This Isn't Usual, It's History!

[SPOILER WARNING]: So spoke the speaker of the house in a key scene in Speilberg's Oscar nominated biopic of Abraham Lincoln.  It's January 1865 and The US House of Representatives is voting on the 13th Amendment to the constitution - to abolish Slavery - and with the voting close, he demands a vote.  A Congressman points out that it isn't usual for the Speaker to vote, although conceding it is allowed.  The speaker defends his right with the words, "this isn't usual, it's history."  When asked how he will vote, he replies, "Yes... of course!"
It's a very powerful narrative of what must be one of the most significant and momentous legislative acts of all time.  Not just the liberation of millions of slaves in the South, but also ensuring the freedom  of many millions more not yet born; as Lincoln says in the film, in a surely Oscar-winning performance by Daniel Day-Lewis.

Although two and a half hours long, and quite dry in places as it discusses almost exclusively the passage of this single Bill, this splendid piece of work is quite easy to sit through and does not seem such an onerous investment of time.  Therein perhaps lies its true achievement: to dramatize an episode of history that while enormous, is really just detailed legislative negotiations and their context without much relief.

The content chosen for this biopic of Lincoln's life, versus perhaps the traditional formula of linear chronological narrative, is a near-perfect, as Kennedy would have said, "Portrait of Courage".  Not only courage but also leadership and strength; and therefore the viewer can learn so much more from these 150 minutes than merely a history lesson from the American Civil War. 

Without wishing to spoil it for those that have not yet seen it, the perfect storm that the movie portrays - the confluence of events from hell, in fact - is the horns of a severe moral dilemma that sees Lincoln forced to chose between Freedom and Peace.  The naturally expedient option of Peace, suddenly tangible with a finally exhausted Confederacy, might see the opportunity to abolish slavery recede, perhaps forever.  Ironic, since this is what the war was supposed to be about.  (Early in the film, asked if abolition was desirable, a citizen replies that of course it was because that would end the war.  However, the same (white) citizen admitted that were the war to end first, abolition would not be desirable at all.)

Moreover, abolition was set to make any peace negotiation - and the implied Confederate surrender - that much harder to secure because re-joining a Federal Union where Slavery had been abolished was considered a threat to the South's very economic existence, and therefore unconscionable.

Furthermore, were knowledge of a peace deal in the offing to go public, the vote on abolition was certain to be delayed as peace for a war-weary nation was a far more urgent priority.  But with a new Congress about to take its seats after the 1864 election, the delicate numbers required to stack up the two-thirds majority required for an amendment to the constitution would be even more challenging a month or more later.  But alongside the great importance and moral obligation of Abolition, Lincoln like everyone desperately yearned for Peace at the earliest possible hour.

So how to achieve peace AND Abolition?  (I won't spoil anymore and urge you to see the film to find out if you haven't already.)

Lincoln's skillful leadership as he guides his nation through this critical moment is breathtaking and truly inspirational.  That the character Daniel Day-Lewis tenderly portrays wears the burden with such grace, humour and patience provides yet more inspiration.  It occurs to me that this movie, like Zero Dark Thirty, was something Barack Obama - abolition's greatest beneficiary to date - might have wished quicker through Hollywood's Machinery in time to assist his re-election campaign.  (He has quite loudly modeled himself on Lincoln, for one announcing his election campaign from the same state legislature their respective careers share. )

Admittedly not directly comparable, Obama's Healthcare effort no doubt took some inspiration from Lincoln's example.  Not quite as pivotal as the end of Slavery, Obamacare nevertheless will be seen - once it is up and running - as a turning point in US social history and it's passing seemed just as impossible.  Many great leaders before him had tried and failed to achieve the same and it's tremendous sapping of Obama's unprecedented political capital after the 2008 election was surely painful.

It is sad though when you think that some 150 years later, Mr Obama is still striving - probably in vain - for those same ideals that Lincoln fought for, and of which Emancipation was only a first step.  True equality under the law is still an aspiration in American - as in any - society.  Universal suffrage remained a struggle for African Americans, as for women, in America for far too long a time, and equality of opportunity remains only a dream.  Globally, the principles of fairness Lincoln espoused are as elusive as ever and he would be dismayed at the survival of municipal corruption and the ubiquity political cowardice in government today.

To see Lincoln as a history lesson is certainly a good reason to see it once; but it is perhaps also - despite its length - worth a second viewing for its lesson in leadership, courage and human character also.  Not the greatest entertainment ever, and perhaps for that reason not a huge Oscar winner; but Speilberg's Lincoln is a quiet masterpiece nevertheless, if only for its poignant and faithful telling of the story in question.

Slumdog Tourist

We wrestled with this decision right up until the night before we decided to go on a Reality Tour of Dhariva Slum.  I can honestly say that while we feared it might be ghoulish exploitation, or it might be a tourist trap, or  it might end up a guilt-trip-from-hell; it was in fact one of the most horizon-broadening three hours I can remember.  A severe dose of how-the-other-half-live perspective can be a truly life-changing experience.

We began the tour at Dhobhi-Ghat, dubbed "the world's largest outdoor laundry" (pictured above), an area in central Mumbai dedicated to the city's dirty laundry (although one rapidly losing its relevance as more and more people can afford their own washing machines, we were told). As many as 1,000 people staff this facility, originally put in place by The British one hundred years ago; and as many as 10,000 move through its cubicles in a year.  More than 200,000 items of clothing are washed here in a day.  But far more importantly, rupees are earned and saved by the itinerant workers who see it as their chance to  radically upgrade their financial fortunes.  It's a phenomenal sight, but served only as a preview of the main event: human resourcefulness writ large.

Another brutal preview was a miserable and fiercely depressing drive through the Mumbai red light district, also instituted by the British a hundred years ago.  We were hit with the stark evonomic reality many of the women who staff this zone face every day.  Most are trafficked here on the promise of lucrative jobs, only to find that they must buy their freedom from squalor and sexual farming at a cost of 30,000 rupees.  This alone is not wholly shocking.  This disgusting reality occurs in Sydney too, although at a smaller scale.  What was disturbing and soul-destroying was driving past the Police Station which turns a blind eye to both the illegal prostitution and human traffic racquets in return for baksheesh from the brothel owners.  

Exploitation of the poor and needy is a horrible crime.  But you'd be surprised who else is complicit. That it's the police in this case is infuriating; but when it comes to Mumbai's poor, no one's hands are clean as we found out as the morning grew older.

Dhariva - an hour north of the Victoria Terminus and within sight of planes landing at the International airport -  is the Mumbai slum where Slumdog Millionaire was set as well as many scenes from Shantaram.  In many ways it's the "poster-child" of slum life, if such a phrase can be palatable.  An astonishing one million people dwell here in an area half the size of New York's Central Park.  But a more remarkable statistic, and one that tells Dhariva's story very succinctly, is its annual GDP (Gross Domestic Product - its turnover): US$655 million.  Within three generations since its founding, heart-shaped Dhariva has plugged itself indispensibly into the global supply chain to make itself a critical piece of most multi-nationals' production line.  Many producers might not even know, consumers certainly do not, but it's an inescapable truth we cannot hide from.

Dhariva's main business is industrial scale recycling.  Paper, plastic, metal, anything.  Paint cans, TV dinner cartons, soap, TVs.  The roofs are stacked with mountains of waiting office furniture and electronic devices while the narrow grimy streets are rammed with second or third generation material product.  All of it re-constituted for the big companies so they can re-purpose waste at a great saving on the bottom line. Crushing machines for recycling materials are resourcefully engineered right there in the slum.   Some have made fortunes setting up these factories amid this "informal housing zone", the real "Slumdog Millionaires".
Thousands of workers - of all ages, beginning maybe at 13 - slave long hours in health-damaging conditions to feed their children and/or send money home to relatives in rural India.  The stench of petro-chemical fumes resulting from these toxic processes mixes with the already putrid smells of the hygiene-challenged streets to turn the stomach and take the throat.  But the sheer resourcefulness of the people we walked past and encountered is so uplifting, in a way that amplifies what we first felt back in Kolkata in our first week on this trip across India.  Determination, innovation, initiative and discipline are all the hallmarks of these people, and it was a privilege to witness it in action.

The pre-conceptions of slum though are sadly realistic.  Lean-to dwellings made from anything from brick and concrete to corrugated iron cheek-by-jowl on dirty streets so narrow both your shoulders can brush the walls at the same time as you walk.  Large extended families liven rooms not much bigger than your average office cubicle.  Electricity wiring is improvised low overhead in a way that threatens great danger one would think.  Drainage and sewerage is Dickensian (as I found out when my foot plunged down almost to my knee into a open drain of god-knows-what - something I was pleased to hear also famously happened to a cameraman shooting scenes for Slumdog!). 

But life goes on.  Children are fed, clothed and bathed.  Hard work is pursued, families grow and subsist.  Community nourishes.  In fact, the slum community is so strong that when Government Rehabilitation programs sought to re-house people in privately-built apartment blocks, many - in theory lifted out of slum poverty - soon returned to the slum as the comparative comforts of a flat did not make up for the deprivation of what really got people through their struggle - community.  Community is knitted together based on religion, region and caste.  Many lifted up through education programs continue to live there, despite their white collar jobs.  Our inspiring guide Ballalji for instance, who still lives in the slum despite working for Reality Tours and studying.  

But while so much of the two-hour walking tour was uplifting and inspiring, one over-riding thought kept returning as we perused the finished product of all this resourceful and productive labour: who profited? We saw laptop bags being made, we saw tanning shops producing leather builds of the kind you see hanging in department stores for $30-80 each. Leather jackets, shoes and handbags ready to be branded with expensive luxury icons. Empty paint tins ready for filling with new paint product companies will retail at profitable mark-up.  Small local operations to huge global companies together are stripping extensive cost out of their production line but no doubt failing to share the profits fairly or responsibly with those working so hard and so in need of their deserved due.  Who was providing healthcare for these workers who were  ruining their unprotected lungs with toxic exposures in order to keep their paymasters competitive.  Who was providing the super-annuation for this army of labour who would hit a weak and tired old-age long before their time?

As with the women in the red light district, a lot of blind eyes are being turned.  But instead of ignorant and corrupt local policemen, in this case it is likely much higher up the food chain.

The Andaman Islands: The "Last Frontier"

"Development... [is] a constructive form of destruction."  So said  International Herald Tribune's Akash Kapur in his book "India Becoming", the narrative of an Indian expat returning to his native India after 20 years in the US to witness the huge transformation taking place since he left.  He continues: "for everyone whose life was being regenerated in the new India, there was someone...whose life was being destroyed."

In so many ways The Andaman Islands - closer to the Thai and Burmese coast that India itself - are a microcosmic analogy for the rapid change that is happening in India.  In some ways, it's also that for what is happening in the wider world.  As an experience, we felt a personal sense of the way progress eventually overtakes the status quo as we sped away in our Rikshaw from a beautiful sunsets at Rahdi Nagar Beach - dubbed the best beach in Asia by TIME magazine in 2004 - before air-conditioned, 4WDs carrying wealthy Indian tourists caught us up, overtook us or even ran us off the not-even-single-carriage way road home.  While we we were able to muster quickly and get a head start, the envelopment by a swarm of large horn-hitting vehicles was as inevitable as it was intimidating.

Havelock Island in The Andamans is at a crossroads perfectly exemplifying this development and so-called progress.  A couple we met who had visited the island 16 years ago said they couldn't even recognize it (much as I couldn't recognize Anjuna Beach 15 years later).  All the tourist infrastructure of "Village number 1" (to distinguish it from villages 3, 6, 6.5 and 7!) had arrived in that time, they said. (Most of that infrastructure is arriving - by boat or plane - through the capital, Port Blair, which is a god-forsaken, awful hellhole where progress and development have most certainly overcome any beauty or pleasantness there once was.)

The whole of the East coast - beaches 2 and 5 - are lined with beach-front bamboo hut resorts to provide the visitor with that back-to-nature retreat so craved by the stressed-out westerner.  The island is a staging post for some of the most staggering diving and snorkeling adventures, but the pace of life is wonderfully slow and many appreciate how SMS messages and ATM transactions are not something to be taken for granted.

But as the Yoga-loving, scuba-diving and chilled out backpacker market begins to give way to the wealthy Indian holiday makers now discovering this sensational destination, the island is in the midst of fundamental change - again.  For those jetting in from Delhi instead of London, a bamboo hut represents uncomfortable hardship, not blissful escape.  For those from Mumbai rather than Sydney, an un air-conditioned Rikshaws are simply not practical for moving your extended family around the island.  Consequently 4WDs begin to own the very narrow road that weaves from one village to the next, and the hinterland behind the original resorts is now in the process of hosting concrete and breeze-block, not bamboo. Now  you can walk barefoot along the uninterrupted and pure white beaches from one resort to another, but gradually that walk will be blocked off by one security fence or another - we found it already was in some places.

Rahda Nagar Beach, or beach No 7, itself on the cusp of development
Change is all around as islands in different stages of development take on a faster pace in their  involuntary dash towards the 21st Century.  The newspapers recently reported that the authorities have had to introduce a ban on tourist busses stopping along a road that runs up the middle of the largest island - Middle Andaman - for fear that their curiosity for encounters with the hitherto untouched Jarawa tribe is putting this small group (only 350 remaining) of indigenous people in existential jeopardy.

Equally, the coral reefs in the south are in extreme danger of destruction as increasing numbers of boats and divers will come to see what is today a uniquely unspoiled habitat.  Already decimated by the 2004 Tsunami and with the coral increasingly bleached from warmer waters caused by global warming, you have to think that pretty soon, as the world Tourist market descends on these peaceful and clean waters - such as those around South Button Island where we snorkeled, the outcome will only be disastrous...and irrevocable. 

So when our snorkeling guide talked sadly of The Andaman Islands being the "Last Frontier" it struck a chord - and not only because this was our last stop on our Indian oddessey before heading home via Mumbai.  It seems that just as India itself is going through dramatic changes as it assimilates a more capitalist, modern and materialist future - in many ways a good thing as it lifts millions out of poverty; so too do many important assets and facets fall by the wayside, never to be reclaimed.  As rural gives way to urban and light industrial as the global services opportunity takes root; or as the ever-growing middle classes offload spiritual superstition and solace for consumer avarice and ambition...something is lost that can never be regained.  

But the Andamans represent more than that too, standing as a last victim to the "progress" that erodes natural habitats, pollutes environment, ruins vistas and destroys the kind of beauty that is very hard to find anywhere in the world anymore.

#RikshawRun!

Every traveler has a story to tell, some are more interesting than others...and some have more veracity than others. So when Will and John started to tell us their story in a bar in Kochi, we were pretty sure they were having us on.  It really did seem quite far fetched.  Now though, I think it should be the subject of a very, very entertaining movie.

 

(Photo Credit: Courtesy of TheAdventurists.com)
Will and John are two exceedingly affable twenty-something chaps from Tenby in Wales. Will surveys the ocean floor for a living while John mentors disadvantaged youths. They certainly seemed pretty genuine guys, but the cheeky telling of a "tall" story didn't seem beyond them at all.  So we were on our guard.  

Initially their tales of India were about the same things as everyone else's: scams, confusion, squalor and the perrenial bad toilet experiences.  Will had a very amusing story about a Camel he was riding sprinkling him with urine via his tail - just to show him who was boss he supposed.  He had another about a strange shaving scope creep: his 50 rupee cut-throat shave that quickly escalated into a bizarre metallic ear-acure; followed by a dry head massage, then an oily and strangley sensual one; all of which resulted in a weird "Widow's Peak" hairline advertising his gullibility to all as he walked down the street. Suffice to say, John opted merely for the 50 rupee shave!

But something didn't seem quite right.  Their pronunciation of Jaiselmer seemed way off the mark for people who appeared well traveled in India: through Delhi, Rajashtan, Goa and now Kerala.  Something was missing.  Then the picture became clear.  Will and John had only been in India three weeks, 14 days of which they had spent in a Rikshaw racing from Jaiselmer to Kochi!

"Rikshaw Run", which puts me in mind of those great 70s classics - the Gumball Rally and Cannonball Run- happens three times a year across different parts of India.  Contestants pay rental of their Rikshaw, which they are welcome to "Pimp", and then set off as fast as their little Piaggio Scooter engines will carry them.  The rules are simple - first one across the finishing line wins.  (Not surprisingly, the genesis of Will and John's participation was hatched quite late one night...in the pub.)

But what fascinated me was for someone fairly familiar with Indian roads as myself - after what is now collectively my 5th month in India - the idea seems like suicide.  For two India virgins such as Will and John, the baptism must have been one of furious fire.  "Yeah we realized we could only really travel during the day once we got run off the road by a lorry one night," said John, with some nonchalance.  Apparently an on-coming truck with headlights on full beam had fully run them off the road and into the trees on a bend.  Will - who was driving - said he was relieved to find that the red liquid swilling around john's feet in the back was not blood but break liquid (not that that isn't a problem!)

The rules of the Indian road, as I've described before, take some studying.  They won't be in any formal manuals.  It's survival of the boldest.  Everyone seeks to drive down the middle of the road, overtaking everyone else.  That isn't always possible of course and so you demur to the larger or bolder vehicles - essentially a game of chicken.  This is great If you're a 4 wheel drive with ample torque.  However, if you're a flimsy Rikshaw with very little horsepower, and in a race to Kerala, this presents considerable challenges; particularly if you've never really traveled in one of India's most iconic vehicles, let alone driven one!

But as this blog post bares witness, the two of them arrived safe and sound and when we met them in a salubrious late night bar they were on day 4 of their celebratory bender. Apart from a few days in Jaiselmer, a strange half-way party with Russian Lingerie models in Goa and these few days in Kerala, they hadn't really had much time to enjoy India.  But I'd wager they had seen far more of it than we had in our two month journey.  They had broken down several times and enjoyed the charitable help of several local villages on each occasion.  In India, everyone knows someone that knows how to fix a Rikshaw!

(Photo Credit: Courtesy of TheAdventurists.com)

Along the way they had raised money for charity - an organization that brings clean way to the poorest villages - and had made many new friends.  The other characters in the race sounded like perfect material for the film, like the ménage a tois of one man and two women that split angrily down gender lines as the race went on; or the four portly American gentlemen who struggled to fit themselves into the Rikshaw, let alone their luggage!

We were left feeling quite envious of their adventure and while we cannot begin to complain about the wonderful journey we've experienced, there is something quite legendary about an experience such as their's.  I could listen for hours to anecdotes like that and so eagerly encourage someone to shoot the yet-to-be-written film script so a few years hence I can enjoy the story some more.  Danny Boyle...I'm talking to you!

Picture Blog: The Kerala Backwaters

A highlight of any tour around India is always going to be the perrenial must-do: The Kerala Backwaters.  Very shortly after we started discussing our intention to travel to India, right out of the traps came "you must do a houseboat on the Kerala Backwaters".  The guide books scream it out as an essential part of any trip here and having now returned from 48 hours there, I concur entirely. It is a must-do.  We are very lucky to have done it.  These people are even luckier to live there.

A complex waterway broadly akin to the Norfolk Broads or the Hawkesbury River system - two areas I know very well; the Kerala canal and rivers network in and around Allepey, just south of the Keralan capital, Kochi, is a quite visually stunning experience.  I don't think I can recall more beautiful and captivating scenery. I looked forward to a few days of reading and relaxing, but in fact spent the entire time taking pictures!  I lack the skills to adequately describe this beautiful place with words, so here is a slide show of some of those pictures.  (The new camera with which I took these - after losing my previous one in Goa - I bought only days before boarding this boat is perhaps the best timed purchase of my life!)

For those looking to be more intimate with this delightful landscape but cannot make the trip quick enough, it is best and most famously brought to life by Arundhati Roi in her delightful 1997 Booker Prize Winning Novel: The God of Small Things.

 

 

India: Plus Ca Change...

"India is where all human realities - past and present - exist at once."

Historian Michael Wood 

As I've already said, it's 15 years' to the month since I was traveling in India for the first and only other time. In that time obviously India has changed a lot. A great deal in fact (and so have I of course!)  But in so many ways India has not changed at all.   In fact at the most essential level India hasn't changed in the last 100, 500 or even a thousand years. 

Since I was here there is now a very efficient, nation-wide mobile phone network, better (in my experience) than Australia's or America's.  There is far more foreign investment thanks to Prime Minister's Singh's economic reforms of the Naughties; and the country has grown substantially to become a global economic superpower as a result.  But just as since independence the country has adopted TV and developed a huge film industry; and since the arrival of the British built out an envy-of-the-world rail network; the essentials remain just the same.  In the time that the moguls have come and gone, and as far back as Alexander the Great, the core of Indian life remains the same: family, community and puja.  Despite Call Centres, Bollywood and Bangalore's Software houses - India remains a fundamentally agrarian society.  Ancient knowledge from the ancient texts of Ayerveda to the Yoga Sutra still define how Indians live, the core answers to the meaning of life were resolved for Indians many thousands of years ago.  All the rest is mere detail and decoration.

So I haven't really found any significant change in the country at all.  Everyone is still trying to get you to visit their cousin's Emporium.  The mysterious head wobble remains for me a very inconclusive answer to a question.  Any five yard stretch of street can at once present both the most wonderful and the most foul smells you've ever experienced and you continue to run the risk of 24 hours in the bathroom with each meal you dare to enjoy.

But the traveling experience has been revolutionized in a very short space of time by the huge technological developments of the last 15 years and it's only when you come and do something again like this that you get a feel for how much life has changed.  In many cases the balance of power has significantly shifted for the traveler thanks to technology.  For instance, where before I was totally in the hands of a Rikshaw driver's sense of direction before; now, using the magic Blue Dot on Google maps, I can tell when he's going off course via his cousin's Silk Emporium!  Equally, feedback on a  hostel - good or bad- can be delivered on the WiFi network in the lobby that very moment using Tripadvisor and shared with the global traveler community.  This is so important because on my last trip I found that a hostel would rest on the laurels of a good Lonely Planet write up for years, knowing that the traffic would keep walking in the door no matter how low their standards dropped.  Now they must keep their game high perpetually.

(Equally as I wrote on my business blog, the advent of tools like Tripadvisor has changed the mechanics of Trust for the Indian Tourist service provider in ways that are quite fundamental.)

In good ways and bad ways, today's ability to keep in touch with friends and family while traveling is cosmic.  You can be in the Rajasthani Desert or the Keralan Backwater canals and post blogs, pictures and status updates to the folks back home using Facebook or Twitter instead of postcards and round-robin emails to lists of addresses from your address book.  Skype has destroyed the STD long-distance phone call business and free hotel WiFi has challenged the Internet cafe business that was so very nascent when I was here before.  Text messages (SMS) make a rendezvous with a fellow traveler an instant and cheap reality where Post Restante and "leave a message on my home voicemail" were long-winded and fraught with failure.

 The iRevolution has changed the quiet times of course, of which there's much in hotel and hostel rooms, on trains, in airports and at railway stations.  Fifteen years ago, I carried 15 of my choicest  albums in a clunky carry-case with my Walkman.  Now I have every album I've ever liked on something a quarter its size.  You can watch your favorite TV shows and movies in HD quality on a tablet screen that really doesn't weigh anything at all, and instead of a bag cluttered with books,  you can take an entire library of novels with you - and even the Lonely Planet Guide book itself - on tiny devices that take up less space than your shorts.  (Not to mention an array of board games for those long journeys - Backgammon, Risk, Monopoly anyone?)  As for the ability you have to record every second of your adventure in high clarity and digital photo or video footage and share with the world the next day - posterity is so much richer for it!

But all of this development is, while seemingly important in western life (and certainly a chalk-and-cheese difference in terms of comparing the two journeys then and now) mere detail on the surface.  A veneer even.  For what remains amazing about India is the very fact that none of this matters.  Indians don't care about it.  Sure, they all have mobile phones now - but their way of life remains bound around simplicity, spirituality and family just as it was when the Bhudda gained enlightenment.  What India teaches you about yourself, about your body and mind, how to adapt to change, perspective and different ways of understanding the very meaning of life is just the same as it was 15 years ago and I'd wager was just the same for the Romans who came here thousands of years before.  

Technology may have helped the way we process all of that, but that is all.  "The more it changes, the more it is the same thing."

 

The Elephant in the River

Often it's not until after you've come back from your "Tourist Excursion" that you remember that you've a considerable responsibility as a tourist in how you distribute your spend, as it not only has economic impact but also a moral one.  We unfortunately only realized this too late as we drove away from what sounded like a magical early morning experience but instead turned out to be an unwitting contribution to the sad exploitation and humiliation of one the earth's most splendid creatures.

It is hard to think of a more awe inspiring and majestic animal than an elephant and being in their presence leaves one with a uniquely privileged feeling.  Quite emotionally intelligent in their dealings with each other, we are told, elephants have always held a special place in our hearts and minds.  No where more so of course than in India where they are revered as a god - the great Ganesh, god of fortune, providence and good luck.  It is for this reason that their treatment at our eventual destination early one morning is so perplexing, and angering.

My last experience in close proximity to an elephant was in Nepal 15 years ago where I am sad to say I rode on the back of one through the jungle on a brief "Tourist Excusion" in the Chitwan National Park.  The guilt-edged residue of that day clearly had not left enough of a mark on me it seems to inform my decision around this engagement.  However, I did vividly remember the awesome power of the animal as I watched it tear down a tree in a single movement.  (Speaking of movements, being witness to some of his bolidy functions was equally surprising!)

On this occasion we were to watch elephants at a Training Centre at Kodanad bathe, and perhaps even take part in the ritual.  However "training centre" did not accurately describe the facility, which put me in mind of a animal-loving atmosphere staffed by caring volunteers and enthusiasts.  It was instead more of a drill camp where these marvelous creatures in captivity were cruelly it seemed schooled in the duties of a captive animal.  Very little carrot was used in their education as far as we could see.  It was all stick.

Chains are never a lifestyle choice and so whenever you see an animal in chains, it acts as an icon of its imprisonment.  These animals we're bound in chains and rope and denied any freedom of movement outside the commands of their handlers.  And that was part of the considerable difficulty of this: this fine, majestic creature under the strict control of two fairly portly, seemingly unsophisticated gentlemen who seemed intent on using their control of the animal to command humiliating tricks for the benefit of tourist in order to line their own (not the facility's) pockets.

The supposedly enjoyable and relaxing bath we thought we had come to see was another example of their denial of freedom.  They were scrubbed by a scrubbing brush and unable to move outside of what was required to enable to cleaning.  To underline this, he was forced to keep his trunk tucked neatly over his tusk (as pictured).  The only really pleasant part of the visit   was when his handlers went off to wash themselves in the river and the elephant was (relatively) free to wash himself how he wanted - by skillfully employing that most unique cleaning tool of his.  This seemed like his only true moment of freedom to be himself.

His handlers commanded every other movement with unfriendly sounding shouts and the use of a wooden stick, and another one with a metal tip for harsher punishment.  This animal seemed beaten; both physically on many an occasion, but also spiritually.  There was stoic resignation in his demeanor but as he washed I almost wished he would make a dash for freedom while his handlers turned their back.  The beauty and wonder of his form and presence was juxtaposed by the sheer sadness of the scene.  The only thing more conflicted was the sight of the babies, so cute and innocent but not yet fully initiated into their "training program".

I was left with the questions: is there anything we really need to train an elephant to do that we can't do another way?  Do we need to ride them to enjoy their company? Is it not time that we ennobled ourselves by truly setting this wonderful animal free, everywhere?  Can we not secure swathes of national park for them and see them free to roam their own natural habitat?  Is the elephant not the next whale?

Smelling Jewtown

While images, videos and words can bring one's adventure to life for others, one thing I wish I could capture is smell. India is well known for its assault on all senses - for good and bad - and while it's a blessing that readers of this blog are protected from some of the more putrid smells of the sub-continent; it would be awesome if you could - for instance - digitally bottle the aroma of what is questionably called "Jewtown".

So with the ability to convey smells digitally still not invented, please grind together a rich cocktail of ginger, pepper, cumin, nutmeg, tumeric and cardomom - with maybe a hint of perume - and read this post with that aroma wafting around your nose to mimic the air.

 

The terrific pungent cocktail of spices and perfumes that pervade the very atmosphere of this old section of Kochi in Kerala is an ancient one. The  spice trade that continues today is a global one that dates back to the days of the Phoenicians. Since then the Romans, the Chinese, Arabs, the Portuguese, the Dutch and the British have all done a roaring trade in this vibrant harbour.

 

Those last three have left a more lasting mark.  (Although the iconic Chinese Fishing Nets still dominate the harbour skyline.)  The area known as "Fort Kochi" remains startlingly reminiscent of the days when those three great empires in turn monopolized trade around the world, and a walk down its narrow lane ways is quite evocative of bygone eras of the Spice Trade that defined many hundreds of years of European colonisation in India and across south Asia.

 

But an even older - and with the perennial spicey air, even more evocative - is the area officially known today as Mattancherry.  But historically is known as " Jewtown".

 

I first became aware of the Jewish community in Kerala perusing the exhibits of the Museum of the Diaspora in Tel Aviv. There, with transparent nation- building agenda,  the Israeli government set out to collect and curate the collective experiences of all those Jewish communities that set out from The Levant when the Romans exiled them after the failed rebellion, and subsequent sacking of Jerusalem, in AD 70.   The Keralan Jewish community landed in 72 AD in fact.  Their descendants had been trading with India since the days of King Solomon around 900 years BC.

Well known for their aptitude in trade and finance, Jewish communities flourished here from that early time lubricating this lucrative business with loans, connections and general know-how.

 

Typically ghetto-ised, this is mercifully one of the few Jewish communities of the diaspora  to mostly escape the kind of persecution their brothers and sisters routinely suffered across Europe and North Africa. This is exemplary testament, I think, to the characteristically cosmopolitan, hospitable and tolerant traditions of their Indian  hosts.

 

The area remains a hub of furious spice, tea and perfume business; and with those products still transported in sacks and bottles not too dissimilar from those they have always been moved about in, and with the 16th century shops and warehouses still standing, it's not too hard to let your imagination drift  back to the romantic days of the spice trade here, or in the Mallacas themselves for that matter.

Jewtown on the still-standing Jewish Synagogue (above), first built in 1568 but represents other didications from as far back as the 4th and 14th centuries. The international nature of the Quarter is epitomised by features in the Synagogue including Belgian chandeliers, Chinese floor tiles and a rug from Haile Selassie, the last Ethiopian Emperor.  The place makes the perect climax to a visit to Jewtown because it seems wonderfully trapped in time.

 

For the real experience I strongly urge a visit to Kerala for about a hundred other reasons - but this is a good one!  (The fact that the first Indian Biennale is being held in many of the oldest buildings in this area until March is another.)

Goa: A Tale of Two Beaches

"It was the worst of times, it was the best of times," in that order.  Our Goan holiday began badly.  A misguided attempt to re-write history led me to book us into a hotel in Anjuna, a beach town in the former Portugese colony where I had stayed 15 years before and not enjoyed then.  The fact that it had most certainly only got worse in the ensuring time did not inform my hope that I could have a better time on this trip.  Anjuna was heading in a bad direction then, and now it seemed to have arrived there.  

(Palolem Beach - around Breakfast time)

Fifteen years ago, it was still a relatively rustic, rural and unrefined beach retreat.  It was famous for its weekly flea market which had become a Mecca for backpackers and itinerant hippy drops outs and a great source for Thai-dye, hammocks and trance CDs.  Its population was primarily young Israelis de-mob happy after their National Service and any number of European backpackers wizzing about on scooters looking for the next rave party.  Other than that, what seemed to me then - prior to living 12 years in Australia - an idyllic beach was lined only with a few lean-to bars and restaurants, certainly not enough to obscure its iconic palm-tree Forrest back-drop.  Today, that back drop has been entirely eroded by Wall-to-wall bars, the Israelis replaced by Russian mafia and the hippy vibe rubbed out by a distinctly derelict pseudo-criminal edge that might lead you to mistake it not so much for Goa but for Gomorrah.

So we de-camped rather abruptly.  About as far south down the Goan coast as we could get in fact.  We found a beach in Palolem that much more closely meets most people's expectation of what a Goan escape represents.  (Awesome resort called Ciarran's - best on the beach!) While Anjuna is much more Ibiza, Palolem is very reminiscent of Thailand.  While bars and restaurants do line the beach, the hinterland is far more limited and the hut-culture is a carbon copy of Thai resorts I've visited.  The drug trade is almost entirely under control (one offer in Palolem in a week versus every other person in Anjuna in only two days!) and while music does make an appearance during the day, it is not the loud duff-duff that permeates every aspect of Anjunan life. Holiday makers - Western and Indian - and travelers trying to relax dominate the beach scene in Palolem versus the drug-casualty drop outs and drug pushers that seem to dominate its northern rival.

The two experiences are probably best exemplified by the sunsets we watched on each beach.  The last sunset of 2012 we watched at a secluded bar at the end of Palolem beach, sharing it with a few couples, one or two groups and even a young family.  With a background of very quite ambient trance, everyone chatted quietly as they drank their sundowner drinks, concentrating carefully on the spiritual moment that is a sunset.  When the quite beautiful vista reached its crescendo everyone clapped and a feeling of bonhomerie transcended the scene.  

(The Anjuna Sunset - with our friends)

However, while that was more characteristic of sunset experiences on Anjuna beach 15 years ago, the same moment only a few days before was quite different.  We spent much of it watching a young chap attempt to revive his near-unconscious and vomiting friend as he lay paralytic in the sand after what seemed a drinking bender gone wrong.  Eventually his other friends arrived and they argued drunkenly about whether to abandon their hapless chum or not.  Repetitive duff-duff hammered our ears from the next bar, at which a lone forty-something drug casualty danced with himself like it was 1999.  Gangs of over-stylized local men cruised the beach looking for action with a swagger that betrayed attitude, arrogance and mischief.  No one seemed remotely interested in what was an equally beautiful sunset except us and possibly the few cows and dogs that also shared the beach with us.  

Goa is a funny old place.  After weeks of traveling a country peppered with well-attended little shrines on every street corner worshipping Hindu gods, it's strange to see them here instead dedicated to the Virgin Mary.  And while most taxi, bus and Rikshaw drivers have small Ganesh, Vishnu or Shiva statuettes on their dashboard, in Goa they are usually depicting Jesus.  Temples are swapped out by Portugese churches as a testament to the Jesuits' far more effective conversion track record than that of the British Evangelical Missionaries.  Cars seem to far out number scooters on the highways contrasting sharply with elsewhere in India, and the adverts speak far more about swimming pools and casinos and far less about cement and sarees.  

But if Palolem in the far south is anything to go by - and by all accounts Arambol in the far north remains the chilled out sanctuary it was on my last visit - it is at Goa's geographical extremities that you will find the more moderate experience and in its centre where the extreme is at its most intense.  Always hard to pass by on any Indian Odyssey - especially at Christmas - I can say that after this second visit,  wherever you stay Goa remains compelling, engrossing and tantalizing and well worth any aggravation.

A Far Better Exotic Marigold Hotel

As we set off on our two hour road trip to Udai Bilas hotel our driver was horrified that we were spending four nights in a dead end rural town with nothing going on. "Too much, you will be very bored". We started to worry we had made a mistake. We had just met a very dapper, cravate-wearing hotelier who claimed he owned the property - just 50km outside Udaipur - now world famous for being the setting of the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, which we knew in fact was just outside Udaipur. We were offered a stay there should we chose to return. No doubt many men in Udaipur will make this claim but he seemed kosher.

But just five minutes inside the grounds of Udai Bilas and we unreservedly resolved to honour every minute of our four-night booking.

 

The Palace is a 19th century downsize from a far older and sprawling 12th century Juna Mahal Palace (well worth a visit) in the nearby town - the amusingly named "Dungarpur" - which had remained consistently in the same family of Maharajas for 800 years.  (We met both the unofficial incumbent and the future heirs). They live in one wing of what was converted into a truly unique hotel experience in the 1930s to help with maintenance costs.  Having roamed Rajashtan enjoying its countless Palaces and Forts, to finish up the roadtrip actually living in a Palace was a special treat and a perfect venue for a what in India would always be a very strange Christmas.

 

Just like the Palaces all across the Desert State, Udai Bilas is a museum to the eccenticities of power courtesy of the last officially ruling Maharaja - Laxman Singh.  There's a series of photos telling a tale of a strong love for Cricket in the family, and no end of photos of one glamourous trip after another as well as political and regal pomp and circumstance.  Most disturbing, and exceedingly un-PC - though is the drawing room in which we were invited to have sundowners on the first evening.

 

We counted about 200 heads on the wall - of shot game that is.  Wilderbeast, Rhinos, Boar,  Gazelles etc.  All with "shot" dates ranging from the late 1950s to the early 1980s.  A prolific - if not decidedly distasteful - shooting career.  The room contained even more distrubing detail.  Here and there, the foot of an Elephant or the hoofs of Gazelle had been converted into the legs for small foot stools.  With the guests a motley crew of eclectic western tourists from Australia and England, any moment now we expected Hercule Poirot to enter and explain a perplexing murder.

 

The proportion of staff to guest was almost one-to-one it seemed which further emphasised the sense of Palacial living.  The Hotel manager, one H. V. Singh, had the air of Mr Benn about him.  Whenever a question popped into your head, "as if by magic" the Hotel manager would appear and answer it.  He seemed to have the telepathic qualities of M*A*S*H's Radar.  The staff went to extraorinary trouble to accommodate our Christmas, with Christmas Lunch served on the lawn by the lake - ironically across from the Shiva Temple - and while dubious in places certainly served to fill a festive hole.

Lazing by the quite beautiful Lakeside pool, walks in the local town (filled with some of the most welcoming and friendly people I've ever had the privilege of meeting) and extravagant dinners at the al fresco marble/jacuzi dining table characterised the rest of the stay, building towards a climax of Christmas Day evening drinks in the Maharajah's personal Automobile museum which included a not inconsiderable collection of a Buick, several BMWs, a E-Type and all manor of other paraphenalia and memorabilia.  

 

For fans of the Marigold, there are enough Indian-isms to make the experience authentic: power-cuts, plumbing idiosynchracies, spelling mistakes in the menu, food that demands bravery - that sort of thing.  But for a very reasonable spend, anyone travelling in the area and looking for that unique, regal and highly memorable break - Udai Bilas is for you!