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J O U R N E Y INTO THE UNKNOWN PUTTING 8 UNCHARTED DESTINATIONS ON THE TRAVEL MAP
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12 WHERE’S MY PASSPORT? Drawing up a travel bucket list—of fictional places
22 AS GOLDEN AS ITS GATE A changing skyline has not taken away San Francisco’s charm
14 TRAVELLER’S CHECK Why bookstores represent a microcosm of a destination
30 BROADENING LONDON’S
16 WAYFARING An agnostic discovers layers to a religious site 18 CREW CUT Restrooms can be intriguing windows into a society
THE ITINERARY
HORIZONS
A new point of view, from the dizzying heights of its towers and sky-high restaurants
46 HOW TO FIND SWAG IN BEANTOWN
A curated guide to the best high-end shops and eateries in Bengaluru 50 BELGIUM: THE 72-HOUR CHALLENGE
High on beer, history and Magritte in Brussels, Bruges and Ghent 54 WHERE THE MUSIC IS NEVER OVER
34 MISSING THEIR BIG SHOT Sweden’s Museum of Failure showcases products that went bust 38 FOR THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW San Jose’s Tech Museum of Innovation is an ode to ingenious technology
From folk to rock, tracing the best tunes in Peru
MILO PROFI
VOICES
42 FOLK ON THE WATER Floating markets, primary schools and traffic jams on Myanmar’s Inle Lake
Regulars 10 Editor’s Note | 128 Travel Quiz
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THE MENU 56 OLD DELHI’S STREET BANQUET On the trail of crunchy balushahis, kachoris and hot pickles in the capital 64 LANKAN FOOD IS A DRAW An artist etches her love for the island’s cuisine in sketches
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THE DESTINATION 68 IRAN A writer tries to unearth Isfahan’s history, and finds himself equally consumed by its complex cosmopolitanism
84 JAPAN Hot spring soaks and fiery legends in the historic town of Yamaga 88 ARUNACHAL PRADESH A writer treks deep into the legendary Pemako valley in search of enlightenment 92 RWANDA Greeting gorillas and other adventures in revival country 96 MANIPUR On a quest to see a lily that is breaking down barriers 98 NAMIBIA A ride through the other-worldly dreamscapes of Namibia
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THE ADDRESS
75 RAJASTHAN Tal Chhapar Sanctuary is a paradise for both blackbucks and birdwatchers
104 GURUGRAM Six luxurious stays that take guests far from the madding crowd
78 LITHUANIA Wooden towns and lake-fringed cities reveal a thriving art scene and even a hidden connection to Tagore
112 NEW ZEALAND The Hermitage Hotel in Mount Cook National Park has front row seats to the Southern Alps’s spectacle
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THE JOURNEY 116 ART, THE CITY, AND A TRAVELLER
Artist Parvathi Nayar visits Athens, Kassel, and Münster for Documenta 14 and the Skulptur Projekte. She finds art that pushes boundaries 122 DOWN TO THE TEA Milky chai is for the common man in the plains. In the hills of Kurseong in Darjeeling, tea is all about balancing and brewing delicate flavours ON THE COVER The wild is special because it is unfamiliar. We don’t often see an elephant, J O U R N E Y comfortably walking up to a lake to take a sip of water. On the cover this month, we see a scene from Namibia. The man here needs a camera to capture the moment. He is seeing something unusual. We took a cue and went to Namibia too. This time, we went someplace else. AUGUST 2017 • `150 • VOL. 6
I S S U E 2 • N AT G E O T R AV E L L E R . I N
INTO THE UNKNOWN
PUTTING 8 UNCHARTED DESTINATIONS ON THE TRAVEL MAP
F I N D I N G A N A D D RESS I N GU RUG RA M | N AV I GAT I N G B E LG I U M I N 72 H OU RS
PHOTO COURTESY: KOTWARA FARM (HOTEL ROOM), KOUNTEYA SINHA (DANCERS) BUENA VISTA IMAGES/STONE/GETTY IMAGES (COVER)
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EDITOR’S NOTE SHREEVATSA NEVATIA
PLAYING MARCO POLO
MARCO POLO WAS AN ICARUS WHO'D FLOWN TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN, BUT HE WAS PROMETHEUS TOO
the book was considered a fairy tale. No country, claimed 13th-century Europeans, could run on paper money. No land could have had a network of messengers that elaborate. Infamously this time, Marco’s written account came to be called Il Milone (The Million Lies). He didn’t have photographs to prove the veracity of his experience. His readers didn’t have the internet to fact check writing they both loved and disbelieved. But while they suspected his assertions, Marco’s courage was never doubted. When he returned, the Venetian struggled with his native language. He had risked his life. Marco Polo, the merchant, was an Icarus who’d flown too close to the sun, but as a writer, he was Prometheus too. He’d brought back fire. Marco wrote in his book, “I believe it was God’s will that we should come back, so that men might know the things that are in the world.” Unlike Marco, our safety is more guaranteed, but we do believe in similar discoveries. There are parts of the world that have not been exhausted by tourists, and so in this issue, we bring to you pieces from the mosques of Iran and the deserts of Namibia. Lilies in Manipur and mountain gorillas in Rwanda are both rare, so we tell their stories with an equal fondness. Lithuania, Rajasthan, Arunachal Pradesh and Japan all showed us what we hadn’t seen. Given his influence, we give Marco the last word— “I have only told the half of what I saw!” Sadly, we too were given a tough word count.
OUR MISSION National Geographic Traveller India is about immersive travel and authentic storytelling, inspiring readers to create their own journeys and return with amazing stories. Our distinctive yellow rectangle is a window into a world of unparalleled discovery.
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A Marco Polo statue in Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia
Write to me at natgeoeditor@ack-media.com or Editor, National Geographic Traveller India, 7th Floor, AFL House, Lok Bharti Complex, Marol Maroshi Road, Andheri East, Mumbai- 400059.
NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELLER INDIA | AUGUST 2017
PAVEL GOSPODINOV/MOMENT/GETTY IMAGES
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arco Polo was 17 when he left Venice for China. The world hadn’t even begun to seem old yet. There was the sea, unforgiving and choppy. There was the Gobi Desert, barren and treacherous. And then there were the people, strange and mystifying. In Pem, Marco tells us, women could marry other men if their travelling husbands left for more than 20 days. In Mongolia, the funeral of a patriarch also announced four weddings. The eldest son married his stepmothers. Marco wasn’t an anthropologist. He wasn’t a historian. He was a traveller, and like all travellers, he liked telling stories. Kublai Khan, the founder of China’s Yuan dynasty, liked the stories Marco had to tell. He didn’t let him leave his court for 17 years. In Xanadu’s opulent summer palace, a Venetian merchant whispered into the ears of a Mongol ruler, secrets of a distant Europe. The city Marco came from was built on water, but while describing it, he did presumably also build a few castles in the air. Exaggerations did after all sometimes come to Marco rather easily. In his book, The Description of the World—one that would famously come to be known as The Travels of Marco Polo—he wrote about giant birds that picked elephants in their talons, dropped them from great heights, and then devoured their carcasses for lunch. Though controversial, Marco’s travelogue was a bestseller. Often mistaken for fiction,
VOICES TRAVELLER’S CHECK
WHEN YOU TRAVEL, GO BUY THE BOOK
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n 2014, my friends and I visited Goa during the monsoons. Most of the eight-hour bus ride from Mumbai was spent with our faces pressed against the window, our eyes taking in the lush green terrain of the Western Ghats dripping fresh from the season’s first rains. Upon our reaching Goa, however, the rains seemed to have bolted leading to tourists crawling its thoroughfares and beaches like marching ants, transforming the supposedly slow-moving July into an Ecstasy-driven December. After two days of pushing crowds and suffering traffic-borne misery, a friend suggested we unwind at a book café. She knew the idea would be feted. So we left the humid and chaotic beaches at Calangute for Literati in Gaura Vaddo. The book cafés stood alone and dignified amid dense overgrowth and near-complete silence in a nondescript lane. On venturing inside we were greeted by friendly faces and the cuddle-loving resident Labrador, Freida. Literati’s musty interiors, its walls stacked with hundreds of books, the smell of fresh coffee, and the feel of an ancient library form some of my most enduring memories of the time spent in Goa. The few hours spent browsing (and buying) at Literati, a wondrous discovery, have since set the tone for my travel itineraries. I now often go about exploring cities and towns making it a point to pop into independent bookstores that dot the miles, thriving and forming a nucleus around which our ever-changing world is experienced and understood. And if that city is Paris, such a bookshop could easily beat the Louvre and the Eiffel
Tower to draw literature-loving wanderers to the shadows of the Notre Dame and its bustling Left Bank to Shakespeare & Company. A venerable Parisian institution since the 1950s, Shakespeare & Co. inspires awe as much as it stokes curiosity, like a UNESCO-stamped museum or a work of art. It holds together within its crumbling walls a beautiful mess of books, indulgent notes, people, music, cats and conversations. On my first visit, I found a reed-thin man playing the piano, and two men, ostensibly there to browse, bobbing their heads to the tune, seeming to have forgotten all about the books they held in their hands. I picked up a much-thumbed copy of an Emily Dickinson collection and sank into a threadbare leather sofa. Although a constant din reigned the shop’s surroundings, it posed no threat to reading. I spotted cats roaming its premises, laying their claim on this historical edifice by perching on shelves and sometimes crouching under them. I watched the “tumbleweeds”—a moniker for cash-strapped writers, poets, students and travellers who volunteer at the shop for a place to sleep in at night—dash through the shop’s three floors attending to tasks. Shakespeare & Co.’s late founder, George Whitman, is known to have believed that “we’re all wanderers in a way.” Who is to question him when one is a traveller? These curious little book establishments, which we find more commonly on endangered lists than on maps these days, represent all that’s familiar and have always helped me find my bearings when I’m far from home, battered with fresh knowledge at every street corner and new
territory. Last month while strolling along Venice’s iconic Rialto area, I came across Libreria Acqua Alta, the self-proclaimed “most beautiful bookstore in the world”. Inside, clutter, cats (yes, books and cats seem to have a good marriage going), gondolas, bathtubs, and waterproof bins jostled for space, creaking under the weight of books. Since flooding is an annual affair in Venice, the shop owners devised the ingenious plan of stacking books on gondolas and bathtubs so that the books can be spared the seasonal damage. Among unfamiliar Italian names, coffee table books, erotica, and souvenirs, I found Dickens, Ian Rankin and the ubiquitous J.K. Rowling. While one travels for all sorts of reasons, for me, travelling for books has been an abiding one. You could ask if bookstores qualify to form the core of vacations as opposed to historical monuments, civilisational cultures or astonishing natural landscapes, and I would say why not? For bookstores, obscure or legendary, represent a microcosm of the destination one has travelled to. They capture the idiosyncrasies, tastes and flavours of people shaped differently by a different place. And, like a visa stamp, they may open up an unexplored world, prompting the beginning of a whole new journey.
Debashree Majumdar is a Geneva-based freelance writer-editor. When travelling, she seeks out the hum of old neighbourhoods and the noise of bazaars.
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DENNIS K. JOHNSON/LONELY PLANET IMAGES/GETTY IMAGES
SMALL, OBSCURE OR LEGENDARY, BOOKSTORES REPRESENT A MICROCOSM OF THE PLACE ONE HAS TRAVELLED TO
THE ITINERARY BELGIUM
BELGIUM: THE 72-HOUR CHALLENGE A BEER PIPELINE, MEDIEVAL CASTLES, AND THE STRANGENESS OF MAGRITTE: A LOW-DOWN ON THE HIGHS OF THREE BELGIAN CITIES IN THREE DAYS BY HUMAIRA ANSARI
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uch of Belgium looks like one big historical theme park, but the tiny country is as modern as they come. Along the 1.5-hour ride from Brussels airport to Bruges, I realise how layered the place is, and peeling it off, one city at a time, would be fun. Along the highway, for instance, windmills tower over corn fields. Lazily grazing them are hefty cows. It is the kind of scenery that makes it to postcards. Just then, two Teslas whizz
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past me. That’s Belgium for you: its facades are medieval, people modern, and infrastructure top-of-the-line. In my first stop Bruges, horse-drawn carriages trot around cobbled streets, but there’s also the occasional crushing sound of a Mini Cooper. In Ghent, the graffiti culture is vibrant and legal, with an entire street dedicated to it. All this in a country that’s home to Flemish masters such as Peter Paul Rubens and Jan van Eyck, and surrealists such as
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René Magritte. In Brussels, someone’s always busking on some sidewalk. On some kerbs, hippies sit holding “for weed” placards, playfully winking at you when you pass by. Across Belgium, there’s always more beer to be had, that one extra waffle to be savoured and chocolates to be bought. But most of all, Belgium, with its limitless offerings, is the kind of place that teases you to revisit… for the main course, for newer discoveries.
MICHEL VAEREWIJCK
Laces are all the rage in display windows across Bruges.
DAY 1
BRUGES
History flows through Bruges’ veins; in the crevices of 15th-century stone bridges, in canals dotted with snow-white swans, and in the busy squares of the Markt and Burg. And since last year, courtesy De Halve Maan, an 1856 local brewery, what also flows via a 3-kilometre-long pipeline in Bruges is beer.
11 A.M. Community Life Stroll across Bruges' squares, especially the Markt, and climb its 272-foot-tall medieval tower Belfry. But surely visit the Princely Begijnhof Ten Wijngaerde. Built in 1245, the white restored facade and lush green lawns of this begijnhof (beguinage) were home to communities of women who shunned the limited life choices 13th-century Europe offered them: marry a man (of their father's choice) or become nuns. Instead, single, married and divorced women moved to these gated communities to live together on the city's outskirts. The one in Bruges has survived the two World Wars and is one of the 13 Flemish beguinages that are UNESCO sites. Later, as the system declined, the Bruges beguinage became a nunnery. Visit the attached museum for an intimate glimpse into the lives of the women who lived here. My guide, Els Verlinde, tells me more about the fascinating lives the beguines led; those in Leuven, for instance, even brewed their own beer. They took vows of chastity and obedience. “But not of poverty,” adds Els. “So, unlike nuns, they could make money. They could also leave as soon as their knight in shining armour came by. They were free to say ‘bye, bye beguinage. Off I go with my chap’.” (www. visitbruges.be/highlights/beguinage; open daily 6.30 a.m.-6.30 p.m.; entry free; Museum entry adults €2/`148, visitors above 65 €1.5/`110, visitors below 25 €1/`74.)
Bruges one might wonder why tissue boxes, doilies and table runners made from lace are a rage across display windows. Souvenir shops, too, are full of them. To uncover Bruges’ connection with this 16th-century craft of lace-making, visit the Kantcentrum (Lace Museum). Interactive multimedia installations take you through the trying social conditions of the lace makers. On the second floor, you can even watch women make pieces using traditional wooden bobbins. “At the turn of the 18th century, locals in Bruges were dismissive of the Industrial Revolution because they felt it wouldn’t last. Others didn’t have enough money to invest in the machinery. Later, in difficult times, the women stepped up. They began making and selling laces on per piece basis,” said Verlinde. In the early 20th century, of the 47,000 lace-makers in Belgium, 70 per cent were from Bruges. Today, lace is used even to make designer lingerie. (kantcentrum.eu; open Mon-Sat, 9.30 a.m-5 p.m.; adults €5.20/`385, visitors between 12-25 and above 65 €4.20/`312, free for children below 12.)
8 P.M. Foraging for Food End a packed day at Bistro Bruut, where meals look like art on plate—served with love, a green philosophy and MasterChef-like perfection. Housed in a heritage building, this quaint restaurant serves salads topped with baked milk flakes, mini pork balls for buds in edible flowers and grilled asparagus with foamy sauces. Chef Bruno sources seasonal and local ingredients, and changes the menu every month. Nature is what inspires him deeply. “I believe in the force of the ground, and forage for wild herbs and flowers. Foraging makes you see things. When you see things, you interpret and serve them up,” says Bruno. He takes pride in plating up traditional Flemish flavours with a modern twist. The chef claims that he can create a seven-course meal with just one knife after a day in the outdoors. (www.bistrobruut.be; open Mon- Fri, noon-2:30 p.m. and 7-9.30 p.m.; €55/`4,000 for a four-course meal and €65/`4,800 for five.) AUGUST 2017 | NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELLER INDIA
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PHOTO COURTESY: TOM D'HAENENS (NUNS), PHOTO COURTESY: VISIT FLANDERS (LACE), PHOTO COURTESY: BISTRO BRUUT (BAR)
2 P.M. Laced with History Cycling through
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DELHI
OLD
DELHI’S STREET BANQUET From crunchy balushahis to fiery pickles, an all-you-can-eat guide to the legends who run the gullies of the capital
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BY ZAC O’YEAH PHOTOGRAPHS BY JONAS GRATZER
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It’s early in the day, but the date merchants are already in position with their pushcarts. Meanwhile, the spice traders are still only beginning to roll up shutters and dust their shelves of pickle jars. Counters are being filled with trays of turmeric roots, nutmeg and dried chillies, and sacks of peppercorn are opened by the roadside. Strangely, the air appears quite dusty despite the morning hour’s freshness, but it takes a while before I realise that my eyes are watering from the dense fog of chilli powder in the air. This is Khari Baoli, said to be Asia’s largest spice market, so it is the optimal starting point for our quest for spicy snacks in Old Delhi. Here, photographer Jonas and I find everything from local masala mixes for our own cooking experiments, to explosive pickles that make our hair stand on end and BPs shoot through the ceiling. One has just got to love how a place like this, where one first inhales the spices and then buys them loose, thrives in an era of malls and online shopping. The cycle rickshaws drag themselves past me, laden with cartons going from wholesalers to retailers; hawkers yell, peddling their wares off pavements. It feels like stepping into a medieval saga, a travel documentary on TV, a Salman Rushdie novel with pop-out characters, a... ...Gigantic pat of cow dung. I glance down at the steaming chocolate-coloured mousse that envelopes my trekking boot and pull my foot out of the sticky goo. A second later, I realise that it could be worse. The cow, acting like the queen of the bazaars, tries to gore my photographer colleague, but he makes a stylish matador move to get out of its way, so it instead uses its back end to projectile-poop over his bare legs. Considering that the cow is such a holy, auspicious creature, we convince ourselves that this is the best welcome one could possibly wish for in Old Delhi. After scouring Khari Baoli’s condiment shops, we turn round the corner to Chandni Chowk where, adjacent to the 17thcentury Fatehpur Mosque’s gateway, sits Chainaram’s—a practically prehistoric sweet shop founded in 1901. A potent vapour of aromas draws us in. Local aunties in burkas are stuffing themselves silly on puri sabzi. The hot ballooning breads look divine and the curry smells heavenly (besides, extra sabzi is only `20.) But I know that it would totally fill us up and we need to preserve our appetites for a day’s worth of snacking. Instead we nibble on delicate sweetmeats that taste like boiled candy fluff: balushahi, a crunchy, deep-fried sweet made of maida and soaked in sugar syrup. I, of course, buy a kilo of spicy kachoris to take home. The “silver square” or Chandni Chowk extends all the way up to the Red Fort, the Lal Qila of the Mughal emperors. It was, once upon a time, Asia’s premier shopping centre ages before Singapore was invented. Shopaholics rode on camels from China and Turkey to lay their hands on spices, jewellery and cloth. Even today the street is lined with cheap garment stores, but also cut-rate electronic markets and, most importantly, India’s best junk food makers. We walk less than half-a-kilometre 58
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Facing page: Shops at the Parathewali Gali (top) have been doing brisk business since the late 19th century; The crisp, orange jalebis that Old Famous Jalebi Wala (bottom) has been preparing since the 1880s, are believed to taste like no other.
to our next destination, Tewari Brothers, where we are offered piping hot stuffed kachoris. These yummy pockets of dough are filled with piquant lentil mixture and served alongside tangy sauce—the ultimate breakfast for chilli champions. It is striking how, until a couple of decades ago, the modern world chose to ignore Old Delhi as a place where tourists went to see the sights, but not much more. However, since getting themselves a bunch of metro stations the bazaars have suddenly turned hot again. This is what I begin to notice when we go further down Chandni Chowk to the city’s original outlet of Haldiram’s—started in the 1920s—and meet a Delhi lady who exclaims, “It’s a fully different life we’re living! We just had errands to do around town, me, my daughter and mum, but because the metro makes travel so easy we decided to go to Parathewali Gali and eat greasy parathas!” At Haldiram’s they’re having fresh kulfis to round off the paratha meal with and pick up big bags of those worldfamous hygienically packaged snacks for a party on the weekend. Since we’ve just had a fiery breakfast, we sample the oversweet kulfis that balance out the kachoris simmering in our tummies. Then, after walking past the town hall built in 1863 when the colonising Brits had deposed the last Mughal, we turn right into the twisting alley of parathamakers. Parathewali Gali is mentioned in most travel guides so flocking to the first paratha shop are a bunch of white tourists in cowboy hats on a food tour. The next is crowded with students who have taken the metro from the university area. The third is empty, so I sit down at Gaya Prasad Shivcharan’s, which appears to be the oldest of the lot, founded in 1872. Their parathas are thin, crispy and available with 25 different fillings from cauliflower to bananas, but I choose the classic peas paratha that is served with five scrumptious vegetable side items including lip-smacking chutney and pungent carrot pickle. After a lassi (flavoured with rock salt and presumably good for digestion) from the tiny corner kiosk, we carry on towards the eastern end of Chandni Chowk and the Old Famous Jalebi Wala. I’ve been told that one can buy confectionery of a thousand varieties along the chowk, but the topmost have always been the syrupy jalebis that are cooked over charcoal
DELHI
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Isfahan is a city of architectural marvels; its many historic mosques are a testament to the place’s centuries-old dynastic influences and culture.
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IRAN
When it comes to Isfahan, Iran’s most elusive city, there are layers of cultural intrigue to wade through. As a writer goes about unearthing the city’s past, he finds himself equally consumed by its complex cosmopolitanism TEXT & PHOTOGRAPHS BY
SIDDHARTH DASGUPTA
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is a crippled shadow of its once regal self; Kabul stands stripped of the flavours that made it one of the most distinguishable cities in the world. Clearly, the world’s oldest cities, through a combination of war, invasion, despotic rulers and extremist factions, are an endangered species. In this cultural and political milieu, cities such as Isfahan assume even greater significance. But shrouded in a veil of mystique and its mother country’s often-isolated status, the city remains an enigma. Not many travellers know about this most poetic of destinations; the few that do often have to wade through reams of misinformation to find their way. It’s time to sift through the myths and the truths in this exploration of a bona fide classic. MYTH A MOSQUE IS A MOSQUE IS A MOSQUE The truth is, mosques can be varied in shape, form, size, and even the strength of their piety. Isfahan is a treasure-trove of these predominantly blue-tiled religious wonders. Aside from their religious significance, these mosques also serve as monumental canvasses for many of Isfahan’s fabled artistic forms—miniature paintings, coloured tiles and intricate ceramic work included. As constant reminders of the city’s many pasts, with Seljuk, Safavid, and Sassanian signatures exerting their distinct influence over individual mosques, they remain the throbbing heart of the city’s original gene pool. Masjid-e Jameh, or The Great Mosque (Majlesi Street), is Isfahan’s primary congregation mosque, and has been an evolving work of wonder for over a thousand years. The architectural document is a picture of urban integration; the structure is located in the midst of the old city and shares wall space with other buildings that brush its perimeter. With the Grand Bazaar literally at its doorstep, Masjid-e Jameh doubles as a pedestrian focal point through which traffic, people, and business is happily facilitated. Its four-courtyard layout and double-shelled ribbed domes are architectural rarities. At the endless maze of wonders that is Naqsh-e Jahan Square, meanwhile, Masjede Sheikh Lotfollah welcomes you to a single prayer chamber kissed by the sun’s cross-hatched rays, filtering in through windows that can only be described as exquisite. And just a few steps away, Masjed-e Shah preens and pouts in its dropdead gorgeousness, its blue-half domed portal of enameled faience mosaics, seven-coloured ceramics, and painstaking calligraphic renditions offering stunning evidence of Persian artistry and chief designer Riza-I Abbasi’s enduring legacy. TRUTH ISFAHAN IS FAMOUS FOR ITS BRIDGES It’s hard to walk a few steps in Isfahan without knocking into a bridge. Though the moniker of “City of a Thousand Bridges” might today express itself in 11 such structures, every experience in this city is either accessed through, facilitated by, or 70
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begun from a bridge. Certain stylistic elements are common to all the bridges: the brick and ceramic essence; the mellow earth tone with a hint of red that is also the city’s official colour, decreed on to the facade of every home and commercial structure; the archways that curve in regal fashion before uniting at a silent apex; and naturally, the eras from which they’ve been birthed. The most striking point of cohesion between them is Zayandeh Rud, the river that flows through Isfahan. The Zayandeh has been a melancholic creature of late, disappearing at will and without warning, often revealing a stark vastness of riverbed for much of the year; it has proved to be a source of poetic sorrow and recollection for many of this city’s residents. Among the bridges, Khaju takes bragging rights as the prettiest. Its archways are embellished with blue tile work and stories from the long-ago, while its warm yellow glow facade at night is a beacon of sorts for poets, wanderers, and lovers alike. But it is Si-o-Seh Pol, (Enghelab Square Chahar Bagh-e Abbasi Street), she of the 33 arches, that is the most revered. One can almost sense the presence of Shah Abbas the Great (the famed 16th-century ruler from the Safavid dynasty) in its brooding spaces. One can almost feel the Zayandeh’s fragility as one looks out on to a dry riverbed. Within its lower-level grottos, including one that houses a teahouse filled with chatter and laughter whenever the river is alive, one can almost reach out and touch this city’s tangible old secrets. MYTH FOOD IN ISFAHAN IS BLAND AND PREDICTABLE If someone ever tells you that Iranian food is all about rice and dry meat, fling a kebab straight at their face. While it’s true that rice and grilled meat sans the slightest hint of gravy forms the fulcrum of the land’s culinary heritage, it would be foolish not to venture beyond the banal. Even the meat, at nearly every restaurant and café you step into, is grilled to perfection and marinated with little spice but much affection. The fish, always freshly-birthed from the Caspian Sea, is a persistent delight. The Iranians are particular about using only fresh, seasonal produce in their cooking. In Isfahan, you’ll come across mounds of dry and dried fruit being sold at shops and markets, with the aromatic melange of dates, berries, cashew nuts, almonds, apricots, figs, and mangoes often proving irresistible. Dizi wins you over immediately. The hearty lamb, chickpea, and potato stew dish, slow cooked in a clay oven for hours, has been perfected over centuries. The fesenjan is another meaty delight, with a rustic walnut-and-pomegranate sauce infused within poached chicken and usually served with tahdig—golden saffron-accented rice crust. Khoresht, or Iranian stew, is a robust coming together of lentils, beans, and eggplant, blended with a selection of meat or vegetables and made in different variants. While vegetarians might want to choke themselves
IRAN
On the road to Isfahan, a baker (top) depends on his trusty kiln to whip up the morning’s bounty of bread; At the central courtyard in Naqshe-e Jahan, tourists mingle with local shoppers around quaint cafés, souvenir shops and markets (bottom).
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WHERE THE HEAD IS HELD HIGH
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Tucked away in the east of the Baltic, Lithuania is land of many surprising discoveries. A journey through Vilnius, Kaunas, Shoule and other cities reveals a country with breathtaking natural beauty and myriad stories. Its wooded towns and lake-fringed cities have a rich history, a thriving art scene, a native language that is closely related to Sanskrit, and even a hidden Tagore translation or two
Walking back to the treeframed parking lot from Kaunas castle, I spotted this pop of colour on a wall. Looking at the mural, I could almost believe that giants inhabited Kaunas. Supposedly one of the largest murals in Lithuania, “The Master” was painted by Edgaras Stanišauskas and Tadas Šimkus in 2013 on the wall of an old shoe factory as part of a publicly accessible art project, “Fluxus ministerija.” Though the project has been discontinued but “the grand old man of Kaunas” (as I like to call him) still lives on in the city.
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LITHUANIA
THE DESTINATION
Once a nation in turmoil, Rwanda is now an adored wildlife destination. There is courage in its revival and grandeur in its beauty By RUMELA BASU 92
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MELANIE STETSON FREEMAN/CONTRIBUTOR/CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR/GETTY IMAGES
Forest Thump
RWANDA
I
froze in my tracks. As Muhoza walked towards me, my heart beat quicker. His steps were measured and graceful. He was sheer muscle; 200 kilograms of it. His fur gleamed as he turned his back. He’d found his spot. A silverback mountain gorilla, Muhoza munched on leaves. Standing in Rwanda’s Volcanoes National Park, the last remaining habitat of the mountain gorilla, I was his guest. His family—two juvenile males and the young female Gobito with a child on her back—soon ventured out of the bushes. The wideeyed child regarded us with curiosity before snuggling back to its mother. Unlike a safari, visiting the mountain gorilla in Rwanda is a more intimate experience. There is no covered vehicle that gives you safe distance. I shared with Mohuza his living quarters. Located in the volcanic Virungas Mountains that straddle the borders of Rwanda, Uganda and Democratic Republic of the Congo, the Volcanoes National Park is one of the oldest nature reserves in Africa. Having worked here for over three decades, François , our guide, knew these parts well. Before our group of eight began trekking, he had warned us that this was going to be a tough climb. We had, I reminded myself, opted for the easy route. Of the 20 gorilla families that live in the nature reserve, only 10 can be visited by travellers. The others live deep in the jungle and can only be seen by researchers. François had a clear set of instructions: We were the visitors here; the gorillas were free to do as they please, and if any of them approached us, which they did sometimes, we were to keep our heads down, be still and let them be. The message seemed clear—play it cool. We’d crossed uneven fields and bamboo groves. Accompanied by armed patrol guards and expert trackers, we had made our way up the mountain. Though equipped with fat wooden hiking sticks and with porters to help us, each of us fell while climbing the barely discernible path. One of the trackers walked ahead, clearing the thicket with a machete, but there was no escaping the stinging nettles. I was short of breath, I was muddy, and then, when I least expected it, François turned to us and said, “There
he is.” Six feet away from me, partially hidden by a bush, there sat Muhoza. Brushing past François , Muhoza entered an opening in the thicket. We followed him and his family. Suddenly, I was face to face with the family matriarch. She sat four feet away, finishing her morning meal. We crowded around, sitting on our knees. She had large hands, small nails, and a wrinkled face with the same structure as mine. I looked into her dark, keen eyes, but I couldn’t hold the gaze long. She deserved reverence. I saw Muhoza again. This time he was framed by the expansive rainforest, completely at home in surroundings where we struggled to find a foothold. Biting into thorny branches, baring his sharp canines, he looked like an intimidating disciplinarian. With one last look, I began my clumsy,
I had stared into the eyes of nature, and then dramatically, those of the beast watchful trek down. No wildlife encounter had left me so overwhelmed. I had stared into the eyes of nature, and then dramatically, those of the beast.
T
*****
he first thing I felt in Rwanda was surprise. Standing outside my hotel in Kivoyu, Kigali, I looked out at the city. As dusk settled over the emerald treetops and the green hills studded with sloping red roofs, the city resembled a European town. Spotting the palm trees, though, I realised it wasn’t. I recalled the questions I had been asked when I told family and friends I was going to Rwanda. “Where?” “Why?” “You mean Uganda?” “Are you sure?” I had shaken my head, even rolled
my eyes. Yes, I was going to Africa. Yes, I was hoping to see gorillas. But no, I was not going to Uganda (or South Africa, or Kenya). I couldn’t fault my well-wishers their incredulity, though. The truth is I didn’t know much about this East African gem either. During my seven-hour flight from Mumbai to the capital Kigali, I was bracing myself—there was no picture I had in mind, and no definite idea of what to expect on the other side of the journey. To my delight, I found on the other side a dewy morning and a city bordered by lush greenery. It was also one of the cleanest cities I’d ever seen. The reason, I was told, was that every fourth Saturday, Kigali residents participate in community cleaning drives. This was surely not what I had expected. While our group of Indian journalists were being ferried around the city, I noticed that Kigali was honouring the victims of history. All over the city, posters and lamps marked the hundred days of remembrance for the genocide of 1994. The brutal civil war claimed a million lives and in many ways, it is the canvas on which the story of today’s Rwanda is etched.
T
*****
he Kigali Genocide Memorial— where 250,000 people who died in the genocide are buried—is a difficult place to visit. The ethnic conflict that first began when colonisers divided the people into ethnic tribes took the form of a bloody battle in April 1994. The majority Hutus were instructed by their leaders to wipe out the minority Tutsis, and in a span of just 100 days, about a million lives were lost. Hutuled extremists slaughtered their Tutsi friends and neighbours, while a small contingent of UN soldiers tried to control the situation. The massacre finally ended in June 1994, when the Rwandan Patriotic Force, a militia of Tutsi refugees from Uganda, stepped in. Today, the memorial not only documents history but is also a building of peace for many Rwandans. It is the only place where they can visit their families. Surviving members come to the mass graves, and leave behind wreaths, bouquets, saplings and notes. Some come to look at the photographs of loved ones. A room here has pictures of every child, man AUGUST 2017 | NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELLER INDIA
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THE DESTINATION
DESERT
A ride through the other-worldly dreamscapes of Namibia TEXT & PHOTOGRAPHS BY
ISHITA DHARNIDHARKA 98
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QUEEN
OF THE
NAMIBIA
Five countries, 8,000 kilometres and 18 days: this sums up the Put Foot Rally—a grand and unplanned adventure across southern Africa. Starting in Cape Town in June, 60 teams journey through South Africa, Namibia, Zambia, Malawi and Botswana—each charting their own routes to specific checkpoints in each country. At the heart of the rally is the idea of putting shoes on the feet of economically deprived children. After raising funds for new school shoes, teams travel to a remote Zambian village to present them to some excited kids. Four of my friends and I were the first team to ever participate from India. From navigating the nuances of South African slang to the woes of satiating a vegetarian belly in the African wilderness—every outcome was uncertain, but the camaraderie was relentless. Of all the places that I saw, Namibia was my favourite country, a Martian landscape that would excite the adventurer in anyone. For me, the country was not only a photographer’s dream, but also a land that epitomised the spirit of the Put Foot Rally, and southern Africa as a whole.
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Put Footers watched the sunset from Halali Camp’s viewing platform in Etosha National Park. There was absolute quiet as we patiently waited for animals to make their way to the watering hole.
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and fording rivers. I learn that the first Hermitage was built close to the current structure in 1884 and was destroyed by a flood; the second building was ravaged by fire in 1957. Inside the museum is also a planetarium that screens 3D films on Mount Cook daily. For lunch, I head to the mezzanine floor, to the Sir Edmund Hillary Alpine Café. In addition to steak sandwiches, salads, and stoneoven pizzas, it serves delicious buffet lunch and dinner. In spite of the winter chill, most of us patrons grab seats under bright blue umbrellas set up in the café’s open deck, and watch the looming mountains. Mount Cook is still invisible, so I turn my attention to another mountain that has snow curiously arranged in the shape
PHOTO COURTESY: THE HERMITAGE HOTEL
I
pull back the blinds of my window and watch the theatre outside. Endless tussocky grasslands look like sheets of beaten gold. The Southern Alps have their heads in the clouds; the mountains are all so close that if I ran a little, I’d touch their blue-green surface dusted with snow. I am looking for one in particular, that which Maoris reverently call the “cloud piercer”—Aoraki, or Mount Cook, Australasia’s tallest peak at 12,315 feet. I wait for the cloud cover to clear, for a dramatic maiden glimpse that no filter would do justice to. But it doesn’t come, so I turn to my immediate surroundings. My room at The Hermitage Hotel is spacious and minimalist—a king-size bed, pastel walls, the works— so that my eye always gravitates to the panoramic window. The hotel lies in the 700-square-kilometre wilderness that is Mount Cook National Park, part of a larger UNESCO World Heritage Site of milky glaciers and icy peaks. From most rooms at this South Island hotel, guests have front row seats to a landscape sculpted millennia ago. The hotel sits in what was the playground of Sir Edmund Hillary as he trained for his Everest and Antarctic expeditions. Living at the Hermitage is deeply tied to experiencing the Mount Cook region, and Hillary’s life is celebrated inside the hotel as much as climbers invoke him outside. Hermitage is the home of Sir Edmund Hillary Alpine Centre, a museum largely dedicated to the pioneer’s mountaineering exploits, and also showcases the history of the Aoraki/Mount Cook region and its climbers. I can’t help but smile when I read how in 1906 the first car to ever make it to the Hermitage took two days to drive 150 kilometres, dodging boulders
NEW ZEALAND
THE HERMITAGE HOTEL HAS FRONT ROW SEATS TO THE SPECTACLE OF THE SOUTHERN ALPS
of a handheld fan. Travellers drive from across South Island only to lunch at the hotel, for this view. But I’d find it impossible to tear myself away, knowing that I can take multiple walks that will transport me to thick-as-friendship bushes and subalpine grasslands. The lure of catching a magical sunset amid the valleys is so potent that I soon bundle up in layers, strap my boots and raincoat on, and step out in the heavy drizzle. Mount Cook is notorious for its fickle-minded weather, but then I look at the statue of a young dapper Hillary outside the Hermitage, gazing at the peak with squinted eyes and a loving look. Who says “no” to anything in Mount Cook? Right outside the Hermitage I follow the sign to the two-hour Kea Point Track, and soon find myself in the middle of those golden grasslands I had admired from my window. But in minutes I am smacked and shoved so strongly by the wind that a passer-by could think I were swaying drunk. It roars in my ears with ominous ferocity. The thing about being in Mount Cook is that such primeval beauty also brings with it a sense of dread of the unknown. Wiping the rain from my face and knowing Hillary would have never approved, I retrace my steps. I walk back to the village instead, with its tiny sloped-roof homes, a population of 150, little motels, and a high school where only 10 students study. I cross little creaky bridges and walk deeper into the Governors Bush Walk that takes me into The Hermitage Hotel offers easy access to the best day-walk of Mount Cook National Park, The Hooker Valley Track (top). Its wobbly bridges and icy peaks charm even seasoned hikers; The statue (bottom left) of Sir Edmund Hillary at the hotel is an ode to his exploits in the region.
a silver beech forest. I barely meet another soul that evening, and when the sun casts purple shadows over the mighty bluffs, I walk back to the Hermitage in the quietness of twilight. Back in the hotel, I bump into Janet Wang, who sells parkas in the hotel shop by day and is an astronomy geek by night. She and her colleague Marissa pack 30 of us in a bus and take us to a clearing amid the mountains with not a pinprick of light in sight, and three giant telescopes pointed at the skies. The South Island’s skies are recognised as an International Dark Sky Reserve, which makes this ground one of the best stargazing spots on Earth. The streak of the Milky Way looks like a portal to another world, and the stars look as if someone splashed gallons of glitter in the skies. Stunned, I peer at Saturn’s rings and Jupiter’s moons, learn that I’m named after a constellation, and that zodiacs turn upside down in the Southern Hemisphere sky. I spot a shooting star and don’t think twice about making two corny wishes—it’s that kind of night where anything is possible. “These stars are thousands of years old. So in essence, we are looking at the past,” breathes Marissa. Whatever clout shooting stars have in universe, it worked: I wake up to Mount Cook at my window the morning after. It looks carved from the finest marble, so white that it glistens. It is time, I tell myself, to tramp the legendary Hooker Valley Track, that will take me to the very base of the mountain. I don’t have to dangle over rocky chasms or follow in Hillary’s footsteps to witness the power of this national park. Beyond the tussocky spread, I watch the Mueller glacial lake that blinks like AUGUST 2017 | NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELLER INDIA
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PHOTO COURTESY: THE HERMITAGE HOTEL
BY KAREENA GIANANI
THE JOURNEY
Art, the City and a
Traveller ARTIST
Parvathi Nayar
VISITS TWO OF THE ART
WORLD’S MOST SPECTACULAR EXHIBITIONS—DOCUMENTA 14 AND SKULPTUR PROJEKTE MÜNSTER—AND DISCOVERS ART THAT PUSHES BOUNDARIES
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OF CONVENTION
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WORLD
PHOTO COURTESY: FRED DOTT
At Kassel, artist Nikhil Chopra’s “Drawing A Line Through Landscape” performance marks the end of his 3,000-kilometre road trip from Athens to Kassel. It comprises drawings created on the way, some of which are based on ideas of migration.
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