked him to take the packet away saying he did not need it. Then he just sat there waiting for us to pay for him. When we told him, “You still have to pay 100 rupees”, in a huff he threw 100 rupees on the table and walked away all angry and indignant for having been made to pay for food he consumed.

Weirdo. We even took a picture. If you go to Sri Lanka watch out for him.

Alex,Judy and Ohmygodwehatedeachother Helga.

Then we met Alex, our host in Kandy who took us to Judy’s house. Alex is a young Sri Lankan guy who works for Judy and Peter in their Car Workshop. Peter is a Englishman who models and repairs Rally cars. There was a disassembled Lamborghini lying in his courtyard as we walked into their house.

Judy is about 70-80. She and Peter lived in England. Then 5 years back they sold everything they had, bought this massive estate in Wattegama,Sri Lanka, built a house on top of the mountain with the marvellous views and now live in tandem with the nature around them.

They have 9 cats and 2 dogs. And they love animals.

And I hated Helga. Their German Shephard. Scared the pants off me EVERYTIME she saw me. No love in that dog’s heart ,I tell you. None at all. She doesnt know she is a dog. And that she is supposed to wag her tail and be all licky and lovey with nice friendly people. No maan. She is confused. She doesnt know she is a dog. She thinks she is a mean nasty hyena or something. Baring her fangs everytime she saw me and giving that horrid guttural growl. Most un-dog-ish behavior I tell you.
I dont like her at all.

Eagles Rest

Also the mountain is called Judy’s peak by all her couchsurfers.

Eagles Rest is the name of the house located on top of the hill.

Imagine this.
A huge living room that is littered with a comfy sofa, random chairs, memorablia from around the world, and cats. Climb up a few steps and walk into a another-world sort of dining room with a massive center table, an entire wall full of wooden shelves with books on varied topics from embroidery to India to Sri Lanka, to England, history, cars, philosophy, expatriate life, cats, andeverythingelseyoucanthinkof. Against the other wall is a wooden drawers chest with candles on it. And on the walls are ACTUAL pictures of their ancestors. Sepia tinted pictures of old, really old British people. The stuff that we see in movies, its all real for them because they were there. Another small room – stuffed with music CDs, more books, training manuals on cars and the laptop table. Outside is a porch with a swing and a seating area.
And now the best part
The verandah on the first floor. A huge massive expanse of wooden flooring, easy chairs flung around a table, some plants here and there and a music system and speakers. The most magical view of distant blue mountains and dense green forests.

I can see two little eyes inside my shoe!!!!!!!
The first night

A: ‘look I think we should leave our shoes outside the house so that they don’t stink up the insides of the house”.
Vagabondess: “dude, you don’t want to wake up tomorrow with a scorpion inside your shoe. Take them in”
A: “Naah yaar, nothing of that sort will happen. I am leaving them out”
Vagabondess “Ok. I am keeping mine in”

Next morning 9.00 a.m.:

Vagabondess: “Ok go now we have to leave quick”
A: “Ok”.
Goes out to the porch. In 90 seconds, Vagabondess hears some REAL loud cursing. Swearing. All the choicest abuses that could have come out come forth in just one four letter word that’s repeated with increasing intensity of emotion. about 10 times. The voice belongs to A.
Judy and Vagabondess come running. Terror on A’s face.

Judy/Vagabondess: “What? what?”
A: (screaming) “There is a toad inside my shoe. I wore my shoe and tied my laces but it felt too tight. So I removed it and looked inside and I see two eyes staring back at me. AAaarrrgggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”
Vagabondess bursts out laughing. Judy looks at him with the most pitiful expression.
A can’t believe this is happening.
Vagabondess can.
A: kicks shoe. No toad comes out. His heart has just jumped out of his mouth and scurried away into the woods.
Judy calmly puts her hand inside the shoe, takes the toad out almost lovingly and drops him into the potted plant. Then looks at A: and cannot help laughing at the poor city kids who flip out at anything that does not look like themselves.

The Jungle trail.

Saturday morning Alex tells us he needs to go into the jungle to repair the water pipe and invites us to go with him. Two people who have never been on a hands-feets-on real jungle walk jump at the chance. Of corse we are coming! So we set off, in track pants and shorts and trainers. Not really equipped for jungle walking but whatthehellwhocares! So we follow Alex into the jungle, beat the bush around to get through thick vegetation, keep our eyes out for snakes and frogs leaping at us, climb over trees blocking our path, climb up slopes with no real paths, worry about going down the same path, inch our way on a rock surface with only inches to keep your feet, and take a million pictures. And when we get lost because we let Alex hurry on and we wanted a break, we follow his footsteps where possible and also happily get lost in the jungle. Then we find a rock and sit on it and stare at the silence and listen to the myriad jungle noises around us. No humans for miles. No way of saving ourselves if a wild boar decides to attack us now. No defence against a snake attack. And we look at each other and grin “Finally, we ARE into the wild”.

The Oasis

Finally we find Alex and he leads us to what easily is the most stupendous natural thing I have seen in a while. A 10-15 feet high waterfall in the middle of the jungle with cold clean water gushing down with such force that it has formed a small pool below where it hits the ground. Water pure enough to drink. Water clear enough that you can see every little pebble at the bottom of the pool. With stones formed in such perfect formations that you can step your way up the waterfall to submit yourself completely to the cold force cascading down the black stone.

A: dives in within 30 seconds of reaching the place. I need some heavy duty convincing before I agree to step in. And then I almost slap him when he douses me with the cold water. You know I hate cold water. Like HATE it. I will not shower for 3 days but will not shower with cold water. So you can imagine my anger. But slowly in 90 seconds all of it dissipates and I start loving it. Spend the next 30 minutes frolicking in water. The mermaid realised she loves the water only after she left it all behind. I am the reverse mermaid. I realise I love it only after I am thrown into it. Incredible pictures are taken. Then we trek back to the house.

Kandy

Kandy is lovely. The Buddhist Tooth temple, the lake, the vivaciousness of a bustling city of a few hundred dreams merges seamlessly with the poor forgotten neglected lives to create a charming evening for us. Diwali night, we celebarte eating some kickass beef, chicken and fish in the best restaurant Kandy has to offer. AND we love it.

Pinnawala

Next day go to Pinnawala Elephant Orphanage.

See the ultra adorable baby elephants being fed. Watch the herd frolic in the river. The lil ones playing in the sand, whacking each other with their trunks. The protective mothers hovering around the lil ones. The bigass elephants chained to their stakes. The march of the elephants from the grazing fields to the river and back. The HUGE turds all along the way. Most cute. Most heartburning. Very sad stuff.

Slumming it out

So this trip is about slumming it out. Through the trip, we refused to spend more than what is the basic minimum to travel. So we do not take auto rickshaws. We took local buses. The ones that make SO much noise when the engine starts that you feel your ears will be ripped apart. And local trains with the local Sri Lankans. Second Class. No fancy AC cabs or Autoricks. Just local transport. With our backpacks. Eat only Sri Lankan food. Refuse to eat any sort of Pizza, Lasagne, Noodles, and the rest of the worldfood. Nope. Save that for Dubai. Only Kottu and fish curry and Hoppers

Last night Magic

Last few hours back in Colombo are spent in another haze. The host lives in a 5 star hotel. We join him and meet a few people at the poolside bar. A nice guy Austrian. A raving mad and outrageously howlarious Australian who is walking around with pants torn massively at the crotch but does not care that his red underwear is peeping out at people. A couple of sweet UN volunteers from US on a short project in SL. A sweet SL local. A Crazy party with some music and dance and the mad Australian inviting himself over to the table of two women who were hellbent on ignoring him, the guys climbing trees and then jumping into swimming pools after pool’s closing hours ensues. Madness unfolds with drinking games and unstoppable laughter.

The End
And then we work our way back to reality next morning – back to the desert.

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20 . 03 . 2011
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Asian Adventures, Sri Lanka

Beer? Naah, not me. Or urrm, what did you say?

vagabondess

19th Sep 2009: 1.30 p.m. Six thousand voices sing ‘Prost it! Prost it!’ in unison. A memory, hardly anyone is like to forget. An image that is hardly likely to fade from the mind. The voices rise singing jubilantly, soaring through the blue and white canvas ceiling, bouncing off the clouds beyond. Does not matter if you are Italian, Australian, English or German. Or this case Indian. The worlds come naturally to you. And the question ‘How’ is an easy one. Because there is only one answer. Beer.

Flashback: A few years behind: probably 2003 or some ancient times like that. :Little Vagabondess is sitting in front of her TV staring listlessly at random channels when suddenly one program catches her attention: Busty Waitresses wearing cute type frocks walking around with 6 mugs… no let me correct that … 6 jugs of some golden liquid while people cheer them on. She watches in fascination as the high-pitched fervour in the presenters voice rises as he explains that this is annual Beer festival held in some city far away from Mumbai, in Germany, where the waitresses miraculously carry about 18 kilograms in their two hands and transport it weaving their way through tables without spilling a single drop.

Cut to 2009: It’s all true! And whats more, I ams here to witness it!

Flashback a few hours: 8 a.m. Munchen Station: Groups of young men strut along wearing identical outfits, leather pants that end just below the knee with leather suspenders and checked shirts below. Girls flutter around in their deep-necked knee length frocks looking like naughty little dolls. Its 8 a.m. and people are already guzzling beer at the station.

That’s because the Oktoberfest is not going to start serving beer till noon.

So from 9 to noon, I discover the delights of card games thanks to a resourceful French guy living in Munich for the last four years. This guys joins me and my friend at our table witrh two other German girls and they know the wait – so they get a pack of cards with them. Next three hours are spent in much hilarity, growing thirst for beer and a fast disappearing roast ox on the giant grill. No kidding – an ENTIRE ox was roasting on the grill. Round and round and round. And it was gone by 4 p.m.

Then at noon, the marching band walks by to much whistling and screaming and applause and the first mugs of beer are sent out. As the waitresses walk with their first load of beer – a general applause and scream of anticipation rises like steam over the thirsty crowds. The regulars get their beer first – us lesser mortals have to wait for ten minutes (a longish time in the scheme and situation of things), but eventually we get our hands around our jugs. And then there is no looking back.

By 1.30 p.m everyone is sufficiently drunk enough to have made at least ten new friends from the tables around.
By 2.00 p.m people are dancing with random strangers, doing the salsa, standing on the benches screaming Prost it to the world.
By 3.00 p.m. the queue outside the ladies loo has grown so long that all the women in the queue look like they are dying a million deaths while the in the mens loo, the lucky b******s just walk in and walk out like a breeze. Darn those men.
By 4.00 p.m. No one knows where their belongings are, who their friends are, which table they belong to and how will they manage to get home. But somehow it does not matter, because that is pretty much the objective.

What transpires after 4.00 p.m. is a happy mix of mad events including heart shaped cakes, lost bags, laughing at drunk people, tripping over drunk people, dancing on the stage, various hats being put on my head and more beer.

I wake up the next day with the biggest smile and the biggest hangover ever in the history of my life. Mission accomplished. Prost.

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20 . 03 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Germany, Special Events

Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme in Venice

vagabondess

A soft yellow sunlit afternoon. A map in one hand, a pen in the other, the camera slung around my neck, I am fighting every instinct that tells me to lose my way on this island. I am walking, stopping, wondering, breathing and starting to walk again.

Gondolas float by lazily – some stirred by very bored looking men in their uniform black and white striped jerseys, some moving by the force of their navigator’s smiles. Some wave at me, some wink at me and some invite me to their boat. I smile – smile-flirting with Italian men is always fun.

I walk along crossing a million tiny bridges, walking past multi colored buildings, stealing fifteen minutes on the way to delight over what I still maintain is the best pizza I have ever eaten, forgetting to click pictures; so taken am I by the beauty that I have heard being described. Yet with every step, I know that none of those descriptions come close to saying what I am feeling now.

And just then when I steadfastly making my way towards St Marks Square, as I turn the corner of another brick walled brown church, I am stopped in my tracks by a voice so soulful, it makes time freeze around me. Next when I look at my watch, I have stood rooted at that very spot for forty five minutes, not moving a muscle, as I listened to Jimmy’s heart singing for the love of his music.

He moves slowly, eyes closed from one old favorite to another, Scarborough Fair to Vincent, Cliff Richards to Bertie Higgins, kissing each song with his lips, his soft voice lilting the melody, like silk floating on moonlit water. He strums his acoustic guitar and lifts the tune when he wants to, takes it slow as he wishes, takes a break to smell the day and then resumes to tug at my heart again. And through all this I stand transfixed.

45 minutes later, I finally walk up to him and ask him if I can buy one of his CDs to which he eagerly shows me his 2 CDs and asks me to choose. Both are filled with his own renditions of old country, Richard Marx and Don Mclean. I smile, pay him the euros and start to leave. But I cant. I stand right there next to him, watching him. He smiles at me and asks me where I am from. When I say India, his eyes light up with a genuine warmth, the soft glow that only a happy memory is capable of producing. He tells me of his time in India, in the 60’s, the spirituality he encountered and his immediate love for the country. I in my mind can totally imagine him as a hippie child of the 60’s warming his body by the beach in Goa, visiting the holy men by the Ganga, playing his guitar to drowning sunsets. And just when I am tempted to think of his confession as yet another oh-I-love-exotic-India-coz-I-am-from-Europe story, he pulls out the only piece of jewellery he is wearin – a Rudraksh tied on a black string around his neck with a steel Om hanging by it. And then he thanks me for bringing back his most lovely memories to him. He also tells me a bit about his life, his growing up years on this island of a thousand canals and bridges and what he thinks about this little paradise now.

And I don’t know what to say, cause there is so much to say. So I just say thank you and walk away to join the throngs making their way towards St Marks searching for the real Venice, which I realize I just found in the last one hour.

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20 . 03 . 2011
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An Europhile's Diary, Italy

LatAm Calling. Where are you? Right here, my love.

vagabondess

So it’s a distant-yet-not-so-distant dream, but something I hope to and will try to make a reality very soon. Provided of course, the visa gods continue smiling benevolently on me.

LatAm. The magical land of disappearance. The furthest I can possibly get from where I have been and where I am. Without getting into an UFO that is.

To the land of the Andes and the glaciers and fiery names like Tierra Del Fuego.
As a kid I watched something called Ushuaia on Discovery Channel, without knowing what it meant. Today I do, and I want to see it myself. Hopefully, I will get to do the trek up to Machu Picchu, watch Darwin’s theory in motion in the Galapegos, taste the magic of Mendoza’s wineries and prance around wearing a Samba dancers headgear.

Soon. Very soon. Not soon enough, but in the scheme of things, from a zoomed out view at 40000 feet – *BIG SMILE* – very soon.

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20 . 03 . 2011
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The Latin American Dream

Whats in a name? YOU tell me!

vagabondess

By now, having been in the UAE for about 4 years, I am familiar with what at first seemed an inane way of naming places and buildings. Now as I confidently give directions to the new taxi driver kid who is still struggling between terms like Jumeriah I, II and III, I cant help but remember my confusion when I first walked into this country.

Suddenly everything that existing and well, you needed to know about shared about the same 5-6 names. Let me give you an idea.

I lived in Dubai.
Dubai is an Emirate.
Dubai also has Emirates Towers and Emirates Airlines.
The country is NOT Dubai. It is United Arab Emirates.
The Mall of the Emirates is in Dubai.
Ski Dubai is in Mall of the Emirates in Dubai.
The Burj Al Arab is in Dubai.
Burj Dubai, the tallest building in the world, was in Dubai.
Burj Dubai was next to the Dubai Mall.
Both of the above are in Dubai.
The Burj Dubai is now called Burj Khalifa. It’s still the tallest building.
Sheikh Khalifa is the current ruler Abu Dhabi.
A little way away from Burj Khalifa is Bur Dubai. Bur Dubai is the Indian ghetto of Dubai.
The Burj Al Arab is in Jumeriah.
Next to the Burj Al Arab is the Jumeriah Beach Hotel.
Jumeriah also has a Jumeriah Beach Park, Jumeriah Open Beach, Madinat Jumeriah, Jumeriah Road, Jumeriah Beach Road, Jumeriah Lake Towers – each of which are distinct identities from each other.
To add some fun, Jumeriah is divided into Jumeriah I, II and III.
Sheikh Zayed was the ruler of Abu Dhabi before Sheikh Khalifa.
The arterial road of Dubai is called Sheikh Zayed Road. But only till the border of Abu Dhabi-Dubai.
After the border it is called Sheikh Makhtoum Road.
Now here is the fun part. This took me years to learn. Most people here still don’t know this stuff.
Sheikh Mohamed Bin Rashid Al Makhtoum is the current ruler of Dubai.
His son is called Sheikh Hamdan Bin Mohamed Al Makhtoum.
The second son is called Sheikh Makhtoum Bin Mohamed Al Makhtoum.
We also have a Makhtoum Bridge, Makhtoum Road, Makhtoum Hospital, all within ten minutes of each other.
Al Wasl Road, Al Wasl Hospital, Al Wasl Insurance brokers, Al Wasl Football clubs, Al Wasl Touring Agency, Al Wasl Everything and Anything.

Now as a newbie, try learning the names of the emirates. My bet, for an average of 6 months at least, you will constantly find yourself counting eight emirates. When in fact there are seven. And you know this fact. But happened to me, happened to everyone I know and it will happen to you.

So now you know who to call when you take an Emirates flight and land in the Emirates and then cant exactly remember if you came here to see Dubai, Khalifa, Makhtoum, Al Wasl, Jumeriah or Burj.

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20 . 03 . 2011
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Arabian Days and Nights, UAE

And it all starts today …

vagabondess

I was waiting for the first magical tap-tap-tap of the keyboard that would give rise to my own space in this teeming, busy, already-crammed cyberworld. And I dint know that this would start like this, today, on a very unspectacular blue Saturday evening.

But then a line comes to mind “Muss es sein? Es muss sein!”

So there I go, promising myself to chronicle the little breaks, long journeys, elongated voyages, pleasure holidays, exciting expeditions, and anything else that falls in between and on the outskirts, that I have gone on, I am going on and I will go on.

I think, no, I feel this will be the place where I will now go to, wherever I go.

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19 . 03 . 2011
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