J U ly 2 0 1 3
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VOL. 2
ISSUE 1
firs t
ann i speversary
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AMSTERDAM The real highs Gujarat Shards of time NILGIRIS Sting in the tale
return to
roots
Travellers explore their ancestry Northern Ireland • Taiwan • Poland • Sicily • Angola
CASABLANCA | As Time Goes By KERALA | Recouping the mother tongue CROATIA | Search for a family tie
Photo Workshop with RAGHU RAI
Editor’s Note Niloufer Venkatraman
Different strokes
In this first anniversary issue we've changed our logo and masthead. As we continue to tweak, change, and improve our magazine, we will also carry on exploring the world through the very best in travel storytelling.
12 national Geographic Traveller INDIA | july 2013
they are now well settled in another country and culture. Discussing the issue of “returning to roots” in our office brought in some interesting stories including one from Natasha who once went looking for a tree that her grandfather had been married off to in his youth (no, she did not find it). I find it quite fascinating when my mother-in-law talks of her years at Dr Graham’s Home School in Kalimpong or her connections to Calcutta and Kolhapur, even though she has now lived in Pune for 50 years. Now, I want to know more—about her roots, her family story. During the last few months, I also found myself recollecting snippets of stories my father had related about his childhood years. Recalling names of places he had mentioned, for the first time in my life, I googled them
to figure out where exactly in Tamil Nadu they were. The more I thought about it though, I began to realise that while for some home and roots are where their ancestors came from, for others like me, the past, long gone, does not create an experience of belonging. My attachment to a place comes from the emotional ties and memories I've experienced there, the roots I have put down. My nostalgia tends to be connected to places I’ve visited, where I have experienced kindness, warmth, and generosity. Those are the places I feel rooted in and connected to, and though they are not related to lineage, genealogy, or heritage, they are very closely linked to where I discovered something of who I am. n
Looking at the sun set across the bay at Haji Ali in Mumbai, where I grew up, always brings back warm memories.
tony burns/lonely planet images/getty images
W
hen I was growing up I had a friend who visited her “native village” in Gujarat every year during the summer holidays. When I visited her home, her parents asked me where I was from, and when I answered “Bombay” they were dissatisfied. After a few more questions about where my mother and father were from, they gave up, puzzled that we never went to an ancestral village or town. Truthfully, as a 12-year-old, all I knew was that my father was from “somewhere in Tamil Nadu” and that my mother’s family, at least on one side, had been in Bombay for several generations. A few months ago, when we started thinking about this, our anniversary issue, we decided to focus on stories about travellers who attempt to touch base with their roots. In India it is part of our culture—to make a pilgrimage to the gaon or ancestral village, for some once a year, for others maybe once in ten. For many of us it shapes who we are, crystallises our identity, and gives us a sense of rootedness in our heritage. As I write this, roots tourism or genealogy tourism has also gained momentum in the West. Many Americans, for instance, are increasingly travelling to England, Ireland, and Africa to find where their ancestors lived and came from. Most of us know at least one NRI family that returns to visit India on a regular basis, even though
Editor-in-Chief Niloufer Venkatraman Deputy Editor Neha Dara Associate Editor NEHA SUMITRAN Senior Features & Wildlife Writer Natasha Sahgal Senior Features Writer Azeem Banatwalla Art Director Diviya Mehra Photo Editor Ashima Narain Senior Graphic Designer & Digital Imaging Devang H. Makwana Senior Graphic Designer CHITTARANJAN MODHAVE Consulting Editor naresh fernandes Publishing Director Manas Mohan Ad Sales National Vice President Eric D’souza (+91 98200 56421) Mum bai Associate Account Director Chitra Bhagwat Assistant Key Acccount Manager (Print & Online) Rahul Singhania Senior Executive - Key Account P M Arun Senior Executive (Scheduling) Sandeep Palande DELH I Consultant Jaswinder Gill Deputy Account Director Rajmani Patel Key Account Executive Naveen Tanwar Bengaluru Regional Account Manager (South) S.M. Meenakshi Chennai Consultant Shankar Jayaraman ACK MEDIA Chief Executive Officer Vijay Sampath Chief Operating Officer Manas Mohan Chief Financial Officer VISHWANATH KOTIAN Vice President (Operations) Sandeep Padoshi Business Head (Digital) Shubhadeep Bhattacharya Brand Manager Ritika Basu Subscriptions Manager Swati Gupta Senior Manager (Legal) Lalit sharma Manager (Print Production) Sagar Sawant
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J. Michael Fay, Beverly Joubert, Dereck Joubert, Louise Leakey, Meave Leakey, Johan Reinhard, Enric Sala, Paul Sereno, Spencer Wells Printed and published by Mr. Vijay Sampath on behalf of Amar Chitra Katha Pvt. Ltd. Printed at Manipal Technologies Ltd., Plot no 2/a, Shivalli Village, Industrial Area, Manipal-576104 and Published at Amar Chitra Katha Private Ltd., 3rd Floor, Krishna House, Raghuvanshi Mills Compound, Lower Parel, Mumbai-400013. Editor: Ms. Niloufer Venkatraman. Processed at Commercial Art Engravers Pvt. Ltd., 386, Vir Savarkar Marg, Prabhadevi, Mumbai-400 025. Disclaimer All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or part without written permission is strictly prohibited. We do our best to research and fact-check all articles but errors may creep in inadvertently. All prices, phone numbers, and addresses are correct at the time of going to press but are subject to change. All opinions expressed by columnists and freelance writers are their own and not necessarily those of National Geographic Traveller India. We do not allow advertising to influence our editorial choices. All maps used in the magazine, including those of India, are for illustrative purposes only. About us National Geographic Traveller India is about immersive travel and authentic storytelling that inspires travel. It is about family travel, about travel experiences, about discoveries, and insights. Our tagline is “Nobody Knows This World Better” and every story attempts to capture the essence of a place in a way that will urge readers to create their own memorable trips, and come back with their own amazing stories. COPYRIGHT © 2013 NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELLER: REGISTERED TRADEMARK ® MARCA REGISTRADA.
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July 2013 G eog r a p h i c
In focus
54
Going Home
Five writers transcend cultural and geographical boundaries to trace their roots
65
Track Changes
Searching for long lost ancestors along the route of the Great Indian Peninsula Railway
68
The Kerala Express
A mother rediscovers Malayalam to connect with her new child
54 Mourne Mountains, County Down, Northern Ireland
4 national Geographic Traveller INDIA | july 2013
T r a velle r
72
A Light on the Croatian Coast
in d i a
PHOTO ESSAYS
94
Dalmatian lighthouses provide unique lodgings and, for the author, a possible family tie.
By David Alan Harvey
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98
Granny diaries
Discovering atattered recipe book uncorks family history and memories
84
You Must Remember This
Brazil
Ethiopia
By Kalyan Varma
104
Vietnam
By Carsten Peter
A mother and daughter have a date with fate—to discover where nostalgia meets ambition in Casablanca
chris hill/National Geographic stock
N a t ion a l
VOL. 2 ISSUE 1
On The Cover 13 J U ly 2 0
• `120
VOL. 2
ISSUE 1
first
anniver spe sary
cial
AMSTERDAM The real highs GujARAT Shards of time NILGIRIS Sting in the tale
rEturN to
roots
ANCEstry ExPLorE thEIr trAvELLErs taiwan • Poland • sicily • Angola • By Northern Ireland | AS TImE GOES R TOnGUE CAsABLANCA InG ThE mOThE KErALA | REcOUp fOR A fAmILy TIE SEARch CroAtIA |
hoP PhoTo WoRkS RAI WITh RAGhu
28
This rope bridge connects the Carracka-Rede Island in Northern Ireland with the mainland. It was shot by Chris Hill, a leading Irish photographer, who published a book series called Scenic Ireland.
www.natgeotraveller.in www.facebook.com/ natgeotraveller.india
12 Editor’s Note | 154 Inspire
Voices 16 Tread Softly Hope for the great Indian bustard
19 Guest Column “Me” time in Malaysia
26 Local Flavour Saucy mole poblano is a Mexican speciality
20 Guest Column A dip in the Devil’s Pool
28 48 Hours Hamburg’s urban chic
navigate
32 Experience The legend of a lake that never freezes
22 Take 5 War tunnels offer glimpses of a troubled past 24 Detour The boatyards of Beypore
34 National Park Trekking in Neyyar Wildlife Sanctuary 38 Family Time A new Bollywood-themed amusement park 38 Lit Trip Game of Thrones tours in Europe
52
get going 138 Cycling Tours A night ride through Mumbai 139 Adventure Blokarting in Dubai
short breaks 142 From Delhi Offbeat Kumaon, Corbett style 145 From Bengaluru Maravanthe by the sea 148 Heritage Stay Beach-free in Goa 149 Eco Stay An artsy getaway at Avanti Kalagram
39 The Trend Sleep in a wine barrel
interactive
40 Travel Butler Wheelchair-friendly travel in India
150 Photo Workshop Finding calm in chaos with Raghu Rai
46 The Neighbourhood A heritage walk through Mumbai’s Fort area
153 Photo Contest The best of readers’ photos
52 Go Now Catch the northern lights at their brightest
last page 160 Dire Straits Bikaner’s disappearing havelis
june 2013 | national Geographic Traveller INDIA 5
Adrian Zenz/ shutterstock (hamburg), Matthias Breiter/Minden Pictures/Dinodia (aurora borealis)
18 Real Travel The jazz of travel
national geographic celebrates
exploring the world’s wonders
126
Journeys
110
Starry, Starry Night
Can Amsterdam provide a tired couple the dirty weekend they seek?
116
shards of time
Little has changed at this 4,000-yearold Harappan town
126
130
Sting in the Tale
The ritual and danger of gathering honey in the Nilgiris
116
BEHIND THE SCENES
F
rench photographer Eric Tourneret travelled to the Nilgiris in south India to photograph honey gatherers of
130
6 national Geographic Traveller INDIA | july 2013
Buzz worthy the Irula tribe (page 130). The 48-year-old photographer who’s done assignments on archaeology and transvestites in Pakistan, has been shooting bees since 2004. “I grew up in the French countryside. When I realised that the honey bees were dying, I knew it was a story I had to do.” One story turned into a calling. “I guess I had bees in my blood. My great grandfather was a beekeeper who had a 100 hives.” In the Nilgiris, Eric spent two months waiting to shoot. When the opportunity came, Tourneret encountered an interesting problem. “Rituals are important
to the Irulas and they were particular that no leather was allowed on the cliffs. But I couldn’t climb without my shoes!” A compromise was reached when the team offered to cover their shoes with cloth. Eric climbed the cliff twice, suspended 100 feet above the ground. “My son-in-law is a professional climber and he was guiding me. But the tribesmen were climbing without equipment.” Did he get stung? “A lot!” says Tourneret. “I was wearing protective gear, but I still got stung. Yet the Irula man right next to me was hardly bitten! I think their legends have some truth.” Local legends say that the goddess that created the Irula gave them the ability to harvest honey without being stung.
Andrew Hasson/Alamy/IndiaPIcture (charleston), kaushal parikh (camels), courtesy eric tourneret (photographer)
A Room of my Own
Bohemianism and brilliance in Charleston, Sussex
Leap of Faith a dip in the devil’s pool isn’t for the faint hearted
I
’m in southern Africa at the intersection of what I call “the boulevard of z’s,” the stretch of the Zambezi River where zebras drink and Zimbabwe and Zambia rub shoulders. Staring at spectacular Victoria Falls from a footpath in Zambia, I’m close enough to feel the spray but far enough away to appreciate the enormity of the scene as the Zambezi, helpless against gravity, becomes a foaming sheet of water a little over a mile wide. I’m walking along a path that parallels the contours of the gorge 350 feet below, lost in thought about Mother Nature’s might. Suddenly, my meditation dissolves, interrupted by the sight of a man headed straight toward the edge of the falls. Clearly he’s a lunatic, suicidal—or a daredevil without a barrel. I’m leaning toward option number one since he appears oblivious to danger, even as he climbs a rock formation that protrudes about three feet out of the river. (Trying to get a better view?) And then he jumps. I stare in disbelief, expecting to see his
We finally reach the rocks and walk to the spot I saw being used as a jumpingoff point by that “crazy” guy five years earlier. Now it’s my turn
Boyd Matson helpless body come tumbling over the edge. Except it doesn’t. About a minute later, he scrambles back up to the same rocky outcrop. This time he adds a back flip to his death-defying leap of faith. Now I’m sure he’s crazy. I ask some bystanders, “Is that guy nuts, or is that precarious spot three feet from the edge of Victoria Falls really the local swimming hole?” “That’s the Devil’s Pool,” they tell me, explaining that when water levels are lower (roughly September to December), a rock barrier in the river forms a pool where people can swim. Apparently a nook on the inside of that rock wall is known as the Devil’s Armchair. People can sit on the underwater “chair,” lean back, relax, and peek over the edge. There’s only minimal current in the pool, which means no one should get swept over, as people would if they were 15 to 20 feet to either side. As to the other part of my question: “Yes, that guy’s probably a little crazy,” one of the locals replies. “People have slipped and gone over the edge to their death. Not often, but it’s happened. I wouldn’t do it,” he adds. Since my trip is almost over, I have an immediate realisation: I’ve got to come back and try this. Five years later, I’m back, it’s the dry season, and a dunk in the Devil’s Pool is on the agenda. David Livingstone, the first European to see the falls (he’s the guy who named them for Queen Victoria), described their beauty by writing, “Scenes so lovely must have been gazed upon by angels in their flight.” I’m no angel, so I charter a Microlight aircraft to take me up for the aerial view—and to see the big picture that Livingstone could only imagine. But I’m not up here just for a beauty shot. I’m curious to see the shallow waters where the river widens in front of the falls, the area
where I will take a dip in the Devil’s Pool tomorrow. I’m looking for crocodiles, which are known to patrol the Zambezi in large numbers farther upstream. I don’t see any, which confirms what I’ve been told, that the animals are too concerned about going over the falls to get that close to the edge. On one hand, their absence is comforting. But it’s also concerning, a reminder that even their little reptilian brains are warning them to stay away. The next morning, ignoring the instincts of the crocs, we go to Livingstone Island, the same place the locals took David Livingstone for his first look at the falls in 1855. Guides lead us to an area where we can safely swim to the rocks that constitute one side of the Devil’s Pool. As we’re swimming, we still can’t see the falls, even though they are only a hundred yards or so in front of us. The escarpment is so flat, the drop at the gorge so sudden, that it looks as if we’re in the world’s most thrilling infinity pool. What we can see are the plumes of spray rising from the water where it explodes at the bottom of the gorge, and we hear the roar, too—sights and sounds that gave the falls their original name, Mosi-oaTunya, or “the smoke that thunders.” A disquieting thought keeps flashing through my mind: What if we get caught in a surprise current that sweeps us over the edge? But then I see the vista, framed by a brilliant rainbow, and think, “This is going to be a day to remember forever.” We finally reach the rocks and walk to the spot I saw being used as a jumping-off point by that “crazy” guy five years earlier. Now it’s my turn. A guide is sitting on the wall that forms the top edge of the falls. Behind him is nothing but emptiness. The message is clear: Jump, but not too far. So I vault myself, spinning, trying to take in as much as possible of this moment in time. I see the falls, the rainbow, the river. I’m pretty sure this must be the ultimate way to see Victoria Falls, an even better vantage than Livingstone’s angels had. As I swim over to the wall, it dawns on me: Sitting in the Devil’s Armchair is, as it were, a little slice of heaven on Earth. You might think heaven can wait. But if you’re a little bit crazy, and it’s the dry season, add the Devil’s Pool to your agenda. It may just be the world’s most spectacular swimming hole. n Boyd Matson is a journalist and adventurer for National Geographic U.S. and hosts the radio show National Geographic Weekend.
july 2013 | national Geographic Traveller INDIA 21
Annie Griffiths
VOICES Guest Column
NAVIGATE National Park
Monsoon Forests Delicate orchids, towering trees, and the rare tahr are among the attractions at Neyyar Wildlife Sanctuary By Ashish Kothari
“I
huffed and puffed up the rainforested slopes of Neyyar Wildlife Sanctuary in southern Kerala, wondering when we would reach our destination. Fortunately, there were other distractions. A green forest lizard scampered close to my foot when I sat down to rest. It climbed up my shoe and looked up at me quizzically, before realising that I might be dangerous and scooting off. I was also mesmerised by the pretty fruits of the cycad, a palm-like species that has been around for several million years. I was glad when we broke through the tree cover and reached the meadows on top. The sight of the rolling slopes of the Western Ghats, the mist slowly rising from the valleys, the lush forest below, and tall grasses swaying in the wind, enough to rid me of all tiredness. Suddenly, I felt like the world was at peace. It’s not easy to find a place in India where nature is in its near-pristine form. Luckily, there are regions like Neyyar, which forest officials or communities have managed to conserve, not giving in to the temptations of logging, mining, or large-scale tourism.
Neyyar is one of Kerala’s oldest wildlife sanctuaries, notified in 1958, and spread over 128 square kilometres. The majestic Agasthyamalai peak (1,868 metres) towers on one side. Believed to be sage Agasthya’s abode, this mountain is also the source of the Neyyar river, the water of which is supposed to be like ghee—or “neyya” in Malayalam. The sanctuary is part of the 3,500 square kilometres Agasthyamalai Biosphere Reserve that was recently listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site. Wildlife
My trek up the slope was considerably slow, since I stopped every few minutes to listen to bird calls and craned my neck to look for their singers. A black crested baza, an attractive small bird of prey, let me watch its movements for a long time, but flycatchers and warblers gave me only tantalising glimpses. The chatter of bonnet macaques and Nilgiri langurs interrupted my walk every once in a while. Beyond where I’d reached, there is a cave from which visitors can get a good view of the grasslands, where the Nilgiri tahr like to
graze. The tahr is endemic to the Western Ghats of south India. Since they are not found anywhere else in the world, sighting one is an exciting prospect. Also roaming in this forest are endangered lion-tailed macaques, gaurs, elephants, tigers, and the occasional leopard. Plants
Walking up through the thick forest I marvelled at the girth and height of the trees, their buttress roots helping them stand tall despite the typically shallow soil of a rainforest. Mesua, silk cotton, ironwood, myristica, wild species of mango, jamun, cinnamon, and many other trees towered above me. Then there were lianas and creepers, some as enormous as tree trunks and some as thin as reeds. Every once in a while I’d spot one of the 125 species of flowering orchids found here, or a cluster of bird’s nest fern. Moss and lichen were everywhere, covering gnarled tree trunks and fantastically shaped branches, which made me half expect an elf or gremlin to pop up and say hello. The bountiful region has over 1,000
Ashish kothari
A gentle boat ride on the Neyyar Dam reservoir is made exciting by the possibility of spotting wildlife like gaur, sloth bear, and Nilgiri langur near the shore.
34 national Geographic Traveller INDIA | JULY 2013
The stocky, goat-like Niligiri tahr (top left) is endemic to the area. There are only around 2,000 left in the wild; The Moss and lichen that grows during the monsoon give tree barks a multicoloured look (top right); The lion-tailed macaque (bottom left) is one of the most threatened primate species in the world; Waterfalls (bottom right) are a common sight during a monsoon hike in the park.
species of plants. A great variety of them are known for their medicinal properties. Explore
Since Neyyar is not a tiger reserve (though it does have tigers), nature lovers can walk through it, which is a better way to experience the forest than via jeep safaris. Visitors can do easy hikes along the foothills, or a tougher climb up to some dizzying heights. The sanctuary’s administrative complex, near the Neyyar Dam, has an information centre where activity bookings can be made (contact the wildlife warden on 0471 2360762 or 0471 2272182). Apart from trekking, there is a lion safari where visitors
can see the big cats roaming around in the open and a crocodile park and research centre, where the large reptiles laze around. The safari should not be a replacement for a trek since that is when the region’s true wilderness is experienced. There are also elephant and deer rehabilitation centres,
where tourists can get close to animals. Boating is also available in the Neyyar reservoir (a 30-minute ride for 10 people in one boat costs `400). An ecotourism package for a day visit includes boating, visits to the lion safari park, crocodile park, and deer and elephant rehabilitation centres. The Neyyar Ecotourism Ecodevelopment Committee runs this, so that local people benefit from the revenue
(Indians `200, children `100, foreigners `300, students `100). Seasons
The sanctuary is open throughout the year. November to March is the most pleasant time to visit. June to October brings heavy rain which makes trekking plans unpredictable. This is also the time when armies of leeches surface. Getting there
Thiruvananthapuram is the closest airport (30 km/1 hour) and Neyyittinkara, the closest rail station (20 km/1 hour). Taxis can be hired from the station, airport, and city (`500 one way). n JULY 2013 | national Geographic Traveller INDIA 35
Ashish kothari (tree & waterfall), Dhritiman Mukherjee (Niligiri tahr & lion-tailed macaque)
NAVIGATE National Park
NAVIGATE Family Time
Movie Magic bollywood flashbacks and thrilling rides By Aparajita Saxena
Lit Trip
Game of Tours Walking tours in Ireland and Croatia to indulge Game of Thrones fanatics
The theme park’s rides feature dinosaurs, Bollywood villains, and fairytale characters.
T
he newly-opened Adlabs Imagica theme park marks a century of Indian cinema by bringing the world of movies alive. Full of excited children and bedazzled adults, Imagica was lively even on the hot summer day I chose to visit. The park is divided into six zones, each with its own set of rides and displays. In the India zone, we kicked off with movie magic at the “Mr. India” ride, sitting in cars that rise and dip while watching a film clip featuring Mogambo and Toota Phoota, the robotic monkey. The “I for India” ride took us 30 feet above the ground with the screen below us. We soared, as if on a magic carpet over the Ganesh Chaturthi celebrations on Juhu beach, snake boat races in Kerala, and snow-capped Himalayas. Another dramatic cinematic experience followed in the Asia section, where the “Prince of Dark Waters” film played in a 360° dome, immersing us in an underwater world of fish and mermaids. To round off the nautical theme, we sailed aboard a pirate boat at “Splash Ahoy”,
waging war with water guns. Since no theme park visit is complete without a few shrieks, we lined up for the “Scream Machine” only to have our guts churned inside out, as we were swung 148 feet above the ground. Seeking sustenance was easy after that at the Red Bonnet American Diner, where we also chanced upon a dance performance that that takes place outside at 5 p.m. every day. Imagica promises a water park next year and new ride additions. Still, it has enough going for it already to make a fun day trip. n
38 national Geographic Traveller INDIA | JULY 2013
eason three of Game of Thrones is over, but fans can still explore slices of author George R.R. Martin’s world. Picking up on the popular book and television series, two newly-launched walking tours in Croatia and Ireland now take fans on a journey through the world of Westeros. At the UNESCO World Heritage city of Dubrovnik, Croatia, visitors can moon over King’s Landing, the capital city of the Seven Kingdoms in Martin’s vast world. Dubrovnik’s old-world architecture, dramatically set against the Adriatic Sea, is among the key locations where the HBO series was shot. The walls of Lovrijenac Fortress were cinematically torn down in the show’s second season. More walled fortresses await visitors near Giant’s Causeway in Belfast, Ireland, which covers scenes from the darker side of the show. Walking through the haunting caves and castles of Dragonstone—set in Northern Ireland’s Downhill Strand— and passages of gnarled trees known as “The Dark Hedges”, visitors can expect to experience an eerie sense of déjà vu. Just south of Belfast, fans can make a trip to Castle Ward, which doubles as the iconic courtyard of Winterfell. There are no tours here, but visitors are free to explore the castle. If none of this makes sense to you, perhaps it’s time to treat yourself to a box set of the books or DVDs of the first three seasons of Game of Thrones. (Game of Thrones tours can be booked through viator.com or toursbylocals. com; Dubrovnik tour `4,000; Belfast tour `6,000). n
– Azeem Banatwalla
VITALS Imagica is at Sangewadi, 73 km/2 hours from Mumbai via the Mumbai-Pune Expressway. Take the Khopoli exit, get onto Pali Road via the overbridge and follow the signs. (022-42130405; www. adlabsimagica.com; open 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. daily [many rides begin only after 2.30 p.m.]; entry on weekdays/ weekends: adults `1,200/1,500, children `900/1200.)
Scenes from Game of Thrones have also been filmed in Malta and Morocco.
INDRANIL MUKHERJEE/AFP/Getty Images (car & dinosaur), Danish Siddiqui/Reuters (magician), Kuni Takahashi/Bloomberg via Getty Images (ride), Album Online/IndiaPic (game of thrones)
S
NAVIGATE Go Now
Colours of the auroras (left) vary based on the composition of the atmosphere, from green in the lower layers to purple and red higher up; Northern lights tours are tailored to a wide variety of travellers (right), including specialised tours for photographers.
Calling all Sky Watchers The northern lights are expected to be at their brightest this year By Azeem Banatwalla
The prediction
just in
Commonly known as the northern lights, auroras are caused by collisions between particles in the Earth’s atmosphere and charged particles emitted from the sun. The greater the solar activity, the more dazzling the lights are. The sun’s activity works in cycles of around 11 years, peaking with a “solar maximum”. According to NASA, the peak will be between September and November this year. It’s worth mentioning that NASA’s original forecast expected the maximum to be between October and March last year. Solar activity, much like the weather, doesn’t always pan out as expected, but for a sight that comes once every 11 years, it’s worth the gamble.
Even the “average” northern lights, which aren’t charged by a solar maximum, are spectacular. This year has the potential to be the best celestial light show in a decade. Where to go
The northern lights are concentrated around the North Pole. An identical phenomenon also takes place at the South Pole (aurora australis), but is considerably less accessible. Aurora borealis can be seen across Scandinavia, with great views from coastal Norway, Iceland, Finland, Sweden, and the waters north of Russia. The views are even better in Greenland, although the terrain is a lot harsher. The lights can also be seen in northern Canada and Alaska. There’s no “best place” for sightings but it helps to be as far north as possible (65 degrees latitude is the minimum) and to have a 3600 view of clear skies. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration has a dedicated website (www.swpc.noaa. gov) to help enthusiasts find ideal locations and times.
How to do it
Most times, the lights creep into the sky unannounced, with astral projections dancing about the heavens for anywhere between a few minutes and several hours. The auroras are most visible at night, which is why October-January, when days are short, is the best time to plan a trip. One of the most popular options is a cruise on the waters north of Scandinavia and Canada. There are hundreds of operators, but Hurtigruten in Norway, which plies between Bergen and Kirkenes is regarded as one of the best (www. hurtigruten.com; 7-day packages from `68,000 per head, includes breakfast). More active packages on land are organised by operators who put guests in minivans that head out in different directions, maintaining contact so they can converge for a sighting. There are also aurora-watching hotels like Aurora Chalet in Luosto, Finland, which sound alarms when the lights are spotted (www.aurorachalet.org; doubles `12,000, includes breakfast). n
surf's up: For close to two years, Taiwan has provided free public internet to its residents. The service is now being extended to tourists, making Taiwan the first country to offer free Wi-fi to tourists on such a large scale. Visitors can get their own public internet account numbers by simply showing their passports at a tourist office. A public internet account gives visitors access to 4,000 wireless hotspots around Taiwan with a 1mbps bandwidth, which, by Indian stardards, is fast enough to get most jobs done.
july 2013 | national Geographic Traveller INDIA 53
bob stefko/The Image Bank/Getty images (trees), David Clapp/The Image Bank/Getty images (people)
T
he aurora borealis is an elusive beast. Sighting the ethereal solar projections is like spotting tigers on a safari. A combination of timing and luck is required. Get one half of the formula right by planning a trip this September, when the lights are expected to be at their brightest.
IN FOCUS Return to Roots
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Writing was the way to remember what I had forgotten; it was the journey that allowed me to return to myself.
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Kerala
The
Kerala Express On their first meeting, a mother remembers her lost language, to connect with her new baby. By Mridula Koshy
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B
etween the age of six and eight, I lived in Kerala and spoke little besides Malayalam. The next time I returned, it was for two weeks when I turned 20. My first day back, I perched on the edge of a teak-wood seat, little comprehending how my aunts and uncles had become this old. They in turn couldn’t understand why I refused to rest my head on the convent-crocheted antimacassar slung over the back of the seat. “What is this American style, not a drop of oil in her hair, dry like coconut husk, fit only for scrubbing pots and pans?” they asked, not unaffectionately. “Sit back.”
IN FOCUS Return to Roots
Vellam
Rose ets, watches and dolls, made in China. I leaned back into my seat but Pashu Notwithstanding the instructions was no less uncomfortable as I about the barber shop, the mill and waited for the conversation to the general goods store, this junction so move from me to others in the like all the other junctions interruptroom, from English to Malayalam. ing the bleeding of one village into It did and I returned to my childm ha az the next would have been easy to hood clambering over this same furp a zh drive right on through had my niture, then sized for circus antics. Va driver not known how to read the I drifted out the window to the sign: Chemmalamattom. The curlmango tree laden with fruit so cues of the Malayalam lettering on ripe the ground beneath was wet Amma this sign were no more recognisable to from a rain of juice. This tree with me than was my cousin waving to me from its low-hanging branches was never No longer possessed the roadside, there to escort me onward in allowed, in the impatience of our childof the luxury of my journey. hood, to produce anything but fruit hard, tart embarrassment, A short while later, I was using the Malayalam I and green. In my memory, my grandfather stood under the tree, shaking his cane at us cousins sentences stumbled had been diligently practicing back in Portland, Oregon. “I am your mother,” I told my new two-yearwho ran, puckered mouths unable to answer his from me, as awkward old baby as she shrank from me. The social worker scolding. I strained to hear him but his voice, sias they were set her down and stepped back from us. My cousin lent these many years, only yielded more silence. looked soberly on. No longer possessed of the luxury Malayalam was no more my language. Not even rehearsed of embarrassment, sentences stumbled from me, as in memory. awkward as they were rehearsed: “Don’t be afraid, I drifted back to the room and its babble and daughter. I’m here to take you home.” I pulled my sons, aged drifted away again. I knew from my experience negotiating six and three, forward and now she, their new sister, stepped forward the airport, all of its formalities confined to Malayalam, that straining as well. She put her hand out for the ball they held out to her. They unto understand would yield nothing but a massive headache. Then I screwed the top from a bottle and blew bubbles that she chased about had the sense that equally alive in this drawing room was the possibilthe room. All three spoke in the language all of us speak in childhood. ity of heartache. When despite myself I grasped the occasional word, It is a language that is free of the fear of being misunderstood, a lanthe experience was akin to the shipwrecked sailor chancing, someguage that trusts itself to be understood. where mid-ocean, onF a single rock, ground not wide enough to stand I tried again. “Daughter,” I held my arms out to her, “I am your on, much less to inhabit and build a life on. mother. Will you come to me?” She was afraid. But she was also brave. But my drifting had the unfortunate effect of rendering me stupid. A half hour later she allowed me to pick her up. I am not sure if it was Even when the conversation returned to English and back to me— just before or just after that it poured from me, dozens, then hundreds “Mridu-Mridu. Someone shake that girl awake”—I was too long gone of words. Malayalam words. First the language of nouns as everything to make sense of what was being asked of me. I left Kerala, leaving my leapt out at me—“door” and “hair clip” and “outside” and “sun” and relatives with the sense that both my hair and my mental acuity left “ball” and “hand” and “mouth”. I spoke these nouns to her despersomething to be desired. ate for her to understand that if I were not yet her mother it was not I returned to English, a home with many rooms, great and small, because I didn’t share her language, not because I couldn’t know her richly furnished to reflect my every contradictory need—for simplicity, in the language in which she knew herself. And then, I wanted her to for sophistication, for transparency, for artifice, for full expression of know that I was knowable. myself. But somewhere, I now had the sense, was another home, and We spoke in the Malayalam of games—oliche-kande (literally wandering in its poorly appointed rooms the flickering intelligence of hiding-seeing, but really peek-a-boo)—and the Malayalam of halfsomeone hopeful yet of being shaken awake. remembered fragments of nursery rhymes. I told of coaxing a dove Another 15 years would go by before I found my way again to Kerto my hand with a promise not only of milk and bananas but also of ala. Following directions I had received over the phone, I asked the payasam, a sweet not found in English. Some nights into our new life driver to pull over at the junction of the highway and the main street together as a family came a lullaby, entire, intact. I sang it to her in the running through the sleepy village of Chemmalamattom. Yes, the barvoice of someone who had sung it to me. bershop was there and so was the assortment of storefronts. Garlands Malayalam didn’t return suddenly. But neither did it return of rubber chappals festooned the front of the dry goods store. A fine slowly. Malayalam wasn’t there. And then it was: the jagged rock I dust hung in the air, so pure it would have been taken for snow elsehad been clinging to pushed up by some upheaval in the ocean floor, where. But here it announced a rice mill. Outside, there were girls in revealing itself as ground my daughter and I could stand on together. long skirts and blouses, hair liquid and loose, and women in nightSuch things are a long time coming. And arriving, they do so as a force gowns, sparse hair knotted, waiting for rice to be ground in quantities for change. good for one or two breakfasts worth of appam or puttu; any more Shortly on the heels of this upheaval came the upheaval of writing. would result in the ignominy of eating stale as city dwellers are forced In writing I tried out the idea that what I had experienced was an to. Every other storefront had bananas for sale—yellow and fingerexpansion of myself, as if my familiar home had revealed itself to conlength, red and rotund, green so acid, streaks of black throughout tain one more room. But where had that room been or where I? How were welcome relief for the eye. But peering past the bananas I saw could it be a room if it was also a rock? Years on, I was still struggling that these stores contained all manner of hodgepodge, from slingshots to understand the experience when I heard the Italian writer Claudio strung with rubber tapped from the trees next door, to bolts and buck-
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Magris speak. “Every journey,” he said “is a return.” Yes, I said to myself. I know what that means to me. I have been journeying all this while, and all of it is indeed a returning. Everything unknown was revealing itself as already known. Writing was the way to remember what I had forgotten; it was the journey that allowed me to return to myself. I began work on a novel set in Kerala and the United States. I feared the imbalance between the years I spent in Kerala and the decades in the US would result in an imbalanced novel. I thought to undertake some corrective research. But it was the US I found difficult to grapple with. Kerala wrote itself in my novel, a place both parochial and cosmopolitan, a place as familiar in its paradoxical nature as my many contradictory selves. My daughter lost her Malayalam soon after we returned to the US. When she was old enough to realise what it was she had lost, she began the lament, “But why did I do that?” “That” was her refusal to answer me in the Malayalam I spoke to her our first year in the US. “How?” she asks and the story has been repeated so often she knows already: one evening as I turned to her at the dinner table and asked her if she would like a glass of water, she tipped her chin at me and repeated my words.“Vellam,” she said defiantly, “what is vellam?” That was how she left her language. I think of my cousin waiting for me at the junction that day and it is with something like confidence I tell her, when you are a grown-up you can go to your godparents in Kerala. Devasi Uncle and Josie Auntie will teach you Malayalam. I picture my cousin, her Devasi Uncle, waiting for her at the same junction. But my daughter has only just turned 11. She has a long way to journey so she can return. In the meantime, I make a pilgrimage to Kerala almost every year with my partner and three children. It is the same pilgrimage my
parents undertook in the first years of their new lives as migrants to Delhi, one they gave up only when they migrated again—this time to the US. The old Kerala-Karnataka Express is now the Kerala Express. We share our compartment. One year it is with a couple, bank officers, and their new baby. Another year it is with two soldiers, who sleep for nearly the entire way, the sleep of the young and exhausted. When they wake, they turn to me with the same question with which the bank officers opened the conversation, “Native place?” I am glad to be recognised. I imagine I can hear this question being asked in the next compartment and throughout the train and back in time to when my parents answered it, naming my grandfather’s home in Trivandrum. In a journey of more than 50 hours, we note all the changes that tourists are told signify the crossing from North to South India—wheat fields give way to rice fields;the puddle of yellow in our meal tray from the Railway is no longer described as dal: it is now sambar. But what we have forgotten to expect and now cheer is the man with the trays of banana boli, who comes on board as we cross into northern Kerala. Soon afterward, we run out of water in the bathroom and my children weary of climbing from the lower to the upper bunks and back down again. This is as it was in my childhood. The antidote is one forbidden to me in my childhood. I let the children hold on to me as we stand in the doorway of our coach and thrust our faces into the whipping wind. Ahead and ahead, many hours ahead is Trivandrum. There I will return to a language in which I am the articulate six-year-old, at home in the life of the older, wiser, inarticulate me. n Mridula Koshy is the author of Not Only the Things That Have Happened (Harper Collins India, 2012). She has also written If It Is Sweet (Westland-Tranquebar, 2009), a collection of short stories. july 2013 | national Geographic Traveller INDIA 71
andrew macara/ the bridgeman art library/ getty images
Kerala
Journeys Alternative
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Starry Starry
Netherlands
A trip to Amsterdam offers all sorts of highs by
Shreya Sen-Handley july 2013 | national Geographic Traveller INDIA 111
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In Amsterdam shops like the Erotic Museum that sell sex toys and other curiosities are part of the norm.
Previous and this page: In Amsterdam's Rossebuurt (red light district) visitors can let their imagination and desires run wild as everything from window prostitutes to sex shops abound, and are permitted by law. 112 national Geographic Traveller INDIA | july 2013
John-Kellerman/Alamy/IndiaPicture
Journeys Alternative
Netherlands
The colours of the Amsterdam evening are jewel-like. Everything
mesh of bridges takes us past flocks My mind skitters from thought to of brightly coloured houseboats (often half-baked thought till it returns to the patriotically orange) and pretty little unsettling world around me. There are boutiques, delis, and cafes from which women behind panes of glass, bathed we accumulated hats, clogs, cheese in a red light that’s bleeding into the and cups of Bitterballen (not-bitter-atsidewalks. The pavements shift beall meatballs). neath my feet, threatening to come up We find little gems like Beginhof, a and meet me. walled square where pious spinsters I am walking through Amsterdam, once sought sanctuary. It is quiet and high, high as a kite. Though it has made historic but we are reminded that we’re me acutely aware of every fibre of my in the most liberal of cities when we being, and every atom of the world spot a roof-front statue of The Virgin in around me, I feel disconnected from an advanced state of dishabille. Rampeople. My husband of many years, fabling through the flower market, ablaze ther of my children and best friend, is with tulips and tourists despite the foul walking beside me but he feels miles weather, we arrive at Rembrandthuis away. We look at each other with the with its Photoshop-perfect red-andstartled surprise of strangers who find green shuttered windows, where we themselves in an embarrassingly intidisappointingly learn that the genius mate situation. With a dazed grin, he was also a jerk. confides that the pavement is bucking In the evening, we chat with believers “like a bronco”. I give him my “you seem in the pagoda at Chinatown and wash nice but I’m married” smile, hurry past, down hunks of steak with Gancia at one only to backtrack when I recall that I’m of many Argentinian steakhouses. But married to him. the time was ripe for a spot of debauchHow did we get here? ery, so we took a walk on the wild side. After a half-decade of loving, responThe Red Light District is a surreal sible parenting, we decided that we des- Overlooking the canal, Bulldog No. 90 is a herb-selling, pub-like coffee shop that is famous for being the first of its place—not depraved or degenerate, just perately needed a grown-up Bacchana- kind in the city. other-worldly. A lurid crimson light lian bender. We picked Amsterdam for bathes everything. Animated neon people display amazing sexual agilthat purpose, convinced that at nearly 40, with kids, careers, and other ity while flashing signs promise over-the-top adventures. “Live sex,” clutter, this would be our last hurrah. To make it a dirty weekend to one screams. “Anything goes.” The hundreds of sex shops are as giggleremember, we had solicited hints and debauched tips. inducing as they are bewildering. Hoping to bag a curiosity, we end “Gotta have ’em hash brownies,” said a friend. up so puzzled with what was meant to go where that we leave empty“Must hang out at a Proeflokaal,” said another, urging us to visit the handed (but with a gaggle to Google). Before that, though, we spot a city’s famed gin joints. must-have item for the adventurous lady: a bicycle with male equip“Try a threesome with a prostitute,” said one, “You only pay halfment attached to its seat, so she arrives at every destination, satisfied. price for the second person.” While the crowd gawks and giggles, stray groups of men stride past Despite our best intentions to be hard-nosed hedonists, we are with a sense of purpose, some in fancy dress. There were Vikings, gripped on arrival by an overwhelming urge to simply stroll hand-inknights and, appropriately for how hesitantly they approach their tarhand through the picturesque network of canals that is more quintesgets, chickens. But the lure of the place is the women in their illumisentially Amsterdam than any of its other delights. We stroll past a nated windows, unabashedly displaying their wares in a manner that’s stunted skyline of narrow houses with stepped or bell-shaped roofs, uniquely Amsterdam. Gingerly stepping past body parts thrust at us, each with a pulley and hook at the top to allow furniture to be hauled we stop to catch our breath, only to find a window-woman beckoning. directly to the upper floors, circumventing narrow stairways. The july 2013 | national Geographic Traveller INDIA 113
Iain-Masterton/Age-Fotostock/Dinodia
has a fluidity, a swirly-whirliness, like daubs on an Impressionist’s canvas. I seem to have found my way into a Van Gogh painting.
The “I Amsterdam” sign outside Rijksmuseum, the Dutch national museum, has become an iconic symbol of the city. A clichéd but must-have photo for all visitors.
We nudge each other, grinning sheepishly. She holds up three fingers to indicate she’d have us both. But getting only gauche laughter in response, she marches out to fix us with an exasperated glare. “Are you coming in?” she says. “I am counting to five!” What could the cloistered parents of two toddlers do, but scamper? We run like we haven’t in years, breathless, laughing, all the way to our plush hotel where, after aeons, we catch up on coitus without interruptus. On a roll now, our next stop is the best little hash house in town aka “Baba’s”. We inch into this hashish haze to the strains of a sitar and the smell of incense, watched by the giant Ganesh in the corner. Bolting down our massive chocolate slabs of wooziness, we head for our longanticipated Indonesian dinner. If any experience could be stranger than walking through Amsterdam on a high, dining out in the same condition must be it. We sit there teetering as the world around us reels and jigs. The waiter takes orders in an extra loud but sympathetic voice. (Stoned customers? All in a day’s work). Steaming dish after delicious exotic dish arrives and is wolfed down hungrily even as I try to ignore the riveted gaze of the man a few tables down. Had my sex appeal grown exponentially in the last hour or am I making a spectacular mess of the meal? Our bizarrely enhanced hearing also makes us unwilling eavesdroppers on the seduction at the next table. A grizzled elderly man is schmoozing his way into a night of geriatric passion with a blue-rinsed old dear. “Sex, you see,” he said, “is not for the young.” “No,” she rolled her eyes at us “they don’t appreciate the nuances, the delicacy…” 114 national Geographic Traveller INDIA | july 2013
That we were the young of their conversation pleased us no end and Hubby suddenly snaps out of his trance to suggest we attempt “the nuances”. But even as I tried to tell him that I was in no state to know where things should go, my chair starts keeling over, and the lights blink crazily. I rush out to breathe in fresh air and sanity. Behind me, I can hear running footsteps, and then there is darkness. I wake to sunshine and stability. Gently propping me up, Hubby asks if I am up to a bit of Van Gogh. The Van Gogh museum is being refurbished so we head out to where the cream of the collection is being housed: The Hermitage. A square, spare building with the brilliance of Van Gogh on every wall, it is the perfect place to commune with the artist on his birth anniversary. As we wander among the paintings, breathing in every brush stroke, every vivid shade and inspired choice of subject, we find what we have come to Amsterdam for: a high more genuine than the sex emporia or hash houses can provide. On Van Gogh’s canvases is a passion that lifts us like nothing other than our beautiful children could. Linking hands we whisper and smile. We gaze reverently at the sublime “Sunflowers”, “Irises” and “The Yellow House”. Then stopping to scrutinise that most famous of nightscapes at the end of the hall, “The Café Terrace at Night”, we are more than a little surprised when, with a great whoosh, we are sucked into it. n Shreya Sen-Handley is a former journalist and television producer who now writes and illustrates for the British and Indian media, when she’s not tending to two toddlers, a husband and a home in Sherwood Forest, Nottingham.
Merten Snijders/Lonely Planet Images/Getty images ( i amsterdam) facing page: White Star/Alberto/Imagebroker/Dinodia (van gogh museum), Buyenlarge/UIG/Dinodia (portrait), Shreya Senhan (souvenir shop & Rembrandt House Museum), Tlbor-Bognar/Alamy/IndiaPicture (flowers), Peter Horree/Alamy/ IndiaPicture (cafe)
Journeys Alternative
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1 A view of Museumplien square from outside the Van Gogh museum, which is currently being refurbished. 2 Père Tanguy is Van Gogh’s portrait of his dear friend Julien-François Tanguy, who ran a painting supplies store in Paris. 3 Holland’s photogenic dairy cows are on souvenirs everywhere, even on the ceiling of this shop in Amsterdam. 4 The author outside the Rembrandt House Museum, where the famous painter lived and worked for many years. 5 Tulips at the vibrant Amsterdam flower market, just a stone’s throw from serene Begijnhof and its historic buildings. 6 Amsterdam is famous for its coffee shops where cannabis is legally sold, along with food and alcoholic beverages.
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Short break From Bengaluru
Coasting the Highway
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Fishing for small joys in Maravanthe | By Anita Rao Kashi
S
een on the map, the Karnataka section of the coastal highway NH17 gives rise to visions of the unending sea on one side and the lush, green Western Ghats on the other. But that doesn’t prepare you for the magnificence in reality. Among the most stunning sections of the highway is the stretch leading up to Maravanthe, a town 110 km/2½ hours north of Mangalore. Skirting paddy fields and towering hills, the road plays peek-a-boo with the Arabian Sea, spread out like a rippling sheet of turquoise blue. In the far distance are the indistinct outlines of large ships. On the right, the gently flowing Souparnika River runs parallel to the road and small row boats ply up and down. Its banks are thick with foliage, and the majestic Kodachadri Hills loom in the distance. Like in many coastal towns, fishing is the main activity in Maravanthe. The older parts, towards the centre, have narrow, congested
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roads with houses in close proximity. The outer sections are more spacious, filled with coconut and palm groves.
EXPLORE Laze Just a few kilometres before the town, on the muddy embankment to the left of the highway, is a viewpoint with a few shacks selling plastic toys, snacks, and tea. It is a good spot to spread out a blanket, shut out the ambient noise, and absorb the view. Plan to be here just before sunset, when the water turns into a quivering mass of golden-orange. During the monsoon, the angry sea lashes against the rocks while the swelling river threatens to meet the sea across the road, creating a riveting picture. Back near town, there is plenty of space on Maravanthe beach but absolutely no tourist
Dinodia
The Karnataka coastline is dotted with beaches. Some, like Maravanthe are great for travellers seeking peace and solitude while other beaches like Malpe (pictured above) and Bekal are frequented by families.
Maravanthe There are also several hiking routes along the beach and river, which are shortcuts used by locals. Hotel staff are usually happy to give directions and make suggestions.
Island sojourn In the morning, Malpe
Kathale Basandi or the dark temple of Barkur has been named after its dark granite stone.
Active For the more energetic, there are boat trips, snorkelling, and diving. Turtle Bay on Sea (details in Stay section) organises kayaking (`600 per person) and boating trips (`2,500 for eight people) to Lighthouse Island, which is about 5 km out to sea. The uninhabited island has small sandy beaches, clear water, and an old lighthouse. Underwater enthusiasts can travel to Netrani Island (10 nautical miles from Murudeshwar, which is 50 km/1½ hours north of Maravanthe) for snorkelling and scuba diving (`4,000 per person; October to May). The island is full of sharp rocks so visitors normally don’t step on land but they do snorkel and scuba dive from boats anchored around the island. Apart
from coral reefs, a variety of sea life is visible including trigger fish, parrot fish, butterfly fish, and eels. Be warned that visibility is poor after a rain shower. In general, don’t expect the quality of underwater activity to be as good as the Andamans or Lakshadweep. A more sedate option is the backwater cruise (`1,000 for 10 people; negotiable) on the Souparnika River in a wooden motorboat. Fringed by coconut trees and green fields, the river meanders past tiny hamlets and red-tiled houses. The waterways are busy, so it is not uncommon to see a boat every few minutes.
Step back in time About 35 km/45 minutes south of Maravanthe is Barkur, a
UNIQUE EXPERIENCE
Kannada Literature Hidden between shops on the main road in Saligrama (30 km/45 minutes to the south of Maravanthe) is the museum set up in the former home of writer Dr. K. Shivarama Karanth (1902-1997). Spread over a couple of floors, the walls and displays showcase the life of Kannada literature’s third Jnanpith Award winner (awarded for his work Mookajjiya Kanasugalu in 1977). The shelves are crammed with books, both his and those that he admired. But writing was just one of Karanth’s talents. Freedom fighter, novelist, playwright, dramatist, filmmaker, environmentalist, lexicographer, advocate of alternate/ informal schooling, and exponent of
Yakshagana (a folk form similar to Kathakali), Karanth was sprightly even at the age of 70, and thought nothing of donning greasepaint to perform on stage. A vociferous social activist, he was conferred the Padma Bhushan in 1968 but returned it to protest the Emergency.
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Anita Rao Kashi
facilities, not even the odd shack or peanut seller. This means that the beach is pristine. Pale-blonde sand meets clear water, everything is clean, and the only debris on the beach is driftwood and seaweed. The beach is ideal for a wade-in or a lie-about with a book or music, especially before sunrise or around sunset. The shelf is shallow and it is safe to swim during low tide, except during the monsoon. Take exploratory drives along NH17, passing paddy fields that are smooth as a sheet on a freshly-made bed. Breaking the monotony of the perfect views are shallow prawn-culture tanks on the left just before Kundapur. Further north, just outside Gokarna, are sprawling salt beds. In the dry months, the whiteness of the drying salt is harsh enough to hurt the eyes, and is broken only by an occasional farmer scraping the dried lumps into heaps for bagging and transportation.
harbour (45 km/1 hour south of Maravanthe) is bustling as fishing boats crowd the piers, unloading tons of seafood that is quickly sorted and carted away. Massive machines whoosh out streams of ice flakes, filling up the trucks that transport the seafood. A strong smell of fish hangs thick in the air, predictably only bothering outsiders. Around the corner from this organised chaos is a tiny jetty from where boats leave for St. Mary’s Island (30 mins; `100 for adults, `50 for children; boats every hour from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., open midSeptember to mid-May). The island is just 300 metres long and 100 metres wide, and legend has it that Vasco da Gama set foot here in 1498. At the time, the palm-fringed picturepostcard island was called Tonse Paru in Tulu, but he rechristened it El Padron de Santa Maria. Unusual hexagonal basalt formations rise dramatically out of the water around the island. These volcanic rocky outcrops, ranging from deep red to black, look stunning against the aquamarine blue water. There are no homes or shops on the island and no visitors are allowed overnight. But it is easy to spend a few hours picnicking, wading in the water, or just relaxing on the shore.
Short break From Bengaluru village on the banks of the Sita River. It was once a political centre and capital of the Alupa kings who ruled over Tulunadu (the Tulu-speaking areas comprising the present day Udupi, Dakshina Kannada or Mangalore, and Kasargod districts) during the 10th and 11th centuries. At one point, Barkur had 365 temples and the Alupa king visited a different one each day. Most have been destroyed but their ruins are visible all over the village. The Panchalingeshwara Temple (open 8 a.m. to noon, 4-7 p.m.), with tiered gable roofs is the largest and most important one. It is a living temple dedicated to Shiva, with an annual fair at the end of March that draws the devout from around the region. The set of sati stones on the premises are haunting. Less than a kilometre away is the Mahalingeshwara Temple, similar in design but smaller in size. Around the corner from this is the mysterious Kathale Basadi (dark temple) from the Jain tradition, so named because it is constructed of dark granite stone. Set amidst sprawling grounds, the structure is in ruins but there’s evidence to suggest it once contained statues of the 24 Tirthankaras. A Shiva lingam in a corner points to the multiple uses of the shrine, perhaps because of changing rulers.
STAY There are not many accomodation options in Maravanthe. Just before Maravanthe beach is Turtle Bay on Sea (96110 00777; www. turtlebayeco.com; doubles from `2,950 for seafacing rooms) tucked inside a casuarina grove with rustic cottages and views of the Arabian Sea. More basic and functional is the Sagar
Local fish curry (left) is made with coconut, tamarind, and red chillies; Ceremonial figures (right) of the Panchalingeshwara Temple are taken around the village of Barkur during festivals. Kinara Beach Resort (94487 24861; doubles from `800) located right on Maravanthe beach with clean rooms and coastal cuisine. In Kundapur (12 km/20 minutes to the south), Hotel Sharon (08254 230823; www.soans. com/hotels; doubles from `1,600) has a couple of suites and a few dozen rooms, as well as separate veg and non-veg restaurants.
EAT Shetty Lunch Home (08254-230408; meal for two `600) in Kundapur, established in 1956, is
legendary and is reputed to be the birthplace of the famous Kundapur ghee roast—chicken marinated in chillies and fried with plenty of fresh, grated coconut. At Mahalaxmi (98808 33398; meal for two `350), near the bustling Malpe harbour, seafood thalis include fish curry, rice, and a vegetable side dish, but waiters also carry plates laden with fried fish. The food is delicious. In fact, all local hotels serve excellent seafood. It is worthwhile to look for tiny eateries hidden in shacks or the courtyards of houses. Many of them don’t have signboards but are frequented by locals, so ask around. n
THE GUIDE Maravanthe is in the Udupi district of the Karnataka coast on NH17. It is about 400 km/9 hours northwest of Bengaluru and 110 km/2½ hours to the north of Mangalore.
Getting there Air Mangalore (110 km/2½ hours) is the nearest airport; taxis charge approximately `1,500 for a one-way ride to Maravanthe. Rail Kundapur (12 km south of Maravanthe) is the nearest railhead and is connected to Bengaluru by the YeshwantpurKarwar Express. Auto rickshaws charge approximately `150 for a drop from the station. Road There are plenty of buses from
Bengaluru, Mangalore, and Udupi. If driving from Bengaluru, take the BengaluruMangalore road via Kunigal, Hassan, and Sakleshpur to Mangalore, then head right on NH17 passing Udupi and Kundapur to reach Maravanthe.
Getting around It is easy to get around since the town is not too big. Auto rickshaws can be hired locally (up to `50/trip) or taxis by the day (approximately `1,200/day).
night, temperatures drop to as low as 10°C. Monsoons (June-Aug) are wet and pleasant. NH 17
Jog Falls
Netrani Island
Maravanthe
Mani Reservoir
Seasons Summer (Mar-May) is hot with temperatures going up to 40°C. Winter (Dec-Feb) is pleasant. Day-time temperatures hover around 30°C but at
147 national Geographic Traveller INDIA | JULY 2013
Kodachadri Hills
To bengaluru
Malpe Beach
Dinodia (fish), Anita Rao Kashi (figures), urmimala nag (map)
Orientation
Short break Goa STAY
Aldona
Beyond the Beach
GOA Arabian Sea
The Only Olive offers a slice of life in a Goan village | By Teja Lele Desai In the evening, one can stop at the village bar for feni, or fire up the barbecue. The inhouse Honesty Bar allows you to mix your own drinks. Adrian Pinto, the genial host, will introduce you to neighbours who make and sell delicious Goa sausages. Apart from the olive tree that lends the property its name, there are sweet scented frangipani, cashew, mango, jackfruit, breadfruit, and drumstick trees in the humongous garden. The peace and quiet is perfect for creative inspiration. The Only Olive also runs a programme of Artists in Residence, and there are usually one or two artists staying here at any given time.
Accommodation
hammock before heading out. The village is full of old houses that are fine examples of Goan architecture. Long-time local resident Xisto Mascarenhas organises 30-minute walks around the village (0832-2456110; `100-150 per head). Visitors can light a candle at St. Thomas Church and then head to St. Anthony’s, the village bakery, to sample delicious mutton patties and chicken/egg rolls. The fishing bridge serves as the village square with opportunities to socialise. The villa provides free fishing equipment and visitors can join local anglers on the bridge to scoop up shrimp, red snapper, and mullet, and then lunch by the riverside. Afternoons are siesta time.
THE VITALS
The Only Olive is located in Aldona, North Goa about 21 km/25 min from Panjim. Dabolim airport is 43 km/1 hr away (taxi `800), while the distane to Tivim railway station is 10 km/20 min (taxi `500) and to Mapusa, about 8 km. The Baga-Calagute stretch is a 15 km/25 min drive. (239 Ranoi, Aldona; 99670 24680; theonlyolive.com; since there are only 3 rooms, book at least a couple of weeks in advance.)
june 2013 | national Geographic Traveller INDIA 149
teja lele desai, diviya mehra (map)
T
he Only Olive is a nearly 100-yearold Portuguese-style villa in the village of Aldona in northwest Goa, close to the Khorjuem River. Family heirlooms and antique furniture fill the large airy rooms. Its old tiles made me want to potter around barefoot. The ancient light fixtures, the delightful nooks and crannies, and profusion of fresh flowers invite dedicated lingering. Relaxation and rejuvenation come easy, whether it’s sitting in the balcao (balcony) or exploring the picturesque village, filled with colonial-era homes. I enjoyed waking up early to tuck into a hearty Goan breakfast and then lazing the morning away in a
The homestay offers a choice of three bedrooms: The Master (`4,500) is the largest and is dominated by antiques, the Poster (`4,000) has a mammoth four-poster bed, and the Olive (`4,000) is designed around an olive green colour scheme. A hearty breakfast is included. Simple home-cooked lunches and dinners can be arranged at an additional charge (`200-300 per head). The villa is very secluded and the rooms have no TVs and restricted Internet access. There are teamaking facilities. Around the corner, the tinto (local market) has a few bakeries, bars, restaurants, and a supermarket. Try the freshly fried fish, patties or egg rolls (from `20). For a sweet treat sample bebinca (`40). Chakris and other snacks (from `45) from Gokuldas Naik’s kiosk are a delight.n