Lounge for 24 sep 2011

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Saturday, September 24, 2011

Vol. 5 No. 39

LOUNGE

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SP EC IAL

THE WEEKEND MAGAZINE

SUN AND SOUL GETAWAYS A steam engine ride to Ooty or a sleepy beachside village in Kerala? Head up or lie low? Decide after you rediscover our unspoilt beaches and hill stations

TRAVEL RIGHT >Page 21

TRACK A HUNDRED BACK

Where diesel just can’t replace steam and the colonial past lives on—the journey on the century­old Nilgiri Mountain Railway >Page 10

STRETCHED LIKE A RIVERCAT

This could be your own little sun­soaked paradise, the side of Goa that makes the traveller never want to leave >Page 18

BARK, CANNABIS AND LADIES’ SLIPPERS The rain­drenched Valley of Flowers is home to some of the most exotic Himalayan flora >Page 20

A view of Nainital in Uttarakhand from the route to Kilbury forest.

LOUNGE

TRAVEL SPECIAL First published in February 2007 to serve as an unbiased and clear-minded chronicler of the Indian Dream.

THE

TRAVEL SPECIAL

LOUNGE EDITOR

PRIYA RAMANI

TRAVEL SPECIAL

OCTOBER GUIDE

SEEMA CHOWDHRY SANJUKTA SHARMA MINT EDITORIAL LEADERSHIP TEAM

R. SUKUMAR (EDITOR)

NIRANJAN RAJADHYAKSHA (EXECUTIVE EDITOR)

oes India have its own tradition of most unspoilt hills and beaches. We skip Goa’s usual suspects for the quieter beaches travelling to get away from it all? of north Goa, Orissa’s undiscovered We travel to our “native places” in TRAVEL Chandipur, and Kerala’s Kovalam and the summer holidays so that our children SPECIAL can get to know their cousins. We travel to Marari. In the hills, we feature the Nilgiris pilgrimage spots. Some of us are salesmen, and Annamalais. In the west, we have travelling to sell tea or engine parts. In the Matheran, which lets in tourists but keeps 1980s and 1990s, we started going abroad so out the cars. In the Himalayas, our spotlight that we could show our relatives pictures of is on McLeodganj and Dharamsala; a trek in the Valley of Flowers, and Gethia, ourselves in front of the Eiffel Tower.

We’re still learning that it’s okay to Nainital’s less hectic suburb. There aren’t travel for no reason except that we’re fed a n y d e s t i n a t i o n s f r o m N o r t h - E a s t I n d i a — n o t b e c a u s e we up of where we are, and forgot about them, but want a break. because we felt they Perhaps that’s the reason why our ideas of getting TRAVEL deserved their own issue.

The stories in this issue can away are hand-me-downs.

SPECIAL be read purely for the We head to hill stations, in pleasure of reading the manner of British Raj wonderful writing, but I hope sahibs who would shift entire offices and they convince you to shake departments to Shimla or Nainital in the off your routine and head for a break. With summer months. When the hills are too far, the Dussehra and Diwali holidays coming we imitate Americans and go to a beach. up, next month is the best time to do this.

That doesn’t mean we haven’t made hill If you do head to the places we’ve station and beach vacations Indian in our covered, that’s half the work done. Ideally, own way. This isn’t always a good thing, as the writing here will inspire you to find a the garbage littering the streets of Manali, new destination, go there, and make your Shimla or Nainital demonstrates—but own story. India’s a big country, and there we’re getting better at treating our are lots of hills and beaches to discover. destinations with respect, and at treating Happy exploring. holidays as opportunities to do nothing, not do everything.

Aadisht Khanna This issue brings you some of India’s Issue editor

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ANIL PADMANABHAN TAMAL BANDYOPADHYAY NABEEL MOHIDEEN MANAS CHAKRAVARTY MONIKA HALAN SHUCHI BANSAL SIDIN VADUKUT JASBIR LADI

©2011 HT Media Ltd All Rights Reserved

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THE SMART TRAVELLER’S MANUAL

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DEPUTY EDITORS

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STAY ACTIVE

Almost every article in this issue has talked about the bliss of doing nothing. If that makes you itchy, this is what you can do

In the hills u Explore heritage walks: Finding a guide may be difficult, so read up on the hill station before you go, make a list of heritage spots, and try to find them. To find books, search on Google Books or check with Asian Educational Services (www.asianeds.com), a Delhi­based publisher that brings out editions of antiquarian books. u Take a trek: We’ve featured a day­long trek in this issue, but there are treks running from 1 hour to seven days, so you can pick one suitable for your age and physical fitness. Delhi, Mumbai and Bangalore all have established trekking groups which can be contacted online. u Ride a horse: This can be especially fun for children, but before you do so, make sure the horse is healthy and well treated.

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At the beach

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ON THE COVER: PHOTOGRAPHER: PRADEEP GAUR/MINT CORRECTIONS & CLARIFICATIONS: In “Embrace the flaws, turn them into assets”, 17 September, The Imperial hotel rate referred to was not the rack rate.

u Water sports: These have taken years to get started in India, but surfing, snorkelling and scuba diving are catching on. You can get scuba training and certification in Goa, Lakshadweep and the Andamans.

Karwar’s beaches in Karnataka are developing as surfing destinations. u Clean up: Do your bit for the beach. Carry a large sack, fill it with the flotsam and dump it at a designated waste­collection centre. u Go birding. Carry binoculars or a camera with a telephoto lens, and a bird­spotting guide. Make a list of what you spotted.

Aadisht Khanna

TRAVEL GREEN

We’ve advised you to head to unspoiled destinations to recharge yourself. Here’s what you need to do to make sure they stay unspoiled 1. If you’re photographing wildlife, avoid using a flash. It scares animals and could actually kill amphibians: The heat from the flash bulb will dry out their skins. This is also important for your own safety: You don’t want an angry elephant charging at you.

2. No matter how pretty they look, don’t take specimens—plants or animals—from the forest. Don’t even pick up seeds. They’re essential to regenerate the forest, and all it takes to throw an ecosystem out of balance is for a few travellers to remove a few seeds every day.

4. Don’t use DEET­based insect repellents. The cream you’re using to keep mosquitoes away could kill the insects local plants depend on for pollination. Use natural repellents based on eucalyptus oil or citronella.

6. Take lots of photographs and share them: More people need to know that wilderness is worth preserving. Make sure you share this list too!

Arati Rao

L4 COLUMNS

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ROHIT BRIJNATH GAME THEORY

When athletes do the math, calculate genius

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NIKOLA SOLIC/REUTERS

et’s kidnap Sachin Tendulkar. Haul him into a laboratory, attach electrodes to his head, sensors to his body. Conduct what we might call a living autopsy of genius. Use science to calibrate his art. Measure his reaction time. Gauge when he

decides to go forward or shift back.

Break down the subtle cues he’s looking for in the bowler’s stride/action/grip. Dissect the complex decision making going on in his head.

The ball is short. Relax. Move. Back.

Arrange feet. Align bat. Hit through square. Bisect fielders.

Now. What we see is beautiful to behold, yet what he is thinking, analysing, doing, is hard to fathom. It is why I still find great athletes incomprehensible. Their speed of idea, rapidity of choice, intuitiveness is bewildering. The athletic mathematics they are capable of is baffling, their soaking of pressure is confounding, their concept of time is startling. LeBron James, after a game-winning basket with the clock almost exhausted, calmly said, “A second is a long time.”

My second is fast. His second is different, slower, stretched. He is not alone. At the Australian Open practice courts you can stand close to a player, maybe 10-15ft. When Roger Federer unfurls forehands, I stand at the other end of the court. As if he is hitting to me. The speed of his precise shot is terrifying. Yet Rafael Nadal gets to it. And returns it with interest. It made me understand that they—like Novak Djokovic, the resident clairvoyant of the courts—operate on a different clock.

But really I want to know HOW. How fast are they deciding, hands moving, mind calculating and reading signals? Matthew Syed provides terrific explanations in his book Bounce, but I want to know more. I want to see genius, particularly, taken apart, disassembled as one might a Lamborghini.

My attempts have been sadly amateur. Once, 14 years ago, over lunch, I tried to challenge Viswanathan Anand’s memory. I showed him small pictures of chessboards, selected by a friend who plays the game, with the pieces set in particular patterns. No date on the picture, no competition mentioned, no

frame of reference.

This is what happens.

First picture.

Anand looks up, chews.

Two seconds later: “That’s Lasker’s study.” It’s from 1892.

Second picture.

Two seconds.

“Fischer-Najdorf, 1962.”

He eats. My mouth is open.

Genius deconstructed is delightful.

I know this because I’ve just watched a 45-minute film on YouTube on Cristiano Ronaldo titled Tested to the Limit. Of all the tests, some telling us his leap for a header is equivalent to an average NBA (National Basketball Association) player, or that he’s faster over a zig-zag course than the Spanish 100m champion, one segment is stunning.

To test his perceptiveness, his ability to read the play and a body, a researcher crosses a ball towards Ronaldo in a laboratory. But as soon as the ball is in the air, the lights go out. Total darkness. Invisible ball. An amateur who attempts the test loses track of the ball and misses the header by a distance. But Ronaldo connects twice: First, he will complete a diving header into goal, the second time on a short cross he will connect on a semi half-volley.

Then they toughen the test. They switch off the lights just as the researcher kicks the ball so there are even less cues on ball flight. Still Ronaldo connects. It is an act on the edge of what separates magic from genius. As the voice-over states, human reaction time is 200 milliseconds and by 500 milliseconds Ronaldo’s subconscious has interpreted the kicker’s body language, worked out the direction of the ball, calculated speed and trajectory, and programmed his body to reach it at the optimum moment.

This film made me think of Tendulkar. Made me wish we could unlock some of his secrets, go further in understanding what makes him Tendulkar. And not just him. I’d love to read a detailed analysis on Tiger

Added appeal: A YouTube film, Tested to the Limit, shows Cristiano Ronaldo can connect with a moving ball in darkness.

Woods’ strength. I’d like to know how Lionel Messi holds the ball till the last nanosecond, what he looks at, before releasing it towards goal. Numerous studies have been done of some athletes, but they mainly remain the preserve of protective coaches and shy scientists. Rarely to be revealed to us.

Or more likely to the opposition.

Yet, for all the new and brilliant insights science offers, even while we know the human mind computes at a staggering pace, we can’t quite sever genius into totally comprehensible pieces. No strength test, no psychological experiment, no body-fat study can reveal it all. Can we know precisely why Tendulkar’s hand-eye

coordination is faster than others, why he is picking up more cues and quicker, why his decision making is sounder, why he wears pressure better? Is practice explanation enough? Are genes?

Furthermore, for all the laboratory calculations on Tendulkar and the counting of straight drives he owns (Federer reportedly has 27 different forehands), for all this unravelling, there is this: On the day, when the crowd heaves, when a team pleads, when cameras aim, when another champion confronts him inside the real arena of insane sport, we will still wonder—HOW? That art of Tendulkar will remain beyond

science. Forget all else, some measurements of the human heart, from which we mythically and romantically believe bravery arrives, may forever—and thankfully—be outside our understanding.

Rohit Brijnath is a senior correspondent with The Straits Times, Singapore.

Write to Rohit at gametheory@livemint.com www.livemint.com Read Rohit’s previous Lounge columns at www.livemint.com/rohit­brijnath

STALL ORDER

NANDINI RAMNATH

CHERCHEZ LA FEMME

S

onam Kapoor has been hogging headlines mostly for her fabulous sartorial sense and her rude tweets. This fortnight, she has yet another chance to prove that she is more than just a clothes horse with a smile wider than the Brahmaputra. Whatever you make of Mausam’s promos—and Shahid Kapoor’s Hitleresque moustache—at least it isn’t a remake of a Tamil or Telugu hit. It doesn’t star Salman Khan. It isn’t a love story between a beefcake and his treadmill. Rather, Mausam is an old-fashioned romance between a man and a woman.

Perhaps we are being too optimistic about the length and impact of Sonam Kapoor’s role in Mausam, which marks the directorial debut of noted actor Pankaj Kapur. Women have got

a bum deal at the movies this year—nothing new, but surely more can be expected from an industry that claims to be trying out new plot lines and storytelling techniques? It doesn’t help that the leading female actors are either disinterested in playing the game any other way or incapable of doing so. Katrina Kaif had a plum, author-backed part in Mere Brother ki Dulhan, but this was the first time we wanted to see more of Imran Khan and Ali Zafar than her.

Kareena Kapoor was content playing the dumb-blonde foil to Salman Khan’s even more dim Bodyguard in one of this year’s biggest hits.

Women stood by and approvingly watched the journey of self-discovery undertaken by the three male leads in Zindagi Na Milegi

Dobara—in fact, Kalki Koechlin’s character is the closest the film came to having a villain. The rest of the year’s eagerly anticipated releases are all dominated by their male leads—Ranbir Kapoor in Rockstar, Shah Rukh Khan in Ra.One, Saif Ali Khan in Agent Vinod and Shah Rukh Khan again in Don 2: The Chase Continues.

This has been the year when male stars didn’t just retake control of the box office, but also snatched the pin-up status from their female counterparts.

While men like Salman Khan and Ajay Devgn have been furiously baring their bodies to the delight of their unreconstructed male fans and gay admirers, women have been exposing other bits of themselves, like their ability to be “bold”, make out and cuss.

Female actors have had to become sassy in order to appear substantial and get

Love in sepia: Shahid Kapoor and Sonam Kapoor in Mausam. noticed, whether it’s Rani Mukherjee’s profane and sexy Meera in No One Killed Jessica or Priyanka Chopra’s putatively scandalous, much-married and murdering Susanna in 7 Khoon Maaf or Kangna Ranaut’s alcohol-swilling Tanu in Tanu Weds Manu. In That Girl in Yellow Boots, Koechlin’s Ruth has to give hand jobs and

tolerate a drunk boyfriend and a lecherous gangster in order to get by. Vidya Balan cast the first stone in 2010’s Ishqiya, and in the upcoming Dirty Picture, she looks all set to bring a whole quarry along with her. Mahie Gill too attempts to raise temperatures in the 30 September release Sahib Biwi aur Gangster, in

which she plays an oppressed housewife who has an extramarital affair.

Only two female characters have managed to show some spine and evidence of a brain thus far—Monica Dogra’s photographer in Dhobi Ghat and Poorna Jagannathan’s television reporter in Delhi Belly. Jagannathan’s refreshingly casual look, tousled hair and devil-may-care coolness are a welcome departure from Hindi cinema’s ultra-feminine heroes. When Imran Khan makes a literal dive for her in the end, you can totally see why.

Mausam released in theatres on Friday.

Nandini Ramnath is the film critic of Time Out Mumbai (www.timeoutmumbai.net).

Write to Nandini at stallorder@livemint.com

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MAHARASHTRA MATHERAN

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While not very high, or very cold, pedestrianized Matheran is where Mumbai goes to get away

RED EARTH AND

38 LOOKOUT POINTS B Y S IDIN V ADUKUT ··························· ven for one of the country’s smaller hill stations, Matheran is remarkably small. You could, if you wish, traverse the entire hill station by foot in the space of a single day. It is so small, so solitary, so quiet and so uncharacteristic of the times we live in that, in all probability, Matheran is where people who live in other hill stations come to when they want to “get away from it all”.

Matheran is the hill station’s hill station.

And getting there isn’t all that much easier than it was when it was first discov-

E

Bird’s­eye view: The monsoon comes in over Louisa Point.

ered—in that amusing way in which hill stations are “discovered”—in May 1850.

“In the month of May, 1850, Mr Hugh Malet, of the Bombay Civil Service, while halting at the Chauk Bungalow on his way from Poona to Tanna, strolled one evening, with his gun in his hand, half-way up the hill; and, having satisfied himself that it was worthy of further exploration, returned next day, under the guidance of the Patel of Soondeewarra, with a determination to reach the summit.”

Thus begins a detailed and slightly confusing account of the establishment of Matheran in the book

Matheran Hill: Its People, Plants and Animals written

by J.Y. Smith, a Bombay doctor, and published by a city publishing house in 1881 (the book is freely available online to read, and is well worth the effort).

Just as with Malet, there is an element of discovery involved in arriving at Matheran. This is thanks to a law that bans motor vehicles of any kind at the hill station save one—the local ambulance. Visitors must make their way up by “toy train” from Neral, 11km to the north-west, or drive up to the Dasturi Naka car park, buy an TURN TO PAGE L6 ®

JOYDIP MITRA

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entry ticket into the station, and then trudge their way up.

By rail the scenery is spectacular. Matheran is a tiny smudge of a flat ridge amid an undulating landscape of superb crests and troughs.

Smith puts it nicely in his book when he compares the local topography with a Jerusalem artichoke, or a piece of knobbly root ginger, with a thin flat portion sliced off to show Matheran.

The train winds its way through this landscape, skirting several steep drops on its journey up. “Ooooooooooh,” say the children on the train.

After heavy monsoon rains washed away almost 70% of the tracks in 2005, it took 18 months to repair the tracks and reopen it for service. The shutdown was a blessing in disguise: The tracks, embankments and culverts look smarter than on any of the other four or five operating hill railway lines in the country.

Walking up to Matheran is a slightly more Victorian ordeal.

Matheran is not only the smallest hill station; it is also, perhaps, the warmest. Temperatures rarely drop below 13 degrees Celsius. So if you’ve been softened physically by the high life in Mumbai or Pune, the climb, drenched in the mottled sunshine that passes through the trees, can wind you up.

The 40-minute climb also gets you acquainted with Matheran’s infernal red laterite soil. Tourist brochures and hotel websites might try to spin this positively—“The unique red soil is a speciality of this divine hill station perched in

the palm of the god for your pleasure. Family swimming pool available.”—but, in fact, the dusty, red, iron-oxide-rich soil is going to hound you for the time you are in Matheran and for long after.

It gets into everything. Your shoes, clothes, mobile phones, bags, camera...everything. No amount of shaking, dusting, washing or intimidating with choicest Mumbai abuse will dislodge it. Matheran’s red dust will take your leave eventually, but only on its own terms. Suddenly, one day, you will notice that your Reeboks are no longer glowering.

But by then you will want to go to Matheran again.

Up on the hill station life is lived, hotels are run, commerce takes place, and pool is played largely along a straight line that stretches from a little north of the railway station and then winds all the way down to Charlotte Lake.

There are many walks and paths that branch away from this central spine, but everything “happens” here on this stretch that any reasonably fit person could run from end to end in minutes.

In 2001, Matheran had a population of 5,139. The latest, 2011 census figures are awaited, but it should be no more than 6,000 or so. To put this in perspective, there are around 4,500 people on the average peak-time Mumbai suburban train.

Matheran is minuscule.

And yet it draws thousands of people each year. In 2007, one estimate put it at a thousand people per day during peak holiday season.

Now one would assume that people come here to do the

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exact opposite of what they would in Mumbai or Pune, that is, nothing.

But, in fact, something magical happens to Indian city folk when you expose them to hill stations. They morph into super-eager, ridiculous-risktaking, ultra-consuming, strawhat-wearing “enthu cutlets”.

Suddenly they find the enthusiasm to see each and every one of Matheran’s 38 look-out points. In between they discover the cast-iron stomachs required to consume hill-station butter chicken and hillstation paneer butter masala.

Men, women, husbands and wives who are otherwise prepared to kill for a 3% discount on onions in Andheri, swoop on ice cream, biscuits, soft

ARNE HÜCKELHEIM/WIKIMEDIA COMMONS

drinks and dubious souvenirs.

It is not uncommon to see street vendors in Matheran, on top of the Sahyadri range of mountains, sell table pieces made of coral.

If you’re staying in Matheran for no longer than a weekend, then there are just about enough “enthu cutlet” things to do. None of these things—except the tonnes of red soil encroaching on your person—are uniquely Matheran. A Cadbury Dairy Milk in Matheran is the same as the one you get in Dadar.

But the way to truly enjoy this piece of hilly heaven is to sit by Charlotte Lake, or find your favourite viewing point—Panorama, Lord’s or maybe Louisa Point—and relax

with some music or a good book. Matheran is not, Smith says, an exceptional hill station compared with some of the other ones in India: “Matheran has no great pretensions, however, as a sanitarium in the highest sense, and to trust to its healing influences in severe and complex ailments is mere loss of time.

For these it is necessary to go further; but for the malaise and feebleness brought on by a Bombay monsoon, and for all complaints, mental or bodily, that can be relieved by exhilarating exercise amid charming scenery, those who know it well must speak of it with rapturous admiration.”

Journey up: By toy train, the scenery is spectacular.

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KERALA KOVALAM

THAT

MARK E DYER/FLICKR.COM/PHOTOS/MARKEDYER

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Despite having neither a real mermaid, nor a slow­motion Manisha Koirala, Kovalam manages to awe Kerala’s young immigrants

‘ABEYAAR’ MOMENT SANGEETHA SUBHASH/KOTHIYAVUNU.COM

MIDHUN MANMADHAN/FLICKR.COM/PHOTOS/MIDHUNAM

B Y K RISH A SHOK ··························· erala is known for three kinds of water: coconut water, backwater and kallu. The first one requires a labour union-backed, literate, highly fit climber of Cocos nucifera to procure, and brings a sense of cool that no other drink will ever match. The second requires a kettuvallam (houseboat) to enjoy, and brings in the tourists. The third, palm toddy, requires a sense of adventure, and brings in excise revenue for the state. But when it comes to the fourth kind of water, the one which has a tendency to get into one’s underpants and cause all manner of discomfort, it’s Goa which gets all the attention, despite Kerala’s long embrace of the Arabian Sea. Poor Kerala has only two well-known beaches. One is Bekal Fort beach, where the song Tu hi re from Mani Ratnam’s Bombay was shot, and so the only thing any Indian male from that generation remembers is Manisha Koirala running around. In slow motion. No one paid attention to the utterly spectacular fort and beach that formed the background for her running around. In slow motion.

The only beach that does get some amount of tourist action is Kovalam, a suburb of Thiruvananthapuram. Located about 13km south of Thiruvananthapuram’s um... central business district (or downtown, if you will), Kovalam is at that nexus of coconut water, backwater and kallu. It has three crescent-shaped beaches separated by rocky outcroppings and the sea

K

Bucket list: (clockwise from top) One of Kovalam’s three cres­ cent­shaped beaches; the seafood comes rec­ ommended by the locals; and the nude mermaid statue at Shanghumugham.

itself is shallow for hundreds of metres, making it quite ideal for non-swimmers to clumsily wade through while pretending to swim. The sand is a curious shade of black and brown, thanks to the presence of thorium- and titanium-rich minerals, and the coconut palms lining the headlands of the beach complete the picture of a tropical paradise.

Interestingly, one of the beaches (Hawah beach) used

to be known for topless European women who used to frequent the place during the hippie era, but the government of Kerala has put its foot down and banned toplessness, insisting that only temple sculptures can portray female nudity.

Thiruvananthapuram has changed as a city in the last decade. From being the temple-infested, hartal (strikes)-crazy Communist capital of Kerala, it has

slowly morphed into an IT hub of sorts. Several large Indian software companies have set up shop in Kariavattom, a suburb to the north of the city, and with that, for the first time in the city’s history, large numbers of people from north of Hebbal flyover arrived. These weren’t families. These were college freshers with jobs in IT companies.

Until then, north Indian men knew Kerala for one reason alone. Shakeela. The legendary starlet of a thousand B-grade movies from the only film industry that was mature enough to separate soft pornography from mainstream cinema (a distinction Bollywood does not make even today), Shakeela was Kerala’s brand ambassador. The arty types knew Adoor Gopalakrishnan and his brand of depressing movies, and the rich knew Kerala as a tourist destination.

But this middle-class,

23-year-old engineering graduate from Roorkee, knew Shakeela. So when this chap got off the train at Thampanoor station after a 187,465-hour journey from Delhi, the first thing he wanted to do was watch a Mallu adult movie at the nearest theatre.

Once that was ticked off from his bucket list, he took off to the disappointingly Juhu-like Shanghumugham beach near the airport. Not to experience the beach, because there isn’t one for the most part. There is, however, a large statue of a mermaid, and to a visitor from the north, it’s the first secular nude sculpture he has seen in his life. Gaping at a temple nude tends to be detrimental to one’s health.

But at Shanghumugham, the gang will ignore the sea and boldly indulge in Patel poses involving several parts of the mermaid’s anatomy, and with that, the young north Indian male’s immediate expectations

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(as per Maslow’s hierarchy of needs) of Kerala are met.

And that’s when a local will suggest that they go visit Kovalam (sniggering a little under his breath, he may also recommend the local seafood).

Kovalam, unlike Goa, does not feel like an auditorium with several seats reserved for VIPs. The big five-star hotels do have their own private stretches of sand but the wide, crescent-shaped beach that’s open to everyone feels like the real deal.

In Goa, I always got the feeling that the posh hotels fenced off the best bits, but not in Communist Kerala.

There would have been a hartal outside the secretariat in Palayam if any greedy capitalist had attempted to exploit Karl Marx’s own sand. Our northern ingénues will have the whole beach to explore.

The state transport bus from Thampanoor will deposit them a little away from the beach, and when this assorted gang of Hindi-speakers, frustrated by the lack of mother-quality rotis and grandmother-quality dals, find themselves standing in front

of pristine sand followed by endless water, there is a pause. No words are spoken, but the faces ring out a loud “Abeyaar, itna zyaada paani!” when the boys, who’ve lived all their lives in a part of India that’s at least 1,000km from the nearest sea, realize for the first time the implications of the geography books that told them that earth was 71% water.

Some get shaken so much that they find it impossible to go anywhere near the water.

The bolder ones grow younger by 10 years at that moment, take off their shirts, roll up their pants and joyfully wade into the sea. Several hours (and lot of itchy underpants) later, the gang is ravenous and will take up the local’s advice to try eating species they have never eaten before.

The highway from Thiruvananthapuram to Kovalam is dotted with numerous kallu shops (yes, the ones that bring in excise revenue), and so obtaining something to wash the seafood down is easily done. It’s heady

and intense, and goes well with a side of fish fry.

That’s when, emboldened by the sea and the kallu, they will try the crab. Shellfish are a handful for even the most iron-clad stomachs, and to the dal-makhni softened innards of these north Indians, the shellfish might as

well have been fired from a cannon. The next two days will be spent crafting leave letters to their companies, explaining that due to severe shellfish-induced gastrointestinal problems, they might find it difficult to make it to work.

But Kovalam, they will never

forget. They will, armed with an H-1B visa, visit more beaches in their lives, beaches in Florida, California and the Gulf Coast, but that “Abeyaar” moment will stay with them all their lives. And that mental note to avoid crab.

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Beach bums: A crowded Hawah beach at sunset in Kovalam; and (left) toddy in an earthen pot.

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Where diesel can’t replace steam and the colonial past lives on—the journey on the century­old Nilgiri Mountain Railway PANDIYAN V/FLICKR.COM/PHOTOS/PANDIYAN

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B Y S HAMANTH R AO ···························· he 46km line took 54 years to build—from the first proposals in 1854 to completion in 1908. Three companies tried their hand. Two were daunted by the terrain and gave up. The third managed to finish it. Part of a Unesco World Heritage Site today, the Nilgiri Mountain Railway was among the most ambitious engineering projects of the British Raj. Nearly all tracks, bridges, viaducts and tunnels from a century ago are intact. Trains continue to ply on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway, its steam locomotives stirring memories of another time.

Ooty was a largely British town in pre-independence India, far from the heat and humidity of Madras Presidency. Alfred Tennyson referred to the “sweet half-English air of Neilgherry”. For Lord Lytton, viceroy of India, Ooty had “Hertfordshire lanes, Devonshire downs, Westmoreland lakes, Scotch trout streams and Lusitanian views”.

Ooty’s remoteness was part of its charm. While officers could manage the hazardous climb across the Nilgiri mountains, transporting wives and families wasn’t easy. As Ooty grew into the summer capital of the Madras Presidency, the British decided to invest in a railway line that would reduce travel time from 10 days to 5 hours.

Walking in the woods, I reach Ooty’s railway station shortly before the 2pm departure of the Udhagamandalam (Ooty)—Mettupalayam passenger.

The platform isn’t crowded. There are some 60 people, most with baggage and cameras marking them as tourists. Most locals prefer the faster, 2-hour bus ride.

At the stroke of 2, the four-bogie train slinks out of the platform. Soon, the train plunges into the first tunnel, and the profusion of the Nilgiri mountain range reveals itself. Travellers’ cameras immediately jostle for space in train windows.

The first two stations, Lovedale and Ketti, are buried deep in the

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Time travel: (top) The Nilgiri Mountain Rail­ way is a Unesco World Heritage Site; and only steam engines can safely bring the train down the gradient from Coonoor.

woods. Tall, thick eucalyptus trees surround stations. Compact station houses look like log cabins. Snatches of birdsong fill the air. Sometimes, green curtains of forests open up to reveal wide valleys with tea plantations and terraced villages. Aruvankadu, with the appearance of an industrial township thanks to its cordite factory, offers a break from the greenery. Wellington takes me back into the woods.

Into the past It isn’t just the town names that are evocative of the British Raj. Old-style semaphore signals lie on the route, not modern electric signals. Drivers hand in a bamboo hoop with a metallic tablet at every station—this “token” is used to confirm a train’s arrival. A metallic safe-like device called Neale’s Tablet Token Instrument is used to regulate traffic.

Old-style telephones, ancient clocks and handwritten registers fill railway stations. The Nilgiri Mountain Railway stubbornly keeps out electronic equipment.

Vintage steam engines ply on part of the route. Bogies are tiny, with multiple coupes, each with doors on either side. With its average speed of just over 10km per hour (kmph), there’s no haste. Much of the Nilgiri Mountain Railway feels like travelling in British India, before the advent of fast transport, before crowded trains.

Coonoor is the only place on the route that looks like a big town. There are houses thrust together—there’s dirt, grime, the bus stand is teeming with people: It’s a gentle reminder of the rest of India.

Coonoor is where the diesel engine that has drawn the train so far is replaced by a steam engine.

Passengers alight, watching the steam engine attach itself to the train. Inside its distinctive black chamber are gauges, pipes, knobs and analogue metres right out of a 19th century science fiction book.

Yet, what made the railway quaint, also made it an anachronism. Steam engines more than 50 years old became increasingly difficult to maintain.

Hard-to-find spare parts, frequent breakdowns and landslides affected services. The railway became unprofitable. The railway ministry repeatedly contemplated shutting down the route, but yielded to public protests every time.

While the railway survived, the pressures it faced brought changes. Diesel engines began to be used on part of the route after 1998. Steam engines were completely modernized in 2006—they now use furnace oil, not coal with its characteristically tangy odour. Old-style Edmondson card tickets have now been replaced by computerized tickets. Some stations on the route—Adderley, Kateri Road and Fernhill—are now closed. Yet, the retention of steam for part of the journey isn’t purely for nostalgic reasons.

The Coonoor-Mettupalayam stretch is steep, at times with a gradient of 1 in 12. The only way to overcome this gradient is the 19th century rack-and-pinion system. Along the centre line of the two rails is a rack pad with two sets of metallic teeth.

Between the two sets of wheels of a train is a pinion—an extra wheel with metallic teeth. These pinions latch on to the rack pads as the train moves, gripping it like the feet of a man climbing a rope.

They stabilize a train, preventing it from sliding down.

However, only steam engines have pinions, not diesel engines.

When the railways tried replacing steam engines with diesel engines on inclines, these started to slide.

Thus, steam engines are still used on the route because only they are safe enough to ply.

The descent My train leaves Coonoor, the steam engine’s shrill whistle triggering a buzz of anticipation.

The real descent begins here. The train’s exertion is palpable as it starts and stops, almost panting as it struggles to stay under control.

As the descent steepens, brakemen standing behind each bogie furiously turn brake levers to rein in the train.

There are no houses, towns or people around now. There are only misty hills climbing away in

the distance. The thin black thread of a highway meanders below. At Runnymede, the train clambers across a gushing stream.

The station is a forlorn two-room tiled house, wedged between a rock face and a chasm. Not surprisingly, the station master’s house at the now-defunct Adderley station was called “Vanavasam”, or exile.

A small break in the hills reveals a flatland, a sprawl of houses on plains in the distance—a momentary glimpse of Mettupalayam below. The view is shrouded by green hills again.

Hillgrove station is completely inaccessible—a 3km trek through jungles from the nearest road.

The steam engine simmers as it drinks from a water column, as passengers eagerly get close to it with their cameras.

Beyond Hillgrove is the steepest part of the route. The train’s chug is laboured. It jerks down the precarious slope beside gorges.

The engine toils to keep from slipping down the descent. It walks a tightrope across viaducts that have grand stone piers and arches.

As the descent continues, the flatland with the sprawl of houses approaches below. Coconut and palm trees draw closer. As the last hills fall behind, houses, shops and political posters spring up.

The engine sighs, as if with relief.

After more relaxed chugging on the plain, the train crawls into the godown-like Mettupalayam station, just past 5.30pm. As I walk past lowing cows and look back, the misty silhouette of the Nilgiri hills in the distance appears like an indistinct memory.

Steam engines piping in a shed and the semaphore signal nearby are the only signs that I’ve just taken an ancient train ride.

(The writer thanks K. Natarajan, V.M. Govind Krishnan and the Indian Railways staff at Lovedale, Ooty, Ketti, Wellington, Coonoor, Runnymede, Hillgrove and Mettupalayam for their assistance with this piece.)

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ORISSA CHANDIPUR­ON­SEA

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Expectations will be better matched if you don’t go looking for Goa, but Chandipur will break your heart just a bit anyway

BALLISTIC BLUES BEACH B Y R ASHMI V ASUDEVA ··························· here were no mermaids rising out of the basement. In a poetry class long ago, Emily Dickinson had promised there would be. I had believed her then just as easily as I didn’t wonder about their absence now.

My maudlin soul assumed it was because the seabed was dotted with angry, moving spots of red.

Crabs.

Hundreds of them.

The mermaids were no doubt hiding; I was braver because I was being carried deep into the sea by a much-in-love husband.

It wasn’t as romantically suicidal as it appears though your perspective on life, love and land changes dizzyingly when your feet are not on the ground and your eyes are not looking at the sea from its shore but the other way round. Chandipur or Chandipur-on-sea, if you want it to sound more syrupy, looks different depending on where you are looking from, when you are looking and who’s doing the looking.

There are no golden sands and aquamarine crashing

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Water colours: The tidal beach at Chandipur is revealed twice a day as the sea recedes nearly 6km.

waves at this forgotten little seaside on the magnificent Orissa coastline that is over 480km in length. Even from a few feet away, you have to strain to hear the sea. The tall casuarina trees that are scattered all around the semi-circular beach make more welcoming noises than her. But she is unbothered about everybody except the moon—for she is a tide beach and listens exclusively to what he dictates. Here, on this stretch of her journey, she is satiated. She neither shimmers nor dazzles but her sleet-grey ripples mildly slap around your feet and minute waves follow—you would be forgiven if you, like me, thought they were simply too shy to do anything else.

Around 16km from the town of Balasore, Chandipur might be a familiar name for some because of the Integrated Test Range (from where ballistic missiles are test-fired) located on a heavily guarded section of the beach. But as a seaside resort, it is one of those clichéd “hidden gems” that travel writing is littered with, never mind if they really exist in the real world. Often looked upon

as a poor cousin of the more popular Puri beach or Gopalpur-on-sea, the tide beach is mostly frequented by residents of Balasore, surrounding towns and villages who, if you care to ask them, speak of it with great affection, as one would about a loyal companion of many years.

Indeed, if you visit Chandipur in the right frame of mind, it will inspire enough affection to last a lifetime. If you don’t go looking for Goa, Chandipur will reveal to you a beauty that will break your heart just a little, not too much.

When the sun rises and all you can see of the water is a thin line of shimmer below a horizon that’s no more than an orange arc, you might look up at the stately trees and the many eye-deceiving patterns they make in the light of dawn and wonder how you could have thought just the previous day that it was the dullest beach you have ever seen. To gush a bit more, it is just the kind of place to realize that love is no friend of yours, but sigh, you still have the blues… Gary Moore, the British blues singer who died earlier this year, wouldn’t have been too

unhappy to strum his iconic number Still Got the Blues on Chandipur’s bleak shores.

Blues might easily come to mind when you take a walk along its edge but the colours here are more monochrome— the brown of the sand flows into the grey of the sea which, in turn, blends into the slate of the sky. Here is a space that can easily transport you to your deepest self if you give it half a chance. Here is where you can get on with just being yourself, without the distractions of rationality.

Chandipur’s unaffected innocence makes you want to recollect your own memories of a wide-eyed childhood even as you bend down every second minute to collect the multi-hued starfishes, seashells and crab claws left behind for you by a sea that believes in retreating to rejuvenate. You clean them carefully, determined to display all of them in your living room; they even survive the bumpy train journey but you reach home and forget all about them.

But forgetfulness is not a quality that will be appreciated by the slate-grey maiden of Chandipur. She might retreat

every day but she never forgets to return. Twice every day, she puts up a performance for her worshippers. At appointed times, the waters recede nearly 6km and that is when you can exorcise all your suicidal tendencies by walking into the sea. When the tide comes in, she returns, as sedately as ever, thus graciously allowing you to always be a step ahead of her while you walk back to the shore.

To walk so far into the sea is to experience an introspective moment, whatever sort of disbeliever you are. There is a strange tranquillity that comes with walking towards the horizon—maybe it is the mixture of colours and the quality of light or maybe it is just the sheer feeling of liberty.

Whatever it may be, what it effectively does is capture, for a short time, the kind of abandon one might feel if one is unafraid of death.

Which is why, when you return with the sea, with the sun setting behind you, you feel strong enough to pursue the unexpected and believe in the unlikely—mermaids included.

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···························· t a height of 1,938m, giddy tourists gratify themselves by boating on the lake, riding the ropeway trolley and shopping on Mall Road. That’s Nainital, the hill station in Uttarakhand’s Kumaon region, 330km north of Delhi. The sensitive traveller goes back with memories of smog and crowd, trash and traffic, tipplers and honeymooners.

Most of Nainital is as scarred as other north Indian hill stations, like Shimla or Mussoorie. Mall Road, the principal promenade, is littered with plastic packets. The hill slopes are pockmarked with hotels. The mossy rocks are painted with ads. The tree branches are entwined with electric cables. Throughout the day, the hills echo with the sound of honking cars.

Old, pristine Nainital is preserved largely in people’s memories; only the residue of that fabled past is there to see.

“When I was growing up in Nainital in the 1960s,” says Delhi-based author Namita Gokhale, “it was a place of innocence and privilege.”

For centuries, the lake was held sacred by the hill people, but it was the British, homesick for England’s cool climes, who

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Landmarks: (clockwise from right) The Grand Hotel; Capitol Cinema; and Nainital lake, with clouds shrouding the surrounding hills.

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built the first bungalows. As schools and shops came up in the colonial era, Nainital became the commercial and Anglicized heart of Kumaon, in the foothills of the Himalayas. It was also the summer capital of British India’s United Provinces. Muhammad Ali Jinnah went to Nainital for his honeymoon.

After independence, the town came to be known more for its boarding schools. Students came from as far as Myanmar, Thailand and Africa. In the 1950s, three future Bollywood stars were studying in Nainital: Danny Denzongpa at Birla Vidyamandir, Naseeruddin Shah at St Joseph’s College and Amitabh Bachchan at Sherwood College. Film director Karan Johar’s mother was a hosteller at St Mary’s Convent. Two Anglo-Indian women known as the Murch sisters became famous for adopting underprivileged children and enrolling them in the town’s various colleges. One of the children, Marcus Murch, became an actor in Geoffrey Kendal’s theatre company, Shakespeareana.

Education ran Nainital’s economy. Coolies took the luggage of students up and down the hills. Barbers gave them haircuts. Tailors stitched the uniforms. Shops catered to them.

Tourism increased through

the 1960s when the hill station became the summer retreat of the rich. In May and June, the social life of Delhi and Lucknow would shift to Nainital. The rajahs of Kashipur and Pilibhit, and the nawab of Rampur, were regulars; so was the Taraporewala family of Mumbai. The old-money clans bought cottages, or had their favourite hotels, sometimes even favourite rooms.

For two months, they ate, walked, skated and danced. “Our group would tie four or five kishtis (boats) with a rope and together we’d sail on the lake for 2 hours,” says Zeenat Kausar of Delhi (her family owned the now-defunct Shama, an Urdu film and literary magazine), who always stayed at The Grand Hotel. “A gramophone played K.L. Saigal songs.”

Of course, the upper crust were members of the Boat House Club, an establishment that had once denied membership to hunter-conservationist Jim Corbett for not being blue-blooded enough, but now admitted brown sahibs. The club had a bar, multi-speciality restaurant and billiards rooms. It was famous for its live band, ballroom evenings and yacht races, which simmered with politics. Children were barred from the club after 7pm.

In the summers of the 1960s,

Captain Ram Singh of the Indian National Army, who was close to freedom fighter Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, conducted a band playing martial music on a bandstand every day after 4pm. The bandstand was built in a part of Nainital known as The Flats—the offspring of a landslide. In 1880, this landslide had killed 150 and destroyed buildings, including the Naina Devi temple. The debris from the hill covered a part of the lake, forming this gravelled ground.

The hawkers on The Flats sold chana jor garam and fruits like apricots, peaches, strawberries, pears and apples. In September and October, chestnuts came from Ranikhet. The popular dessert was the bakse waali pasty, or pastries stacked in steel trunks. Tourists and locals whiled away the afternoons watching hockey or football matches on The Flats.

Then, as now, the most important touristy ritual was the boat ride on the lake. In the 1950s, it cost 2 annas. Today, it’s `160. And the town’s standards are slipping. The lovely rowing kishtis are giving way to swan-shaped plastic paddleboats. The souvenirs sold on the street are no longer hand-painted scenes of the lake town, but nude one-armed Venus candles. There is unplanned development. The PHOTOGRAPHS

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hotels are shabbier.

In the 1980s, the rich abandoned Nainital for Kashmir, though then prime minister Rajiv Gandhi would often visit with his family. By the 1990s, then Union finance minister Manmohan Singh’s economic reforms made it easier for wealthy Indians to carry cash to foreign locales. The Greek islands became the new Nainital. The original saw a demographic change.

“The Maruti 800 arrived in the 1980s,” says Gokhale, referring to the affordable car that increased the mobility of middle-class India. “People started coming to Nainital from cities like Bareilly and Moradabad, while more and more middle-income Delhiites adopted the hill stations as a weekend getaway. The nature of what they looked for in a holiday was different.”

While walking on Mall Road, these visitors look at the shops, not the lake. The locals call them NRIs, “newly rich Indians”.

In summer these days, Mall Road is jammed with people.

The Hindi swear words of weekend revellers can be heard from one end to the other. There are hundreds of identical paunchy men in tight T-shirts, women dressed up like Christmas trees, heads covered with “look-I’m-on-holiday” straw hats, and constant jostling for a picturesque spot. And there are

the children, running pell-mell, screaming for goodies.

In the 1960s, Mall Road was more rarefied. Young people in bell-bottoms skated and the glamorous gentry strolled.

Women were dressed in chiffon saris and jamawar shawls; men in ironed suits and polished shoes. The shops had character.

Started by a Swiss woman, The Sakley’s was loved for its pastries, éclairs and doughnuts.

Huntley & Palmer, run by the Arora brothers, had delicious English biscuits. Narain’s bookstore, with a view of the lake, specialized in literary fiction. It was also the only place in Nainital to sell 78 rpm records of singers like Begum Akhtar. Ramlal & Sons were drapers and outfitters for students and bureaucrats. The best shoes were found in the shop of Mr Listen, a Chinese settler. Everyone who got married had photos taken in the Bakshi Brothers’ studio. In Bara Bazaar, up Mall Road, there was the garment store of the Rais brothers, two extremely polite men who greeted customers with “farmayen” (yes, please say).

Dana Mian, a second-hand book dealer, walked the hills with a coolie who carried a book-filled steel trunk on his head. Until the 1962 war with China, Buddhist lamas freely crossed the border to sell

precious herbs from Tibet.

Chinese traders came with silk.

Occasionally, the “season” was rocked by scandals. “My father’s younger brother fell in love with an Anglo-Indian crooner who performed at a restaurant in Mall Road. They fled to Rampur and got married,” says lawyer and educationist Nilanjana Dalmia, who spent her childhood in Gurney House, once the residence of Corbett and now owned by her family.

Although a private property, it admits visitors. The cottage has a gabled roof and period furniture. The rooms have been preserved as they were when Corbett sold the property in 1947. The shelves have books by Charles Dickens and P.G. Wodehouse. The rug in the living room is the skin of a tiger.

In the old days, nobody drove.

People walked or rode on dandis (palanquins) or horses. Today, hyper-energetic day trippers leave before sunset.

But old Nainital is not completely lost. Most of the landmarks are still there. The Sakley’s bakery products rival those of any big city patisserie.

Narain’s collection of books, both in English and Hindi, is extensive, though a decade ago the owner started stocking candles to survive. The lakeside municipal library—open to all—has a duck house below.

Like the town itself, the Boat Club too has lost its exclusivity.

Tourists are let in upon payment of `415 “per couple”. Talking on mobile phones is allowed in the bar lounge, which has hanging lamps and heavy sofas. The windows look out on the lake.

The walls have black and white photos of the 1880 landslide. A clock chimes every hour. The piano is locked.

Nainital had three cinemas.

Capitol Cinema and Roxy screened English films. Ashoka Talkies, near Town Hall, showed Hindi potboilers. All three have shut down. The Capitol, which screened films like Ben-Hur, The Ten Commandments and The Picture of Dorian Gray, was originally built on The Flats as an assembly hall to host grand parties for the British. Today, the portion where the balcony used to be is a factory store for designer candles. The part that faces the lake is a video-games parlour. The glass panes on the doors are broken.

Situated just above Narain’s, The Grand Hotel has been standing since 1872. Every room has a clear view of the lake.

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Take your own booze and avoid the buzz in Nainital for a true taste of Kumaon

A HILL OF Nehru liked dining here. The king of Nepal would check in with his own carpets and cutlery.

When he stayed at the hotel for the filming of Madhumati, actor Dilip Kumar instructed the staff to serve tea to any fan coming to visit him. Today, The Grand’s corridors offer the same view, but the furniture has changed—cane chairs instead of the old planter’s chairs.

One thing is intact. The matches still happen on The Flats, the shouts of players wafting up and reaching the ears of lone men walking the deserted slopes of faraway hillsides. The bakse waali pasty vendors can still be sighted.

To get away from tourists, walk on Thandi Sadak, the cobbled pathway across the lake.

It’s the anti-Mall Road: no shops, no touts. One side faces the hill, the other looks to the lake. Or walk on the town’s hillsides, which are as deserted as the Mall Road was in the 1950s. To climb into another world, climb a bit higher.

Kilbury forest, 13km away, is a different country—utter silence amid a dense cover of oak, pine and rhododendron trees. The slow-moving clouds are close enough to touch. You rarely see anyone except collared grosbeaks, brown wood-owls and laughing thrushes. The forest has more than 500 bird species. Sometimes, the pathway runs over a stream. The enveloping clouds make the world as white as snow. Built in 1890, the Kilbury forest lodge is a perfect retreat.

The British-era Raj Bhawan, or the Governor’s House, on a hill looks magical at sunset. Even with an entry pass of `30, it can be viewed only from the grounds. Made from grey stone, this gothic marvel has 113 rooms. From the rear, it resembles an English country house. On rainy days, the mist gets so thick that the building is reduced to a mere outline; its turrets look finer than any brushstroke by an artist.

The golf course, spread over 45 acres, is within the Raj Bhawan grounds. If the sky is overcast, the golfers frequently disappear into the approaching mist. Tourists can play by paying `250 for 18 holes.

Despite being a Nainital cliché, boating on the lake is heavenly. Each kishti is like an island. The rhythmic splash of the oar on the water lulls you into sweet drowsiness as puffs of cloud drift down the hills, and float over the lake. The view, so fragile that it is more like a state of mind, explains why some people nurture a passion bordering on mania for this town.

At The Book Shop in Delhi’s Jor Bagh Market, the owner, K.D. Singh, who studied at the hill station in the 1950s, has recreated his own Nainital.

Only friends with a “Nainital connection” know the secret geography. The new releases are displayed behind the glass display in “Tallital”, your entry point to Nainital. Older books are exiled to “Mallital”, the region beyond Mall Road.

Classics are stacked up on “Snow View”, the ropeway ride’s destination. Singh himself sits in the “Boat Club”.

The desktop image on his computer is of the lake.

Nainital, 0km.

PICKLED CHICKEN B Y A MBA S ALEKAR ····························· ’ve always been intrigued by Delhi people who tell me, “Oh, we’re going to the Hills this weekend”, and until recently, have displayed my ignorance on several occasions by interjecting with an “Oh, you mean Kullu Manali?”

“The Hills” are just about any destination involving raised altitudes, and are not to be confused with their uncool cousins, the “hill stations”—where we’re headed for our little college reunion.

Our driver attempts to stop for breakfast at this obviously-just-waking-up hotel at Gajraula, in Uttar Pradesh, at 6.30am. We politely shake our heads as the yawning watchman says “Sirf toast milega (only toast is available)”, and eventually stop at Moradabad’s Chandrakanta dhaba. Our orders are taken efficiently and our table is covered with curd, pickle and butter (all dairy products sold by weight), followed by delicious parathas stuffed with onion, paneer, potato and cauliflower, hot off the griddle.

Chandrakanta ends up being a fantastic experience, with seven hungry souls satiated by parathas, tea and colas for just over `300. It’s a stone’s throw from the bright and shiny Apni Haveli that we’ll get to in a bit.

It takes another 5 hours to cross various roadblocks and enter the hills of Kumaon, passing by large advertisements for special chicken pickle—“Sardarji ka Special Murge ka Achaar”. The helpful people at our resort have told us to keep our eyes peeled for the Pilot Baba Ashram, which isn’t hard to miss, with its larger-than-life, gaudy Ganesh and Shiva statues.

Pilot Baba’s godliness met an untimely end, with allegations of money laundering, but the awesomeness remains, evidently.

We’re staying at Two Chimneys, Gethia, and after the long drive, we’re thankful to be spared the usual check-in formalities. After a quick tour of the place with the manager, Manju, we pick our rooms and hit the pool. The efficient Chandru sees us threatening to swig from a wine

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bottle (we were advised to bring our own alcohol, but the kitchen was well stocked with mixers and beer, apparently a trend through the hills) and quickly brings us wine glasses, followed by a warm and comfortable lunch spread.

We are soon joined by the resort’s illustrious owner, Tarun Tejpal. Two Chimneys is pretty much the setting of his first book, and the resort’s library is replete with copies of The Alchemy of Desire (in Spanish!) and back editions of the English magazine Tehelka (of which Tejpal is the editor, and which have thoughtfully also been placed in the bathrooms). We spend the evening recovering from the drive and exploring the pathways around Gethia, before retiring to rounds of Taboo and an elaborate khao suey.

The Hills are lovely, dark and deep, and absolutely conducive to sloth, and the next morning everyone goes out of their way to convince us that our plan of going up to Nainital should be, well, delayed. “Bahut bheed hogi, sir, aaj Sunday hai (it will be very crowded, it’s a Sunday).” “Talao mein paani kam hai, sir, aapko mazaa nahin aayegaa (there isn’t enough water in the lake, you will not enjoy it).” We don’t take much convincing, and hit the pool again.

The next morning, we are determined to conquer our inactivity and go to Nainital—just a 40-minute drive away—and we head straight for the lake after battling surprising traffic jams. We ditch the dragon and swan pedal boats and enter the Boat House Club where, despite our obvious violation of the dress code, sails are unfurled and at a pricey `250 per boat, we are treated to a luxury lap of the lake in the “yacht”. It’s a lot of fun, as long as the wind doesn’t stop. We ignore the snickers of the dragon-boat pedallers when we are stranded in the lake, and strike up a conversation with the boatman about whether the zoo is worth a visit.

“Ek bhaloo hai, ek sher hai (there’s one bear, one tiger),” he yawns.

We ask him about the ropeway.

“Accha hai (it’s nice),” he says.

Despite his non-committal stance, we trek to the ropeway, where I excitedly jump to the empty “ladies” counter and ask for tickets on the next ropeway ride. There are groans from the men’s line.

The next available ropeway ride is at 3.45pm. It’s 11am, and we have a long drive to Delhi ahead of us. We decide to drown our sorrows in pastries at a wonderful bakery right opposite the boat club. Nainital is pretty but crowded for a Monday, and we head back to Gethia after a quick drive around for our last lunch—and dip in the pool—at Two Chimneys.

We’re sad to go, but are cheering ourselves up at the thought of stopping by to pick up some of the chicken achaar.

“Woh main road pe ek Sardarji Murge ka Achaar bechta hai?” we ask Chandru.

“Haanji (yes),” he replies, smilingly.

“Toh woh achcha rehta hai kya (is it good)?”

“Bilkul mat lena, ji (never have it),” he answers, without missing a beat or dropping the earnest smile.

Turns out, the origin of the cockerels which Sardarji pickles are highly suspect, so we visit a store close to the Udupi Restaurant at Haldwani to pick up some Kumaoni Plum Jam and Orange Marmalade, wonderfully thick and fruity, manufactured by the cooperative Umang. It can also be bought off their website.

There’s no staying away from things shiny and pretty, so we’re back at Apni Haveli which, surprisingly, has a “Hair Cutting Saloon” as well. Turns out, if you must stop there, stick to the haircut—we were jolted out of holiday bliss by their terrible service, nuclear jal jeera and possibly the worst tea in the world.

We drove silently on to Delhi, where we reached just in time for the last Domino’s delivery.

There is poetry in these hills, so avoid the crowds and get to as self-enclosed a location as possible and let the hills work their magic on you.

And take your own booze.

Write to lounge@livemint.com

At leisure: The hills in the Kumaon region are dark and deep, and absolutely conducive to sloth.

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IN

mayank.s@livemint.com

···························· t a height of 1,938m, giddy tourists gratify themselves by boating on the lake, riding the ropeway trolley and shopping on Mall Road. That’s Nainital, the hill station in Uttarakhand’s Kumaon region, 330km north of Delhi. The sensitive traveller goes back with memories of smog and crowd, trash and traffic, tipplers and honeymooners.

Most of Nainital is as scarred as other north Indian hill stations, like Shimla or Mussoorie. Mall Road, the principal promenade, is littered with plastic packets. The hill slopes are pockmarked with hotels. The mossy rocks are painted with ads. The tree branches are entwined with electric cables. Throughout the day, the hills echo with the sound of honking cars.

Old, pristine Nainital is preserved largely in people’s memories; only the residue of that fabled past is there to see.

“When I was growing up in Nainital in the 1960s,” says Delhi-based author Namita Gokhale, “it was a place of innocence and privilege.”

For centuries, the lake was held sacred by the hill people, but it was the British, homesick for England’s cool climes, who

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Landmarks: (clockwise from right) The Grand Hotel; Capitol Cinema; and Nainital lake, with clouds shrouding the surrounding hills.

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To know what our hill stations were like, what went wrong with them and how that vanished world can still be fleetingly glimpsed, make a trip to this hill station

SEARCH OF LOST TIME B Y M AYANK A USTEN S OOFI

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built the first bungalows. As schools and shops came up in the colonial era, Nainital became the commercial and Anglicized heart of Kumaon, in the foothills of the Himalayas. It was also the summer capital of British India’s United Provinces. Muhammad Ali Jinnah went to Nainital for his honeymoon.

After independence, the town came to be known more for its boarding schools. Students came from as far as Myanmar, Thailand and Africa. In the 1950s, three future Bollywood stars were studying in Nainital: Danny Denzongpa at Birla Vidyamandir, Naseeruddin Shah at St Joseph’s College and Amitabh Bachchan at Sherwood College. Film director Karan Johar’s mother was a hosteller at St Mary’s Convent. Two Anglo-Indian women known as the Murch sisters became famous for adopting underprivileged children and enrolling them in the town’s various colleges. One of the children, Marcus Murch, became an actor in Geoffrey Kendal’s theatre company, Shakespeareana.

Education ran Nainital’s economy. Coolies took the luggage of students up and down the hills. Barbers gave them haircuts. Tailors stitched the uniforms. Shops catered to them.

Tourism increased through

the 1960s when the hill station became the summer retreat of the rich. In May and June, the social life of Delhi and Lucknow would shift to Nainital. The rajahs of Kashipur and Pilibhit, and the nawab of Rampur, were regulars; so was the Taraporewala family of Mumbai. The old-money clans bought cottages, or had their favourite hotels, sometimes even favourite rooms.

For two months, they ate, walked, skated and danced. “Our group would tie four or five kishtis (boats) with a rope and together we’d sail on the lake for 2 hours,” says Zeenat Kausar of Delhi (her family owned the now-defunct Shama, an Urdu film and literary magazine), who always stayed at The Grand Hotel. “A gramophone played K.L. Saigal songs.”

Of course, the upper crust were members of the Boat House Club, an establishment that had once denied membership to hunter-conservationist Jim Corbett for not being blue-blooded enough, but now admitted brown sahibs. The club had a bar, multi-speciality restaurant and billiards rooms. It was famous for its live band, ballroom evenings and yacht races, which simmered with politics. Children were barred from the club after 7pm.

In the summers of the 1960s,

Captain Ram Singh of the Indian National Army, who was close to freedom fighter Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, conducted a band playing martial music on a bandstand every day after 4pm. The bandstand was built in a part of Nainital known as The Flats—the offspring of a landslide. In 1880, this landslide had killed 150 and destroyed buildings, including the Naina Devi temple. The debris from the hill covered a part of the lake, forming this gravelled ground.

The hawkers on The Flats sold chana jor garam and fruits like apricots, peaches, strawberries, pears and apples. In September and October, chestnuts came from Ranikhet. The popular dessert was the bakse waali pasty, or pastries stacked in steel trunks. Tourists and locals whiled away the afternoons watching hockey or football matches on The Flats.

Then, as now, the most important touristy ritual was the boat ride on the lake. In the 1950s, it cost 2 annas. Today, it’s `160. And the town’s standards are slipping. The lovely rowing kishtis are giving way to swan-shaped plastic paddleboats. The souvenirs sold on the street are no longer hand-painted scenes of the lake town, but nude one-armed Venus candles. There is unplanned development. The PHOTOGRAPHS

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hotels are shabbier.

In the 1980s, the rich abandoned Nainital for Kashmir, though then prime minister Rajiv Gandhi would often visit with his family. By the 1990s, then Union finance minister Manmohan Singh’s economic reforms made it easier for wealthy Indians to carry cash to foreign locales. The Greek islands became the new Nainital. The original saw a demographic change.

“The Maruti 800 arrived in the 1980s,” says Gokhale, referring to the affordable car that increased the mobility of middle-class India. “People started coming to Nainital from cities like Bareilly and Moradabad, while more and more middle-income Delhiites adopted the hill stations as a weekend getaway. The nature of what they looked for in a holiday was different.”

While walking on Mall Road, these visitors look at the shops, not the lake. The locals call them NRIs, “newly rich Indians”.

In summer these days, Mall Road is jammed with people.

The Hindi swear words of weekend revellers can be heard from one end to the other. There are hundreds of identical paunchy men in tight T-shirts, women dressed up like Christmas trees, heads covered with “look-I’m-on-holiday” straw hats, and constant jostling for a picturesque spot. And there are

the children, running pell-mell, screaming for goodies.

In the 1960s, Mall Road was more rarefied. Young people in bell-bottoms skated and the glamorous gentry strolled.

Women were dressed in chiffon saris and jamawar shawls; men in ironed suits and polished shoes. The shops had character.

Started by a Swiss woman, The Sakley’s was loved for its pastries, éclairs and doughnuts.

Huntley & Palmer, run by the Arora brothers, had delicious English biscuits. Narain’s bookstore, with a view of the lake, specialized in literary fiction. It was also the only place in Nainital to sell 78 rpm records of singers like Begum Akhtar. Ramlal & Sons were drapers and outfitters for students and bureaucrats. The best shoes were found in the shop of Mr Listen, a Chinese settler. Everyone who got married had photos taken in the Bakshi Brothers’ studio. In Bara Bazaar, up Mall Road, there was the garment store of the Rais brothers, two extremely polite men who greeted customers with “farmayen” (yes, please say).

Dana Mian, a second-hand book dealer, walked the hills with a coolie who carried a book-filled steel trunk on his head. Until the 1962 war with China, Buddhist lamas freely crossed the border to sell

precious herbs from Tibet.

Chinese traders came with silk.

Occasionally, the “season” was rocked by scandals. “My father’s younger brother fell in love with an Anglo-Indian crooner who performed at a restaurant in Mall Road. They fled to Rampur and got married,” says lawyer and educationist Nilanjana Dalmia, who spent her childhood in Gurney House, once the residence of Corbett and now owned by her family.

Although a private property, it admits visitors. The cottage has a gabled roof and period furniture. The rooms have been preserved as they were when Corbett sold the property in 1947. The shelves have books by Charles Dickens and P.G. Wodehouse. The rug in the living room is the skin of a tiger.

In the old days, nobody drove.

People walked or rode on dandis (palanquins) or horses. Today, hyper-energetic day trippers leave before sunset.

But old Nainital is not completely lost. Most of the landmarks are still there. The Sakley’s bakery products rival those of any big city patisserie.

Narain’s collection of books, both in English and Hindi, is extensive, though a decade ago the owner started stocking candles to survive. The lakeside municipal library—open to all—has a duck house below.

Like the town itself, the Boat Club too has lost its exclusivity.

Tourists are let in upon payment of `415 “per couple”. Talking on mobile phones is allowed in the bar lounge, which has hanging lamps and heavy sofas. The windows look out on the lake.

The walls have black and white photos of the 1880 landslide. A clock chimes every hour. The piano is locked.

Nainital had three cinemas.

Capitol Cinema and Roxy screened English films. Ashoka Talkies, near Town Hall, showed Hindi potboilers. All three have shut down. The Capitol, which screened films like Ben-Hur, The Ten Commandments and The Picture of Dorian Gray, was originally built on The Flats as an assembly hall to host grand parties for the British. Today, the portion where the balcony used to be is a factory store for designer candles. The part that faces the lake is a video-games parlour. The glass panes on the doors are broken.

Situated just above Narain’s, The Grand Hotel has been standing since 1872. Every room has a clear view of the lake.

UTTARAKHAND GETHIA

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Take your own booze and avoid the buzz in Nainital for a true taste of Kumaon

A HILL OF Nehru liked dining here. The king of Nepal would check in with his own carpets and cutlery.

When he stayed at the hotel for the filming of Madhumati, actor Dilip Kumar instructed the staff to serve tea to any fan coming to visit him. Today, The Grand’s corridors offer the same view, but the furniture has changed—cane chairs instead of the old planter’s chairs.

One thing is intact. The matches still happen on The Flats, the shouts of players wafting up and reaching the ears of lone men walking the deserted slopes of faraway hillsides. The bakse waali pasty vendors can still be sighted.

To get away from tourists, walk on Thandi Sadak, the cobbled pathway across the lake.

It’s the anti-Mall Road: no shops, no touts. One side faces the hill, the other looks to the lake. Or walk on the town’s hillsides, which are as deserted as the Mall Road was in the 1950s. To climb into another world, climb a bit higher.

Kilbury forest, 13km away, is a different country—utter silence amid a dense cover of oak, pine and rhododendron trees. The slow-moving clouds are close enough to touch. You rarely see anyone except collared grosbeaks, brown wood-owls and laughing thrushes. The forest has more than 500 bird species. Sometimes, the pathway runs over a stream. The enveloping clouds make the world as white as snow. Built in 1890, the Kilbury forest lodge is a perfect retreat.

The British-era Raj Bhawan, or the Governor’s House, on a hill looks magical at sunset. Even with an entry pass of `30, it can be viewed only from the grounds. Made from grey stone, this gothic marvel has 113 rooms. From the rear, it resembles an English country house. On rainy days, the mist gets so thick that the building is reduced to a mere outline; its turrets look finer than any brushstroke by an artist.

The golf course, spread over 45 acres, is within the Raj Bhawan grounds. If the sky is overcast, the golfers frequently disappear into the approaching mist. Tourists can play by paying `250 for 18 holes.

Despite being a Nainital cliché, boating on the lake is heavenly. Each kishti is like an island. The rhythmic splash of the oar on the water lulls you into sweet drowsiness as puffs of cloud drift down the hills, and float over the lake. The view, so fragile that it is more like a state of mind, explains why some people nurture a passion bordering on mania for this town.

At The Book Shop in Delhi’s Jor Bagh Market, the owner, K.D. Singh, who studied at the hill station in the 1950s, has recreated his own Nainital.

Only friends with a “Nainital connection” know the secret geography. The new releases are displayed behind the glass display in “Tallital”, your entry point to Nainital. Older books are exiled to “Mallital”, the region beyond Mall Road.

Classics are stacked up on “Snow View”, the ropeway ride’s destination. Singh himself sits in the “Boat Club”.

The desktop image on his computer is of the lake.

Nainital, 0km.

PICKLED CHICKEN B Y A MBA S ALEKAR ····························· ’ve always been intrigued by Delhi people who tell me, “Oh, we’re going to the Hills this weekend”, and until recently, have displayed my ignorance on several occasions by interjecting with an “Oh, you mean Kullu Manali?”

“The Hills” are just about any destination involving raised altitudes, and are not to be confused with their uncool cousins, the “hill stations”—where we’re headed for our little college reunion.

Our driver attempts to stop for breakfast at this obviously-just-waking-up hotel at Gajraula, in Uttar Pradesh, at 6.30am. We politely shake our heads as the yawning watchman says “Sirf toast milega (only toast is available)”, and eventually stop at Moradabad’s Chandrakanta dhaba. Our orders are taken efficiently and our table is covered with curd, pickle and butter (all dairy products sold by weight), followed by delicious parathas stuffed with onion, paneer, potato and cauliflower, hot off the griddle.

Chandrakanta ends up being a fantastic experience, with seven hungry souls satiated by parathas, tea and colas for just over `300. It’s a stone’s throw from the bright and shiny Apni Haveli that we’ll get to in a bit.

It takes another 5 hours to cross various roadblocks and enter the hills of Kumaon, passing by large advertisements for special chicken pickle—“Sardarji ka Special Murge ka Achaar”. The helpful people at our resort have told us to keep our eyes peeled for the Pilot Baba Ashram, which isn’t hard to miss, with its larger-than-life, gaudy Ganesh and Shiva statues.

Pilot Baba’s godliness met an untimely end, with allegations of money laundering, but the awesomeness remains, evidently.

We’re staying at Two Chimneys, Gethia, and after the long drive, we’re thankful to be spared the usual check-in formalities. After a quick tour of the place with the manager, Manju, we pick our rooms and hit the pool. The efficient Chandru sees us threatening to swig from a wine

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bottle (we were advised to bring our own alcohol, but the kitchen was well stocked with mixers and beer, apparently a trend through the hills) and quickly brings us wine glasses, followed by a warm and comfortable lunch spread.

We are soon joined by the resort’s illustrious owner, Tarun Tejpal. Two Chimneys is pretty much the setting of his first book, and the resort’s library is replete with copies of The Alchemy of Desire (in Spanish!) and back editions of the English magazine Tehelka (of which Tejpal is the editor, and which have thoughtfully also been placed in the bathrooms). We spend the evening recovering from the drive and exploring the pathways around Gethia, before retiring to rounds of Taboo and an elaborate khao suey.

The Hills are lovely, dark and deep, and absolutely conducive to sloth, and the next morning everyone goes out of their way to convince us that our plan of going up to Nainital should be, well, delayed. “Bahut bheed hogi, sir, aaj Sunday hai (it will be very crowded, it’s a Sunday).” “Talao mein paani kam hai, sir, aapko mazaa nahin aayegaa (there isn’t enough water in the lake, you will not enjoy it).” We don’t take much convincing, and hit the pool again.

The next morning, we are determined to conquer our inactivity and go to Nainital—just a 40-minute drive away—and we head straight for the lake after battling surprising traffic jams. We ditch the dragon and swan pedal boats and enter the Boat House Club where, despite our obvious violation of the dress code, sails are unfurled and at a pricey `250 per boat, we are treated to a luxury lap of the lake in the “yacht”. It’s a lot of fun, as long as the wind doesn’t stop. We ignore the snickers of the dragon-boat pedallers when we are stranded in the lake, and strike up a conversation with the boatman about whether the zoo is worth a visit.

“Ek bhaloo hai, ek sher hai (there’s one bear, one tiger),” he yawns.

We ask him about the ropeway.

“Accha hai (it’s nice),” he says.

Despite his non-committal stance, we trek to the ropeway, where I excitedly jump to the empty “ladies” counter and ask for tickets on the next ropeway ride. There are groans from the men’s line.

The next available ropeway ride is at 3.45pm. It’s 11am, and we have a long drive to Delhi ahead of us. We decide to drown our sorrows in pastries at a wonderful bakery right opposite the boat club. Nainital is pretty but crowded for a Monday, and we head back to Gethia after a quick drive around for our last lunch—and dip in the pool—at Two Chimneys.

We’re sad to go, but are cheering ourselves up at the thought of stopping by to pick up some of the chicken achaar.

“Woh main road pe ek Sardarji Murge ka Achaar bechta hai?” we ask Chandru.

“Haanji (yes),” he replies, smilingly.

“Toh woh achcha rehta hai kya (is it good)?”

“Bilkul mat lena, ji (never have it),” he answers, without missing a beat or dropping the earnest smile.

Turns out, the origin of the cockerels which Sardarji pickles are highly suspect, so we visit a store close to the Udupi Restaurant at Haldwani to pick up some Kumaoni Plum Jam and Orange Marmalade, wonderfully thick and fruity, manufactured by the cooperative Umang. It can also be bought off their website.

There’s no staying away from things shiny and pretty, so we’re back at Apni Haveli which, surprisingly, has a “Hair Cutting Saloon” as well. Turns out, if you must stop there, stick to the haircut—we were jolted out of holiday bliss by their terrible service, nuclear jal jeera and possibly the worst tea in the world.

We drove silently on to Delhi, where we reached just in time for the last Domino’s delivery.

There is poetry in these hills, so avoid the crowds and get to as self-enclosed a location as possible and let the hills work their magic on you.

And take your own booze.

Write to lounge@livemint.com

At leisure: The hills in the Kumaon region are dark and deep, and absolutely conducive to sloth.

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CHRIS STEVENSON

In this pristine military establishment, exploring the Nilgiris happens one hairpin bend at a time

CANTONMENT IN THE CLOUDS B Y S NEHA N AGESH ···························· n the summer of 1996, we were in Bangalore, enjoying the last dregs of our vacation, when my father did something that changed our lives permanently. He bought a second-hand car.

At the time, my father was a young Squadron Leader in the Indian Air Force (IAF). He had just been transferred to Wellington, a self-contained military establishment 14km from Ooty. He had been selected for the prestigious Defence Services Staff College course—a competitive programme of international repute for which over 400 officers from the air force, army and navy are taken after a written examination.

All our belongings, including our trusted friend—a handsome, blue-grey Chetak scooter—had been sent to our new home on a truck. We were to leave in the next few days by a “special train”.

Now the sudden addition of an old Maruti 800 to our humble family posed all sorts of questions. Surely cars weren’t allowed on special trains? What would happen to the scooter?

Who was going to drive this strange-looking machine?

My father answered all our panicked queries a day before we were to leave for Wellington. He would drive us. He had driven a military truck on hilly terrain years ago so he had great experience, he assured us happily.

The route from Bangalore to Wellington is an adventurous one.

My father had probably envisioned that after many years of travelling on the aforementioned scooter, the four of us would be immune to any

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On the curve: (top) There are more than 28 narrow hairpin bends on the drive up; and the toy train, or Nilgiri Moun­ tain Railway, pulls into Wellington station.

difficult travel paths. But sitting snug in our new car, we were still taken aback by this particular path—we were introduced to the wonderful world of hairpin bends.

Our route contained 28 of them.

Alternating between fear and awe, we spent most of our time with our heads held as close to the car window as possible, staring at the rich green landscape around.

We didn’t realize it then, as my father adeptly navigated his way through one precarious curve after the other, but that thrilling first car ride triggered a tradition of several other unique little family holidays; in varied and at times obscure locations across the world, but somehow always centred on a car.

When we arrived and drove through the campus, we found that all the houses had pretty names like Westgrove Castle and Strawberry Cottage. As my father had quite a senior rank, we would be staying in one of the nicer houses—a stone-built, duplex bungalow called Wellington Hall. For the less fortunate, there was Gourka Hill, a place full of custom-made and

identical flats. The more junior the officer, the higher he had to trudge to his quarters.

It was all colonial and civilized.

We soon realized this was going to be a quiet, 10-month vacation in a place right out of some fantastic British history book.

Wellington was managed entirely by the military forces and the authorities enforced a strict zero-garbage rule, charging heavy fines for even a strip of paper on the road. This seemed to result in all its inhabitants treating it like their own home, making a conscious effort to keep it spotlessly clean.

One of the activities for officers’ wives was a course on baking and I remember a happy few weeks when my mother would come back home with the products of her toil—an exotic-looking cake or a delectable pastry. My mother has always been a generous hostess and her new baking skills only accentuated this quality. We had several visitors in our time in Wellington and our old, round oven was nearly driven into early retirement after each one of those visitors was rewarded with an

JYOTI PRAKASH BHATTACHARJEE

unusual cake of top quality.

School excepted, my brother and I had no pressing matters to attend to, and we were free to explore the brilliant experiences that Wellington provided.

Every evening, a young man would walk a pony around the campus, and for a small amount, we could buy ourselves a pony ride. Eventually, my brother and I got better and the man allowed us to progress from a “trot” to an impressive “canter” close to the edge of the hills.

There were also organized hikes and trips to explore the places around—lakes untouched by the public and mountain trails that treated us to fresh views of the hills. My personal favourite activity was to take walks around the campus, discovering new and interesting territory, unmarked by any adult-like forces.

One of the main consequences of being perched up on the hills was that even simple things would take a different twist. We would rush to play in the park because sitting on the swings, you felt as though you were dipping in and out of gorgeous landscape that you had taken possession of a long time ago. We felt like the park, the hills, the trees, were all a large playground that we loved and took for granted. This perspective made us braver in our games and it wasn’t unusual for us to go wandering off in search of an imaginary quicksand pit or a haunted temple.

Another fascinating facet of a place neck deep in colonial history was discovering things like discarded golf courses. For a child, it was like finding a secret private island, and armed with packed lunches and snacks, I guided a select set of members

from my enormous social circle to our own equivalent of an Enid Blyton adventure.

Wellington lacked a good public transport system and as much as I liked walking by myself, I also loved to go out exploring with my family. For us, having a car soon became irreplaceable.

When my father wasn’t busy, we took our old Maruti to tea gardens, breathtaking view points, toy-train stations, and old run-down theatres. Wherever we went, we ensured we experienced the place in a way that was personal and uninfluenced by maps, guides or travelogues.

When we left Wellington, I think we all cried a little.

We did return a few years later, this time in a different car. My father was out of the IAF and we stayed at the Wellington Gymkhana Club, an ex-garrison club meant for the recreation of officers. For two days, we managed to almost duplicate the Wellington staff college experience. We immersed ourselves in our old life, wandering about in the hills, watching the Nilgiris change colour as the day progressed.

Technically, there isn’t much to “see” in Wellington. It’s the sort of place where you stumble upon hidden and beautiful spaces while maintaining a belief that there is an endless supply of those spaces.

As we drove away for the second time, it was as though the hills watched us, non-judgemental, understanding that we would come and go as we pleased, but they would remain, storing our memories and time itself, ready to welcome us— and our car—back if we liked.

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KERALA VAZHACHAL FOREST

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Leeches on your neck and a fogged­up camera take little away from the joys of ficus and fungus in a lively forest

FERNS STILL LIVE PHOTOGRAPHS

B Y A RATI R AO ···························· had forgotten what monsoon in the Western Ghats was like.

Until one Friday morning in August when we set off across the Tamil Nadu border and into Kerala’s Vazhachal forest. As we crossed the Sholayar dam, it began to rain. Mist rose from forest floors to spiral up and mix with clouds until we couldn’t tell them apart. Rain-drenched leaves shone verdure and dripped everywhere. Frogs and tiny toads jumped out of our way and eager leeches sensed us and stood on tip-toe, looking to latch on.

The Vazhachal Reserve Forest unfurled in front of us—wet, evergreen, wonderful and, as beautiful things are, fragile. The windshield wipers were ineffective at times and the going was slow. Which was as it should be, for the forest is breathtaking.

It is where the ferns still live.

Banks rose up from the sides of the road, covered in roots and ferns, fungi and moss. Rock faces seemed to melt into rivulets as water seeped through and over them. Boughs and lianas were smothered in moss, and orchids were everywhere. Creepers hung from branches like curtains, and every bend in the road had a frothy, white, gushing waterfall.

The bigger characters in this drama—the Nilgiri langurs, the Malabar giant squirrels, and the birds seemed to respectfully give way to the small, the immobile, and the green. The setting breathed and pulsed with life—from the smallest snails chomping on leaves to the fairy lantern fungi that defied my camera to catch their colour. And then there were the impatiens—those little pink and white flowers that grow on wet rock.

They came in large beds, small clumps, and lone sentinels bending and twisting, but holding

I

Fern feather: (top) Dendrobium orchids growing on trees; and (above, right) a cascade formed by the Medinella plant in the Vazhachal forest.

their own under waterfalls.

The sun had pushed its way through the thick blanket of grey and briefly spotlighted a moss here, a fern there.

It was the paradise I’d imagined and longed to walk through.

Vazhachal is a primary forest, albeit logged, and the trees are old growth. Electric transmission lines scar the landscape at regular intervals, but foliage determinedly continues on around them. The understorey of the rainforest—the area below the treetops—was full of ferns—and many different species of fern at that. The fern is a milestone in the evolution of plants—it puts out leaves, making it more complex than the primitive mosses—but it reproduces the original way, with spores, not seeds. The profusion of ferns showed us how undisturbed—and also how vulnerable—Vazhachal is.

Fabulous as the scene was, there was a sinister undertone. A four-lane highway was to replace this 20ft road. That meant the ferns and the first few rows of trees would be cleared.

It rankled, for with increased traffic and without the cover of treetops, the ferns would die out, to be replaced by the scourge of the invasive species—Lantana, Parthenium and Eupatorium.

These invaders are hardy, aggressively pervasive, and resilient.

Without natural controls in the new land, they would take over the ecosystem and compete with native species for nutrition, pollination and survival. In the bargain, the native species could eventually be replaced by the non-natives, which could take the entire ecosystem down.

The light was low, and in the rain, taking photographs needed a prayer, not just a camera. But the quest for tack-sharp images respectfully retreated behind the

grand drama of green that surrounded me. The dark of the rainforest in monsoon is what it is. So if blurry and grainy images were all I would take home from this trip, so be it.

I remember one moment clearly. I stood on the road, looking up an embankment. The roots of a ficus spread like talons on the mudrock. Layers of fern and moss dressed it up as fungi sprouted all over. These plants were not immobile or static. They were making things. Bugs, leeches, and microbes were stopping by these dining rooms and feasting—like travellers at inns.

I was soaking wet by now, and had run out of dry patches of T-shirt with which to wipe my lens clean. My knees were muddy from kneeling to take eye-level shots. I’d found a couple of leeches on my neck, one on my face and one on my lip.

Wetness and leeches can make one miserable. But I had only one day in such a forest, and only a few hours to soak it all up. Negative emotions dismissed, I chased snails and sloshed across a stream to see insanely huge fungi. Clambering up mud walls, I was careful. This was a forest,

after all. There was no way I would want to disturb it in any way beyond my presence there—whether moving creatures like snails away, or catching butterflies, or collecting plants.

By now, the sun had given up the fight with the clouds and called it a day. I looked at my camera, fearing that the lens would be kaput the next day, fogged up at a minimum. We’d probably see the highly endangered lion-tailed macaques up close, and I’d have nothing to

BY

ARATI RAO

photograph them with.

As it turned out, we did see the highly endangered lion-tailed macaques the next day—big adults, juveniles and even babies a few days old. As expected, my camera was fogged up. Well, I thought to myself, there is a way out. I just have to soak up this experience deep and paint the scene with words alone. For there could be no regret when the experience was so special.

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KERALA MARARI BEACH

IL

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A sleepy little beachside village has perfected the Italian art of doing nothing, Kerala­style

DOLCE FAR NIENTE B Y R ISHAD S AAM M EHTA ···························· omu leapt back like a gazelle, startled by the rapidity with which I had sprung out of my car and enthusiastically grabbed the coconut he was holding. The tall, swaying palms that surround Marari beach, hiding it away from the mainland, also provide coconuts—and coconut water is an ideal welcome drink for the sweaty traveller who has just battled the heat and the aggressive traffic on the roads of Kerala.

A hotel management graduate and trainee at the Marari Beach Resort, Romu had been standing in the portico, ready with the welcome drink, and once he had overcome the shock of my leaping at the coconut, he pulled himself together and welcomed us to Mararikulam—the correct name of this little seaside hamlet lying between Kochi and Alleppey.

Formalities completed and traditional garland welcome

R

bestowed, we were passed on to Midhun, another member of the staff, who escorted us to our thatched roof cottage.

He was a little taken aback at the swiftness with which we changed into our beach gear.

Models scrambling to change outfits backstage at a fashion show would have found us tough competition.

Seeing our fervour to hit the beach, he remarked, “But sir, you are from Mumbai and they have beaches there, no?”

Which is true, but we couldn’t ever imagine lounging on a Mumbai beach in swimming trunks or a bikini.

But here in Marari, doing this comes naturally. The little beach is deserted save for a few fisherfolk who are busy repairing their nets or sprucing up their boats. When we left our cottage, the sea was sending tantalizing invitations by way of sunbeams bouncing off it and twinkling through the palms that border the beach.

The palms were leafy enough to provide shade to relax under

with a book, with regular breaks to take dips in the Arabian Sea. Marari is a shelving beach and slopes down quite sharply, so you do have to take care when the tide is going out, because the pull of the sea can be quite vicious. But when the tide is coming in, this is one of the most fantastic beaches in India for a swim. The sea is clean, blue and gentle.

We spent that morning shifting down a gear and going into relax mode. The regular drumming of the waves on the sand, the twittering of birds, and the occasional fishing boat passing was the only activity around.

After half a day spent sprawled on the beach with the barman’s speciality—a cocktail called “East India”—for refreshment, and some pulp fiction for company, we headed to the poolside for brunch—a sumptuous club sandwich and fresh lime soda.

By the time the sun started dipping on the horizon, we PHOTOGRAPHS

Drop anchor: (clockwise from top) A fisherman mends his net on Marari beach; the Marari Beach Resort; and toddy bottles.

Drop anchor: A fisher­ man mends his net on Marari beach; and (right) the Marari Beach Resort.

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RISHAD SAAM MEHTA

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realized that the transition from the bustling activity of life in the city to absolute lethargy had been a little too rapid. A part of me, used to meeting deadlines and making the most of my time, kept thinking that so much relaxation was illegal.

So at 4pm we borrowed cycles and went for a ride around the village. If you look it up on the map, you’ll see that it’s surrounded by patches of blue—a network of backwaters that run around the beach.

Behind these backwaters lies the largish Vembanad Lake.

Bounded by beach, backwaters and lake, Marari is relaxed, almost lazy—nothing happens here except fishing, and some cottage industry.

We cycled past villagers about to wrap up their work in the paddy fields, and past young men who were climbing almost vertical palm trees to check on their toddy collection containers. At the temples, with their lifelike and sometimes ferocious carvings, the village devotees were offering thanks for a good day. Other villagers, a little less pious and a little more thirsty, were making a beeline for the toddy shops, where those who’d started early were exiting with a slight swagger in their step.

Having seen everything there was to see in the village, we parked our cycles against a palm tree and went for a little sunset cruise in a rice boat on the backwaters.

By the time we cycled back through the resort’s main gate, my rear had started to tell me that it wasn’t really accustomed to an hour on the restricted surface area that was the cycle’s saddle. To make things worse, Kerala’s humidity had drained

TRAVEL SPECIAL

TRAVEL SPECIAL Idyllic: A boatman in the backwaters around the beach; and (left) toddy bottles.

me. This time, though, Romu was ready, and stood his ground when I leapt for the coconut he had ready.

For those who savour seafood, this is a place where it is the freshest. It is a little south of Marari that the Arabian Sea meets the Indian Ocean and this means that there is an abundance of sea life. Boats going out to sea return with prawns, squid and other fish which is served up hardly 12 hours after it is caught. So that night our dinner consisted, among other things, of butter-garlic grilled tiger prawns.

Next morning, we found that the humidity had reached saturation point; it had rained through the night. The palms wore a freshly washed look and Smithamol, the local girl who served us our morning tea, had an extra radiant smile. “Sir, these are the final showers of

the monsoon.”

The rains had also cooled the land and there seemed an infectious buzz around the air to show that even the birds and bees shared Smithamol’s jubilation at the monsoon’s last sigh as it rolled away over the Western Ghats.

We spent that morning spa-ing. Our fishermen friends from the previous morning were taking a newly repaired boat out for a trial spin, and invited us to come along in the afternoon.

Floating on the sea with silence all around and the swaying palms of Marari beach on the horizon, the frenetic pace of urban life seemed a lifetime away. Of course, tomorrow we’d be right at its epicentre, but right then, we were happy to let Kerala work her magic on us.

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GOA MANDREM

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This could be your own little sun­soaked paradise, the side of Goa that makes the traveller never want to leave

STRETCHED LIKE A RIVERCAT PHOTOGRAPHS

BY

RUDRANEIL SENGUPTA/MINT

B Y R UDRANEIL S ENGUPTA rudraneil.s@livemint.com

···························· t Villa Rivercat, there are three stages of reception.

First, the villa’s dogs skid out of the main entrance, tails wagging, past the massive Buddha head, and come up to lick you. Then the cats lolling around inside the villa get up, stretch, purr and rub against your hand, while their latest litter of fur balls scatters in fright and excitement at the site of a newcomer. Then, if you can rouse him from his afternoon nap, Rinoo Sehgal, the owner of this strange non-hotel, comes up to meet you, his eyes half-shut from the siesta, his pointy goatee bristling with humour. “Babaji!” he says, “You are back in Goa. I’m very happy, we must celebrate!”

In Mandrem, a small fishing village on the northern tip of Goa, the only buzz you hear is of the crickets.

A smattering of hotels and beach shacks hidden behind palm fronds, a wide, clear creek running into the sea, and an unspoilt beach that melts into the horizon—Mandrem is everything Goa used to be before it got buried under concrete, plastic and hordes of tourists.

Here, serendipity is still an option.

The beach is long, with smooth, pale yellow sand. The sea is calm, considerate—the sandy floor under you slopes gently and unhurriedly, so whether you are a five-year-old non-swimmer or a deep-sea diver, there’s space for you to splash around safely.

There are no crowds on this beach—a man with a tiny blonde baby sitting astride his shoulders stands facing the horizon in chest-deep water. A couple wade into the sea, and timing themselves perfectly with the bigger waves, bodysurf back to the shore, and then wade out again.

In a far corner, some of the locals are playing a pick-up game of

A

Flashback: (from top) The calm and secluded Mandrem beach; Villa Rivercat takes in beach­bum dogs and cats; and the sea­ green façade of the villa.

beach football along with a couple of tourists. This could be your own little sun-soaked paradise, the side of Goa that makes the traveller never want to leave.

As if all of that was not good enough, there is Villa Rivercat.

The sea-green rotunda under a thatched palm cupola is hidden just metres away from the beach behind sand dunes and coconut groves. It shelters human travellers as well as beach-bum dogs, and though Sehgal and his staff of two run the place, the real owners are an extended family of regal, lazy and friendly cats. They keep the dogs in their place, laze in the beautiful semi-circular veranda overlooking a lush tropical garden and the creek, and sometimes position themselves as decorative pieces on antique cupboards, shelves, or the banis-

ter of the wide, spiral staircase that leads up to the first floor of the villa.

Gently swinging on one of the hammocks that dot the villa’s wraparound balcony, I feel like it’s a quirky ancestral house I’ve inherited.

The floor of the villa features intricate Mediterranean tiles, and the walls and corners are dotted with quirky artefacts collected by Sehgal during his travels, or left by visiting artists as gifts. One beautiful but ominous black and white sketch shows the villa postapocalypse, a massive banyan tree rising from the centre of the house and through the roof, vines entwined across the entire façade, deep jungle all around, and the silhouette of a cat sitting in the open doorway.

The one price to pay for this

blissful solitude is the lack of good restaurants in Mandrem.

After a depressing tour of some of the local joints, I’m convinced that the only really good food is to be found at Dunes—a large beach shack decked with fairy lights, whose Goan fish curries, garlic prawns, recheado and vindaloos are consistently good, with robust flavours and, of course, the freshest of fish.

For a truly extraordinary culinary experience, I have to break away from the sleepy cocoon of Mandrem, but that doesn’t take too much effort. A 10-minute motorcycle ride through twisting, tree-lined roads cutting through paddy fields leads me to, without hyperbole, the hippest restaurant on an Indian beach: La Plage, run by a French expat couple.

On the menu: rare tuna steak encrusted in toasted sesame seeds with a soy-based sauce; crispy, airy tempuras with three kinds of dips; melt-in-the-mouth sardine fillets with wasabi cream; tiger prawn carpaccio that tastes of the sea in a heady tropical marriage with vanilla-infused oil; and mussels and clams in a wildly aromatic coconut milk broth. The setting: pristine white tables and deck chairs, colourful sheer curtains billowing in the breeze, and a dazzlingly white beach. It’s luxurious, innovative food executed perfectly, amid a setting that money can’t buy.

Mandrem beach is actually part of a continuous stretch of beaches that run for roughly 13km, with the Chapora river as the southern limit, and the Terekhol river that divides Goa from Maharashtra the northern boundary. Starting from Morjim in the south, a struggling sanctuary for Olive Ridley turtles, the stretch covers Ashwem, where La Plage is located, Mandrem, Arambol and Kerim. Morjim is populous and dirty, Arambol is a popular hippie hang-out with lots of beach shacks and restaurants and shops—a place to head to if Mandrem gets too quiet, or for

the elaborate fry-up breakfast at the Double Dutch Bakery.

Lulled by the cool sea breeze and the shaded, winding roads that undulate gorgeously through forested hills and quaint villages, I rode on a bike all the way to the northern limit of Goa (actually, that’s all of 20 minutes’ ride from Mandrem). It’s a place called Kerim—a thin strip of white sand beach, and it’s completely deserted. Only two small shacks are semi-operational. The Terekhol river calmly merges with the Arabian Sea at one end of the beach. The shack, shaded by an unbroken line of coconut trees along the coastline, serves chilled beer and prawns so fresh they must have been alive seconds before they were cooked.

Sautéed in lots of butter and garlic, shells and heads intact, with a hint of cumin and red chillies, the prawns are exploding with flavour. They are so good that they demand messy, no-holdsbarred, dazed gluttony. A rare moment of culinary magic when you least expect it.

From Kerim, I loaded my bike on to the ferry that takes people across the Terekhol river for free.

On the other side, just a few kilometres up the hill, is the Tiracol Fort, a former Portuguese citadel turned into a heritage hotel. It is a spectacular setting, the white and ochre fort perched on an isolated cliff which rises straight from the sea, and the hotel allows casual visitors to walk around its ramparts. The path up to the fort is dotted with small family-owned cashew plantations, all making the local brew, feni. If the thick fumes on the road are not heady enough, all the plantations have little plastic chairs and tables set out in courtyards where you can stop by for a drink. Now, feni tempered into a citrusy cocktail makes for an excellent drink, but drinking the stuff straight requires true grit.

In these surroundings, though, I didn’t mind a shot or two for the road.

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HIMACHAL PRADESH McLEODGANJ

LIKE A

PRAYER WHEEL

B Y H ARI S HENOY ···························· ibet is mystical.

It is distant. It is alluring. It seems closed and inaccessible. Pop culture has romanticized it and kindled the spirit of curiosity among those of us who thirst to know more about it. Its absolute unwillingness to open itself up to foreigners until the late 1950s did nothing to reduce its appeal to those determined to get there, as a certain Herr Harrer (as played by Brad Pitt in Seven Years in Tibet) would have you know.

Tibet is now China.

It has seen the “Great Leap Forward” and the Cultural Revolution.

Images of an unvisited Lhasa and its moonlit alleys with gentle sloping roofs below the awe-inspiring visage of the Potala Palace have now been erased. All one can now imagine and see are aesthetically revolting blown-up images of Chairman Mao Zedong in a Tibet that seems less enticing for a traveller with each passing day.

Thankfully, there are places within India that still embody what Tibet once used to be. McLeodganj in Himachal Pradesh and Bylakuppe in Karnataka satiate those who want to connect with Tibetan Buddhism, revel in His Holiness’ aura or explore exotic locations that are both Indian and foreign at once.

McLeodganj is not your typical weekend getaway from Delhi or Chandigarh, for it takes more than an overnight journey to get there.

On the bright side, only during long weekends or the holiday season does the place get annoyingly touristy. On most other occasions, the average point-and-shoot camera-toting, noisy, citybred boorish visitor

T

Where Tibet is free: A monk looks out from Nechung Monastery in Dharamsala.

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The central square reinforces a belief—this is not a place with a list of must­dos and must­see

is nowhere to be seen. Instead, the streets of McLeodganj are frequented by travellers with an objective beyond casual discovery.

McLeodganj (also known as upper Dharamsala) was ravaged by the Kangra earthquake in 1905 and abandoned shortly thereafter.

It was given a new lease of life in 1959, with the setting up of the Tibetan government-in-exile.

I spent five glorious days in McLeodganj, far away from the madding Delhi crowd, to discover that this place reinforced my travelling philosophy of not conforming to to-do and must-see checklists while on holiday.

My first day was spent around the town’s central square. It’s a good idea to use the square to orient yourself, since it is almost midpoint for all places to visit and things to do.

A simple walk in the heart of town along Temple Road and Jogibara Road lent itself to many interesting sights, sounds and smells. These two roads run in parallel from the square and house popular hotels, stores, restaurants, cafés and souvenir shops, in addition to street hawkers that sell steamed momos and other items.

The other items may range from kitsch jewellery to posters of His Holiness to DVDs of Kundun and Seven Years in Tibet, but the momos are a constant.

The Namgyal stupa is located between these two streets and serves as a thor-

oughfare between them. The prayer wheels that surround the stupa are rotated continuously by those looking to accumulate good prayer karma with minimal effort.

People circumambulate the stupa at all times of the day.

Walking back to my hotel a little after midnight one evening, I witnessed a frail, old woman praying at the stupa. She was turning the prayer wheels with her right hand while softly chanting mantras that were audible only because there was no sound on the street at that time of night.

Another pleasant walk on a street filled with souvenir shops, clothes stores and more roadside momo stalls took me towards the Tsuglakhang (Main Temple) Complex. I’ve never seen a greater variety of “Free Tibet” paraphernalia before, some sadly trivializing the cause. The winding road slopes down towards the complex and the Namgyal Monastery.

Unlike most other crowded religious places where it’s increasingly tough to seek mental serenity, the sonorous prayer chants of the monks at the monastery, combined with the peaceful surroundings and great views, had an incredibly calming effect on me.

More prayer wheels, the familiar essence of lighted yak butter lamps and people-watching at the beautiful temple complex made time fly.

DIVYA BABU/MINT

Before I knew it, I had already been there 5 hours, appropriately enough with Pico Iyer’s The Open Road to keep me company.

Sitting on a park bench in the area between the temple and the monastery, I learnt of an interesting debating ritual among monks that helps reinforce the teachings of the Buddha. One monk sits calmly on the ground, answering questions that another monk throws at him while towering over him, clapping hard and stomping his foot in an attempt to break the examinee’s concentration. I was informed that this animated, emphatic series of gestures is a way of having a lively debate while ensuring that despite distractions, the lessons have been well learnt.

The Buddha’s teachings also have an unexpected benefit: Stray dogs in McLeodganj are healthy, friendly and seldom ill-treated.

They are considered reincarnated monks that had left the fold, only to be reborn as dogs that wish to atone for their desertion.

The Dalai Lama lives in a small residence within the complex. I hung around to get a glimpse of His Holiness, but was informed that such chance encounters are had only by a few lucky souls nowadays.

The Bhagsunath temple, on a long and winding road away from the central square, is one of the few temples in India where you can find an idol of the Hindu god Shiva instead of a shivling in the inner sanctum. The splendid view of the lower Himalayas and the majestic Bhagsu waterfall were ample incentive to undertake this walk, which took me around 5 hours at a slow pace.

Another pleasant walk, in the opposite direction from the temple, is the 159-year-old church of St John in the Wilderness. Situated on the main road en route to Dharamsala, this Gothic-style architecture church has beautiful stained-glass windows of St John baptizing Jesus.

The church isn’t visible clearly on the approach road, so few tourists stop here, keeping it serene.

Free from party animals who frequent hills, McLeodganj offers salubrious climes, magnificent vistas, and spiritually invigorating moments. Here, the holiday getaway is richer than the sum of its individual experiences.

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The rain­drenched Valley of Flowers is home to some of the most exotic Himalayan flora

CANNABIS AND LADIES’ SLIPPERS PHOTOGRAPHS

B Y K OMAL S HARMA komal.sharma@livemint.com

···························· etting to the Valley of Flowers National Park is a 14km trek on a steep stone pathway littered with mule shit, your back breaking under the weight of your rucksack—but it’s worth it.

Hidden among rocky mountain faces, there’s a profusion of flowers as far as the eye can see.

Lying in the Garhwal Himalayas in Uttarakhand, the valley starts at an altitude of 3,200m and rises gently to 6,675m. With more than 500 types of flowers, the Pushpawati river meandering through it and the Tipra glacier in the distance, it’s an oasis of grassy meadows in otherwise rugged mountainous terrain.

Once we reach Govindghat, a small town in Chamoli district 295km from Dehradun, we have to abandon our bus. Govindghat is where the motorable road ends and the trek starts.

A group of nine friends, we decide to walk the 14km up to Ghangria, a small village which acts as a base camp for the

G

In bloom: (from top) The Himalayan mayapple is being tested for its potential as a cure for cancer; blue hackelia; white anemones fill the grassy slopes; and pilgrims and trekkers.

valley. Nourished by Maggi noodles and nimbu-pani (lemonade), we trek up the cannabis-lined path, waving to mountain children with rosy cheeks and runny noses. While the valley is open to tourists from April to October, not everyone will enjoy visiting during the monsoon. The flowers are in full bloom, but the rain will slow you down, make you wait before landslides and drench you to the bone, no matter how good your raincoat or windcheater. But the mist makes it all worthwhile. Once you’ve given up trying to fight

the rain, the romance of the crisp mountain air, cotton candy clouds and gurgling stream take over.

The valley was discovered in 1931 by a team of British mountaineers led by Frank Smythe. But the better known, rather more loved explorer was a British botanist, Margaret Legge. The story goes that in 1939, while collecting specimens in the valley, Legge slipped and died. Her sister returned a year later and put up a tombstone in her memory. The Valley of Flowers National Park is now recognized by Unesco as a

BY

KR KESHAVA MURTHY

KOMAL SHARMA/MINT

World Heritage Site for its exotic and endangered flora and fauna.

Chandrashekhar Chauhan, 34, a guide at Ghangria who has made a short documentary on the valley, puts it well, “If you mark a 1x1m of land in the valley, the variety of plants and flowers in just that area will fascinate you.” Chauhan’s film was screened at the forest department office in Ghangria recently.

If you’re a flower lover, Floral Gallery of Himalayan Valley of Flowers and Adjacent Areas by K.R. Keshava Murthy, released in March, is a handy book to carry.

A pictorial flower guide, it gives both the Latin and local names of flowers, their medicinal properties, and other trivia. A plant taxonomist from Bangalore, Murthy worked in the valley between 2006 and 2010 .

“The only book available on the valley (before this) was (Adam) Stainton and (Oleg) Polunin’s Flowers of Himalayas.

The book is a masterpiece for a plant taxonomist, but too complicated for the common man. That’s why I decided to provide a book for flower lovers,” says Murthy.

Bisht (he insisted we call him by his last name), a friendly forest officer, is our guide. As we enter the valley, he points out the birch trees. Windblown along the valley’s slope, these are the bhojpatras, on whose bark the Vedas were written. We peel some of the white, paper-thin bark as mementos. But it is the tiny white flowers, the anemones, that move us. A whole meadow full of swaying, friendly flowers, and no cellphones network to distract us—this is close to our idea of heaven.

But not all the plants are friendly. When a friend slips and falls, I instantly reach for a leaf to wipe off the mud, and with my luck, pluck a stinging nettle.

For the rest of the trip, my fingertips are on fire.

We spot the endangered blue poppy, or neela posta, growing wild. Its narcotic effects are better known, but it is used as a painkiller in Tibetan medicine.

The Sacred Lotus, or Brahma Kamal, stands true to its reputation of being elusive—we don’t see the rare plant on this visit. Bisht casually points to the distant Tipra glacier and says we’d have to walk a few kilometres (6-7km) for a glimpse of it. An orchid called Ladies Slipper, for it actually looks like one, grows in scattered patches, and Bisht tells us that it is poached and fetches quite a price. Orchids and the local musk deer aren’t the only species being poached. An insect-shaped fungus, Cordyceps sinensis, locally known as keedajadi or the caterpillar fungus, which is allegedly used to manufacture steroids, fetches `3 lakh a kilo.

However, the most interesting plant we spot is the unassuming, Himalayan mayapple (Podophyllum hexandrum), which contains a chemical called podophyllin that interferes with cell division and can thus possibly prevent the spread of cancer. The plant is under clinical testing.

After this educative tour, we open our packed lunch of parathas and pickle, and have a picnic by Legge’s memorial stone. Walking back along the remains of a snow avalanche, a rock face standing high and mighty, and delicate flowers peeping from rock crevices, we feel inconsequential in front of Mother Nature. Surrounded by the valley and its flowers, we don’t mind.

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Sun and sand: (from top) Wide­brimmed straw hat by Zara, at Palladium mall, Phoenix Mills, Mumbai, and Select Citywalk mall, Saket, New Delhi, `2,190; kaftan blouse by Zara, `2,190; and men’s flip­flops by Paul Smith, at DLF Emporio mall, Vasant Kunj, New Delhi, and UB City mall, Vittal Mallya Road, Bangalore, `10,500.

Whether it’s the hills or the beaches, missing these essentials could cramp your style

RIGHT

TRAVEL IN THE HILLS B Y A ADISHT K HANNA ··························· u GPS navigator: Whether you’re planning a drive into the hills or taking a long hike through them, a dedicated Global Positioning System (GPS) navigation device keeps you safe and on track. Keeping the maps stored on the device also means you don’t have to rely on a data connection. Get MapMyIndia Road Pilot for `7,990. If you already have a GPS-ready smartphone, download the Sygic app for Android or iOS for free, and buy India maps for €39.99, or around `2,620 (www.sygic.com). u Hiking shoes: If your shoes aren’t in good condition, get new ones but break them in before the trek. Detached soles and torn sides can be dangerous, especially when the monsoon makes slopes slippery.

Get a sturdy pair of boots from Timberland (Ambience Mall, Vasant Kunj, New Delhi; Phoenix Mills, Lower Parel, Mumbai; and Express Avenue mall, Royapettah, Chennai). Adventure 18 (www.adventure18.com, at Satya Niketan, near Venkateswara College, Dhaula Kuan, New

Delhi; and behind Bhatia Hospital, Grant Road West, Mumbai), and Rocksport (www.rocksportoutdoors.com) also store rugged European alpine boots starting at `3,750. u Flashlight: It’s likely that you’ll be without reliable power supply. Carry a powerful flashlight along with a supply of batteries. The gold standard remains the Mini Maglite

Rugged trails: (above) Pureland Waterproof Outer Shell, at www.trekkerspoint.com, `5,500; and Boreal Cayenne waterproof boots, at www.adventure18.com, `7,500.

(www.maglite.com). Petzl headlamps, used by the best mountaineers around the world, are also available at Adventure 18 and Rocksport, starting at `1,000. u Windcheater: The monsoon is still around in south India, so if you head to the Nilgiris your jacket will need to protect you from the rain as well as the cold. The best option is a water-and-windproof outer shell jacket. Choose from a variety of sturdy jackets at Carabin Adventure (www.carabinadventure.com), Trekkers Point (www.trekkerspoint.com) or Adventure 18. Prices start at `1,000. u Optics: Choose your binoculars and camera lenses depending on what you want to do. If you are planning to go bird spotting in the upper Himalayas, carry binoculars. If you plan to stay in the hill station’s main thoroughfare, carry a point-and-shoot camera, or a 35mm lens for your SLR. Write to lounge@livemint.com

ON BEACHES B Y A NINDITA G HOSE anindita.g@livemint.com

·························· u Pack more than one swimsuit: Sure, you’ll remember to take your bathing suit on a beach vacation. But consider carrying at least two. Late-night swims are great, but putting on a damp suit first thing the next morning could be unpleasant. u Get swimsuit cover-ups: Seriously, don’t walk around in a towel to and from the beach.

A T-shirt usually works fine for men and children. Women can choose between a sarong, sundress, or T-shirt and shorts.

Kaftans go well over a bikini but make sure they’re in fabrics that are quick to dry. u Sun shield: A pair of UV-protected sunglasses are a must. What SPF your sunscreen should be depends on where you’re going, but pick one that’s waterproof.

Try the UV Detector app for iPhone/Android (free) which checks the UV index hour-by-hour for the day and gives you customized alerts.

Or get UV Monkey (Thinkgeek.com). Priced at

$10 (around `480), it’s a small tag that changes colour based on the level of UV light falling on it. u Skin safe: Your skin is going to be parched in the sun, so pack in regular moisturizer and an eye cream as well.

If you must use foundation, L’Oreal’s UV Perfect comes in a beige tint that doubles up as a make-up base. They also have a purple tint called the “anti-dullness version”, and a non-tinted one for those who like it au naturale. u Pack hats: There will be a time when you want (or need!) a break from the sun. Besides, this is the chance to flaunt that oversized straw hat that takes up half your accessories drawer. It’s also a great way to deal with stringy beach hair.

u Bring beach bags: Bring a bag that can be cleaned easily when it gets filled with sand.

Shun leather. u Pack your own beach towels: Most hotels and resorts have beach towels for guests but they’re usually too thin or short. Carry your own viscose towels: These are soft, lightweight and dry faster than a cotton towel.

Brands such as Zara offer beach towels that double up as beach spreads. u Pack music and reading material: Carry your iPod or iPad (eBay has $35 iPad cases from Waterwear), paperbacks and magazines.

Pack in age-appropriate toys for children so you can actually enjoy your time in the sun: a bucket and shovel for the younger ones, a beach ball for teens. u Hydrate, munch: Sitting in the sun all day is draining and it’s important to stay hydrated. Carry one bottle of water per person. Pack in snacks like fresh or dried fruit (they travel well).

Gopal Sathe, Rudraneil Sengupta and Komal Sharma contributed to these lists.

Mint Media Marketing Initiative Kenya, just the name evokes the ancient sense of adventure that has propelled many to head to Africa to discover timeless cultures, archaeological mysteries and experience the quintessential safari. Kenyan safaris often qualify for the tag, trip of a lifetime and the country is indeed an extraordinary destination.

K

enya with its rich flora and fauna is a famous destination for its national forest reserves and striking safari tours which attracts tourists from across the globe.

Kenya offers a whole new luxurious way of experiencing wildlife, beaches and the warmth of African hospitality. A tented safari or a bush breakfast at Maasai Mara is the ultimate once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Depending on location, most tented camps are constructed of pristine wood and canvas, complete with hot water, flushing toilets, gourmet meals, and helpful guides and staff. Critically, all are positioned on the savanna for maximum exposure to the country's abundant wildlife. Moving via safari vehicle, horseback, or on foot, you will be led by experienced guides to where the animals congregate.

Naibor Camp is a luxury tented camp, a striking combination of contemporary style and comfort, in the heart of Kenya's world famous Masai Mara Game Reserve. The camp is hidden in a grove of riverine woodland on the banks of the Talek River and consists of sweeping pale canvas tents, king sized beds made from local fig-wood, wide sofas furnished with bolster cushions, and wool rugs - a luxurious base from which to explore the Mara.

Since Naibor is in the heart of the Masai Mara Game Reserve, guests are able to enjoy fabulous wildlife viewing throughout the year. Naibor is also strategically placed for the wildebeest migration, being close to all the major wildebeest crossing sites over the Mara River.

Leave the modern world behind, come to this traditional camp in Kenya. Starlit nights, camp fire tales and hurricane lamps, Elephant Pepper Camp is a step back in time but with modern comforts. You can relax with nature, no noisy generators, no vehicles passing, no permanent structures jarring the skyline, just the sights and sounds of the bush which completely surround you. The camp is set in the shade of a natural forest overlooking the plains. It has eight large light canvas tents with en-suite dressing rooms, safari showers filled with hot water on request and flush toilets. The main dining / bar mess tent offers family style dining with a self service bar. Guests can relax in the separate tented lounge.

Cottar's 1920's Safari Camp accommodates up to 22 guests in authentic, spacious white canvas tents. The camp has 10 tents (six en-suite

LUXURY IN THE WILDERNESS OF MAGICAL tents and four family tented suites). Each tent has a canopied verandah and is carefully arranged to ensure privacy. Each tent at this Kenya accommodation is luxuriously furnished with safari antiques from the 1920s, private en-suite dressing rooms/bathrooms with safari style tubs, showers and flush toilets. This Kenya accommodation is equipped with a tented library/reading room and the cuisine and silver service is of the highest standard to be found in the bush. Services and prices are all-inclusive encompassing personalised guiding and walking, fine silver service cuisine, free flowing alcohol, massages, picnics, library, fishing and swimming and dedicated butlers.

Mount Kenya Safari Club is located near the high slopes of Africa's second highest mountain, Mt Kenya straddling the equator in a glory of luxurious cottages and elegant buildings set amid manicured lawns and decorative ponds. Ever since the club was founded in 1959 by the late film star William Holden, eccentric American Ray Ryan, and Swiss financier Carl Hirschmann, it has been a Mecca for the international jet set - its list of members reads like a Who's Who of royalty, aristocracy, and the rich and famous. There are 120 guest rooms spread out in the delightful grounds of the Fairmont Mount Kenya Safari Club.

Accommodation comprises Fairmont and Deluxe rooms, Suites, and Cottages. All rooms feature fire place, in room safe, a fully stocked mini-bar, tea and coffee facilities, separate WC and

rain shower. The suites have mainly king-bedded room, with fireplace, one sitting room, private veranda or balcony overlooking the river and Mount Kenya, and a four piece spacious bathroom with rain shower and bath. Suites are located in the Garden Suites, William Holden Cottages, Riverside Cottages as well as in the Manor and the main building. The Cottages offer two bedrooms with en-suite bathroom, a spacious lounge with fireplace, private veranda and lawn garden overlooking the manicured grounds and Mount Kenya.

Beside luxury accommodation, Kenya also provides some unique experience which someone will relish for life time. A balloon is the perfect safari vehicle able to glide silently across the plains without disturbing the herds below, and at the flick of a hot air burner the basket can be whisked from a high altitude viewpoint to skim low across the grasslands.

The Maasai Mara is Kenya's most impressive landscape - its great game rich plains are iconic Africa at its best. For any visitor to

the Mara, the best way to appreciate the Mara is from above, on a dawn balloon flight. After this Champagne breakfast in the wilder ness of Kenya is just like a cherry on the cake. Beside safari Spa & wellness is another secret of a Kenyan holiday.

There are numerous world class Spa resorts in all over Kenya. On your holiday in Kenya be sure to visit the outstanding spa and wellness resorts all over the country. Indulge in full body massage then steam or sauna, perhaps just a facial or a complete spa treatment with wraps, scrubs and meditation.

From Limousine transfers to vintage car hires or enjoying Spa in the wilderness of Maasai Mara, Kenya can leave you spellbound right from the time you start your holiday.

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Pradeep Gaur/Mint

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Ashwem beach, there is Rococco@Ashvem (www.rococcoashvem.com), which offers deluxe rooms right on the beach starting at R8,000 a night, plus taxes in peak season (15 December-1 January).

Eat and Drink Visit Thalassa, a Greek restaurant perched on Little Vagator cliff. Open only for dinner, this alfresco, sea-facing restaurant offers spectacular ‘souvlakis’ and seafood salads (for reservations, call 9850033537).

Also Nearby If you want a more packed holiday, head further south and visit the traditional tourist destinations: Candolim, Margao, and the Basilica of Bom Jesus (36km to Panaji, approx. 1 hour by road).

Alternatively, skip the beaches altogether and spend a day at the Salim Ali Bird Sanctuary.

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Savoy Hotel (www.tajhotels.com) offers suites starting at R9,000 a night, plus taxes. The Nilgiris are now filled with homestays and farmstays, and a Web search will turn up lots of cheaper options.

Eat and Drink Since this is plantation country, make sure you try locally grown tea or coffee. Also worth trying is an unexpected British legacy: biscuits from the local bakeries.

Recently, dairies in the Nilgiris have also started making exotic cheeses.

Also Nearby Visit Mudumalai National Park or the adjoining Bandipur National Park in Karnataka for an elephant-spotting vacation.

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Get There There are flights to Goa from every metro, but if you’re starting from Mumbai, you can drive down to the north Goa beaches (see Page 18). Once you’re past Mumbai’s traffic, head down NH 17 (approx.

400km) and you can be there in 8 hours.

Stay At the Villa Rivercat (www.villarivercat.com), double rooms with attached bathrooms start at R2,650 a night, plus taxes. Prices will rise in the peak season, which will begin soon. For complete isolation from the tourist experience, head to Fort Tiracol (www.forttiracol.com), where you can live in an isolated sea fortress. Tariffs start at €130 (around R8,500) a night, plus taxes. At

Goa GETTING THERE

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Get There The closest airport is Coimbatore, from where you can catch a taxi to either of these destinations. If you’re setting out from Bangalore, it’s possible to drive to Ooty or Wellington in less than a day.

Leave early and head to Mysore.

At Mysore, turn on to NH 212, and then finally on to NH 67. After Ooty, Wellington is about 50km further down NH 67. If you’re going to stay in Coonoor or Ooty, book tickets on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway (see Page 10).

Stay The Wellington Gymkhana Club (www. wellingtongymkhanaclub.com) now provides accommodation to non-members. There are limited cottages, so book early. In Ooty,

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for double occupancy). Hotel Shubham, which is farther from the beach, is a little more luxurious (http://hotelshubham. com, starting at R1,200 a night for double-occupancy AC rooms).

Also Nearby Chandipur is a great base for day trips to interesting places nearby. The most popular trip is Panchalingeswar, a Shiva temple in Nilagiri. If you have time to spare, a trip to the Bhitarkanika National Park (about 100km away) is a great idea.

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Stay The Verandah in the Forest (http://the-verandah-in-theforest.neemranahotels.com/) offers a luxury experience in a heritage cottage, with rooms ranging from R3,500-8,000 a night for double occupancy, plus taxes.

At the other end of the spectrum is Hope Hall, on Mall Road, which offers a five-bed room to travelling groups at R550 a person per night, and which you share with a huge number of dogs, cats and monkeys.

Also Nearby There’s little else, though you could always head to Lonavala or Khandala for more of the same.

Alternatively, travel much further south from Neral until you reach Raigad Fort.

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Get There The closest airport is in Bhubaneswar, but flights to Kolkata may be more convenient. From Kolkata or Bhubaneswar, take a taxi all the way or catch a train to Balasore, 16km from Chandipur.

Stay Almost the only option available is the Orissa Tourism Development Corp. Ltd-run Panthanivas (www.panthanivas. com/chandipur.html), which is a little shabby and has middling service but is right on the beach and has excellent room rates (starting at R1,550 a night GETTING THERE

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Get There Fly from Delhi to Dharamsala, about 15km from McLeodganj, on Kingfisher. Or take a train to Pathankot, and then take the Kangra Valley Railway up to Kangra.

You’ll still have to do the last few kilometres by bus, taxi or on foot.

If you are driving from Delhi, take the NH 1 all the way to Pathankot, and then the NH 20 up to Yol. Alternatively, at Ambala take the NH 21 to Yol via Baddi and Mandi. From Yol, take the MDR (Major District Road) 45 to Dharamsala and McLeodganj.

Stay An upscale option is Glenmoor Cottages (www.glenmoorcottages.com), which offers cottages in a forest clearing with a fantastic view of the valley. For smaller budgets, there is Bhagsu Hotel, run by the Himachal Pradesh Tourism Board Development Corporation, with rooms starting at R1,700 a night, and for backpackers, the Snow Lion Guest House on Bhagsu Road.

Eat and Drink Momos, ‘thukpa’ and ‘thantuk’ are available at virtually every eatery in McLeodganj, from the hole-in-the-wall Momo Café at the central square to the more upscale Norling on Jogibara Road. At the far end of Jogibara Road is Lung Ta, a vegetarian-only Japanese restaurant with a mean ‘kakiage-don’.

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Kerala is no exception. Ask for ‘meen moilee’, the local fish speciality, and take advantage of cheap rates on prawns and crabs. Vegetarians needn’t despair. Kerala has lots of vegetarian specialities, including ‘avial’, an ambrosial coconut- and curd-based vegetable curry. Also try to get some ‘kallu’ (toddy) fresh from the tree, but be prepared to spend the next couple of hours recovering from the kick.

Also Nearby If your point of entry into Kerala is Kochi, stay a day and visit the local attractions: the historic Jew Town, the spice markets and the Travancore palace. If you can extend your vacation, cruise the backwaters on a houseboat.

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their produce is available for sale.

Umang (www.grassrootsindia. com) sells pickles, jams, spices and honey all over Uttarakhand.

Also Nearby Uttarakhand’s other travel destinations lie on different routes, and are separate vacations by themselves. Jim Corbett National Park is India’s best-known tiger sanctuary. Mussoorie and Dehradun are as crowded as Nainital, but small homestays nearby remain peaceful and quiet. The hills are much greener now than they were 10 years ago because of afforestation campaigns by the forest department and a crackdown on mining and quarrying by the government.

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Get There It’s possible to fly to Nainital: Kingfisher has a daily flight from Delhi to Pantnagar. If you’re driving, it takes at least 7 hours from Delhi. Take the NH 24 to Rampur, and then NH 87 to Nainital. For Gethia, after reaching Kathgodam, take the road to Jeolikot. Valley of Flowers is further down NH 87: Drive or take a bus up to Govindghat.

Stay In Nainital, The Grand Hotel (www.thegrandnainital.com) has double rooms starting at R2,600 a night, plus taxes. For a quieter experience, head to the Kilbury forest lodge (R1,500 a night for a double room). At Gethia, Two Chimneys (www.twochimneysgethia.com) has rooms from R3,800-6,400 a night, plus taxes.

Eat and Drink In Nainital, head to The Sakley’s for baked goods and to the lakeside vendors for ‘bakse waali pasty’. There are several self-help groups attempting sustainable agriculture in Uttarakhand, and

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Kerala: Kovalam and Marari occupancy, and The Leela Kovalam, starting at R13,000 a night, plus Get There taxes. For more affordable luxury, try Kovalam is a local bus ride from The Travancore Heritage in Chowara, Thiruvananthapuram (take the bus Thiruvananthapuram, a converted from Trivandrum East Fort), while mansion with double rooms starting Marari is 80km south of Kochi (taxis at R6,800 a night, plus taxes. are available at the airport or you Eat and Drink can drive yourself). Kochi and Beach vacations are Thiruvananthapuram are both synonymous with seafood, and linked to the rest of the country by regular flights and trains: Visit your favourite travel portal for fares.

Stay The Marari Beach Resort (www. cghearth.com) offers doubleoccupancy villas starting at R21,000 a night for a Garden Villa, inclusive of taxes and meals. In Kovalam, the most luxe options are the Vivanta by Taj, starting at R7,600 a night, plus taxes, for the Superior Charm room for double

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Want to go to the places we’ve covered? We provide all the details of how to go and where to stay, so that you can concentrate on the important task of doing nothing

Karthick Ramachandran/Wikimedia Commons

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Get There The Vazhachal Reserve Forest is one of a set of contiguous wildlife sanctuaries and national parks spanning the Kerala-Tamil Nadu border. To reach the forest, head south on NH 47 from Thrissur in Kerala and turn on to the Athirapally Road at Potta. If you’re coming from Tamil Nadu, start from Coimbatore, take the NH 209 to Pollachi, and then head south into the Indira Gandhi Wildlife Sanctuary and National Park via Aliyar.

Stay The closest hotel is Sinna Dorai’s Bungalow (www.sinnadorai.com), managed by the Parry Agro group. Doubleoccupancy rooms start at R8,000 a night, plus taxes.

Also Nearby The Annamalai hills in Tamil Nadu are quite close to the Nilgiris, so you can combine this with a trip to any of the Nilgiri destinations we’ve featured, or you can explore this biodiversity hot spot further: Visit the Parambikulam or Eravikulam national parks, or cross the border into Mudumalai. If you want more pampering, head south to Thekkady, where you’ll still be surrounded by miles of forest, but can stay in a spice plantation resort.

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the Vazhachal Reserve Forest

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Mint Media Marketing Initiative

Monaco is a unique principality that enjoys the privileged location at the heart of Mediterranean Europe. The Principality is nestled between the Alps and the Mediterranean Sea, bounded by the French Riviera to the west and the Italian Riviera to the east. Famed for its glamour and wealth, Monaco is the playground for the rich and famous.

A city larger than life

M

onaco is one of the world's most desirable destinations, because you can sample everything in a few days. With over 300 days of sunshine a year and mild temperatures, it celebrates with enthusiasm the arts, culture, sumptuous cuisine, spas, beautiful surroundings & spectacular landscapes, and high-adrenaline activities like the Formula One Grand Prix, casino gaming, land and water sports and exciting nightlife. Monaco is the epitome of luxury and known as the hideaway of ‘the rich and the famous’.

Attractions in Monaco

 Place du Palais (Prince’s Palace)  Oceanographic Museum and

Aquarium,

 The Monte Carlo Casino,  Monaco Cathedral,  The Wax Museum of the Princes of

Monaco,

 Exotic Gardens  Aqua vision

The principality of Monaco offers a great balance of historical and modern attractions. There are various museums and palaces to visit as well as shopping malls and casinos. Monaco also offers great spa and wellness options. It is relatively easy to navigate Monte Carlo and Monaco if you take time to learn where the various “short cuts” are. City maps are generally available at most newspaper vendor stands and shops for a small fee.

Take a walk through Monaco-Ville, also known as “le rocher” or “the rock”. It is still a medieval village at heart and an astonishingly picturesque site. It is made up almost entirely of pedestrian streets and passageways and most previous century houses still remain. There a number of hotels, restaurants and souvenir shops tourists can stay, eat and shop at. You can also visit the Prince’s Palace, the

Cathedral, the Oceanographic Museum and the Saint Martin Gardens.

The Palais Princier (Prince’s Palace) is in old Monaco-Ville and is worth a visit.

The Palace also offers a breathtaking panoramic view overlooking the Port and Monte-Carlo. Everyday at 11:55 AM, in front of the Palace’s main entrance visitors can watch the changing of the guard ceremony performed by the “Carabiniers”. They are not only in charge of the Princes’ security but they offer him a guard of honour and on special occasions, are his escorts.

Aqua vision

Discover Monaco from the sea during this fascinating boat tour! "Aqua vision" is a catamaran-type boat equipped with two windows in the hull for underwater vision, thus allowing the passengers to explore the natural seabed of the coast in an unusual way. The boat can take up to 120 people per journey. Charges for adults are 11, while the charges for children aged between 3-18 are eight (approx).

Princely Experience

While staying in Monaco, one can take a full-day-journey or half-day-journey to surrounding areas like France and Italy.

Monaco is connected to France by highways so renting a car would be the best way to go. One can also take the “train bleu” or a bus to European cities closer to Monaco including Paris, Nice and Ventimiglia. If you want to travel to farther countries in Europe, do so by plane.

Amsterdam, Rome, Brussels, Frankfurt and Zurich are less than two hours away by plane.

Food

Food in Monaco is universally excellent.

There are many fine restaurants, beginning with the Cafe de Paris across the street from the casino, to the waterfront restaurants along the Port de Fontvieille.

THERE ARE A HUGE VARIETY OF OTHER RESTAURANTS AND CAFÉS IN THE CITY WITH A MODERATE PRICE TAG AND EXCELLENT FOOD. THERE ARE A FEW SIMPLE CAFÉS ALONG THE MARINA-SIDE, MORE LIKE BEACH BARS THAN ANYTHING ELSE, THAT SERVE SIMPLE MEALS SUCH AS PIZZA, SALADS AND HOTDOGS THROUGHOUT THE DAY. There are a huge variety of other restaurants and cafés in the city with a moderate price tag and excellent food.

There are a few simple cafés along the marina-side, more like beach bars than anything else, that serve simple meals such as pizza, salads and hotdogs throughout the day.

most innovative in its approaches to environment.'

Interesting facts about Monaco

 Monaco is the second smallest country

in the world.

 It takes only 56 minutes for the average

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Safe Country

Monaco is a very safe, crime-free location, with a strong police presence. Every public space is blanketed with cameras and any kind of disorder may produce an immediate reaction and the attendance of many officers.

Monaco and the environment

Monaco’s Prince Albert has recently announced the establishment of the ‘Monaco Foundation for the Environment’.

In other words, Monaco is set to go green.

Lifts and escalators are being built into mountainsides to promote walking and reduce traffic. This is a valuable advantage to the day tripper.

Prince Albert said, 'Monaco may not be the biggest country in the world, but I am determined to show it can be among the

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person to walk the width of the entire country!

Monaco is known as a ‘city-state’. This means that it is a country with all the population living in one city.

Only 33,000 people live in Monaco.

The Monaco Grand Prix has been held in Monaco since 1929. It takes six weeks to set up the circuit and three weeks to remove it!

Monaco has no navy or air force. They have a small military with just over 100 people.

Monaco has the highest number of police per person than any country (just over 500 police for 33,000 people).

Monaco is the world’s smallest French speaking country.

Fun fact: Citizens of Monaco are not allowed to gamble, nor even visit the casinos.

A year round of activities-It’s suitable to visit Monaco anytime of the year.

There's an event going on every month.

From glamorous balls (The Princess of Hanover’s Rose Ball in March); exclusive outdoor concerts by the MonteCarlo Philharmonic Orchestra (Concert at the Prince's Palace in July); to sporting events such as Tennis Masters Series (April), the celebrated Monaco Formula 1 Grand Prix (May), and International Marathon (November); There's an activity of interest for everyone in the whole family!

James Bond’s Playground-The elegant façade and panache interiors of the Monte-Carlo Casino had been a filming location of three James Bond Films namely “Casino Royal”, GoldenEye, and Never Say Never Again. Tip: You need to be at least 18 years of age and not a local of Monaco to be accepted as a guest at the Monte-Carlo Casino.

Real Estate-Monaco has the most

FLY TO MONACO The nearest airport is Nice (NCE), (website: www.nice.aeroport.fr), 22km (15 miles) from Monaco.

To/from the airport: There is a direct bus service from Nice Airport to Monaco, which stops at major hotels (journey time - 45 minutes). A helicopter service links Monaco with the airport with the journey time of just seven minutes.

One needs to apply for Schengen Visa which is valid for all European country. All the leading international airlines have a good connectivity via various key hubs in Europe like Air France, Lufthansa, Jet airways, Emirates etc.

HOTELS IN MONACO  MONTE CARLO - S.B.M. Hotels

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& Casinos www.montecarloresort.com Fairmont Monte Carlo www.fairmont.com Le Meridian Beach Plaza. www.lemeridienmontecarlo.com Hotel Metropole -Monte carlo www.metropole.com Novotel-Monte Carlo www.novotel.com Columbus-Monaco www.columbusmonaco.com Port Palace-Monte carlo www.portpalace.com

expensive real estate in the world.

 You should greet people with a kiss on

both cheeks in Monaco.

 Language-There are three main groups

of Monaco language and these are French, Italian and English. Apart from these three Monegasque and Occitan languages which are also popular languages in Monaco. French is the official Monaco language.