Mysterious Girlfriend, page 5
Finally, an observation about foreign visitors here today: they are mainly French, and they are all eating Indian food, coming from a country where Indian restaurants have never taken off. Amazing. We spent all those years trying to keep the French out of India, and now they are colonising it all over again. I truly have never seen such numbers of French tourists in any other country; they must have super-efficient tour operators (and a strong Euro, of course).
Our motor vehicle is proving to be a bit of a challenge on these roads; we should have gone BOAC: better on a camel.
Tonight, we pray to Ganesh to lift the cloud and return the sun. Travelling around Rajasthan is a bit like the London Underground: it is all colour-coded: yellow in Jaisalmer, Red in Jodhpur, white in Udaipur and pink (well, a kind of orange) in Jaipur. Entertainment is provided not by out-of-work busking musicians, but by snake charmers on every corner for the tourist shilling (actually they want euros now), but first, a few general comments about life in India. You might say it is the original throwaway society; everything is thrown out and unless it is eaten by a passing cow, nothing is ever swept away; there are no apparent rubbish takeaway services. The best-kept village is a concept which will never catch on here; possibly the not-quite-the-worst-kept village.
And then there is the ubiquitous questionnaire which is much loved in this part of the world. It starts on the plane, then in every hotel and restaurant, private transport operator, tourist service provider and pit-stop toilet provider. I used most of the pens I took out for the kids filling out all these questionnaires, sustaining myself on the sweets bought for the same reason.
In the back of beyond in a remote café, the toilet presents you with a questionnaire soliciting your views on how the service might be improved, (from a hole in the ground?) Answer: easily and then whether you would recommend them to your friends. They are also keen to know if you are aged between 40 and 64 and how many children you have. It seems to me that most of the Brazilian rainforest must be going to provide all this paper.
I completed it by saying most visitors would rather just have loo paper (of which there was none) but I know this is not as exciting as a questionnaire with local website. I thought of developing a questionnaire on the topic of completing Indian questionnaires. Actually, I did develop a questionnaire for such a website and found most of the hits are from Ukrainian tractor drivers with one GCSE, aged between 40 and 64, but I digress.
We arrived in Udaipur bearing the gift of rain (showers), a most welcome gift which promoted us to sadhu status overnight. However, it was not enough to restore the lake (with its famous Taj Lake Palace) to its usual level. The City Palace overlooking the lake, however, was magnificent and followed the pattern of other maharajah palaces to a great extent: space for the men, spaces for the women to spy on the men without being recognised and private access for the big man to access his numerous concubines, a perk apparently still in operation until the early 1960s. It was noticeably busier now we were into the ‘Golden Triangle’ of major Rajasthani cities, i.e. Americans for the first time on the trip. The persistent postcard salesman factor also increased exponentially.
The next forty-eight hours proved to be a highlight as we headed northwards back into the remote hinterland, overnighting in an ancient haveli mansion tucked inside a working village in the picturesque Aravalli hills. Here we boarded a local train for an hour’s eventful ride into the hills, with death-defying drops and abundant wildlife, the most memorable being the bold black-faced monkeys that clamber all over (and into) the carriages in search of food when the train stops. This rather frightened not only the younger local travellers but apparently also some of the monkeys too, who left their calling-cards on the carriage floor as they tried to escape the train as it moved off.
We were also fortunate to come across a group of local nomadic tribesmen (identifiable by their red turbans and unfriendly demeanour) herding literally thousands of sheep and camels and donkeys in a slow-moving procession to market, simultaneously slowing our journey into Jaipur. Within a few hours, we were carried from a biblical scene into the raw 21st century: thousands of heavily loaded trucks clogging the highway through miles and miles of roadside marble wholesaler yards storing enough white marble to build a city the size of Bombay. A painful transition into our final destination: Jaipur, again much overrun by tourists, traffic (the worst road statistics in Rajasthan) and aggressive purveyors of tourist tat. The nearby Amber Fort, however, was worth the hassle, surrounded by hills covered with what, from a distance, looked like the Great Wall of China.
And so, time to leave our trusty driver, our friend and saviour over the last fifteen days. It was an emotional moment as he embraced us in a tearful (him) bear hug. I knew then that we had overdone the tip.
However, our travelling partners were much pleased to see that Kingfisher, the maker of their favourite tipple around India, also operates its own airline, on the Richard Branson model. I think Kingfisher is also into male contraceptives and I read that there is even a version that lights up (or glows in the dark anyway), which would appeal to the Indian market who love coloured lights. It is apparently based on the Eiffel Tower (which is illuminated at night of course), but it was not clear if they need to be connected to a power supply to work.
Overall a varied itinerary, in some ways comparable with a tour the Loire chateaux, but with lengthier stages and often challenging road conditions, unique heritage overnight accommodation, welcoming friendly locals, especially their children, peacocks as common as pigeons at home, varied birdlife and a wonderful and colourful heritage.
Chapter 9
South Africa to Mauritius
We were delighted to have brought stormy weather from the UK for our arrival in Cape Town, much appreciated by the locals as it broke a particularly hot spell of weather.
However, the climate soon switched back to hot and sunny once we reached Stellenbosch in the wine-lands country east of Cape Town, probably one of the prettiest towns we have ever enjoyed: stunning Dutch style architecture in dazzling clean whitewash and bustling with pavement cafés filled with the local student population. It should be pointed out that the clientele was entirely white, while the service was not, yet impeccable and professional.
That said, as far as shopping goes, great if you have a desperate need for a four-foot wooden giraffe or a crate of Delheim pinotage, but pretty hopeless in the real world of power adapters or postage stamps or even stationery. Come prepared.
So, what to do? Head for the hills, of course, to the myriad of wineries that dot the hill and mountainsides of the surrounding peaks where a tasting of six wines will set you back two quid or a whole bottle from a fiver, a bit more in a restaurant. It’s all a bit like a National Trust outing to an architectural treasure, set in beautiful grounds, but with alcohol instead of cream teas, and cheaper too: 80p per person, half price for us seniors – please note NT.
Yesterday we moved on a bit to the more French and less Dutch/German influenced town of Franschhoek (hence the name: French corner), an altogether different feel though both are surrounded by majestic mountains half covered in vineyards. While Stellenbosch was ‘real’, this place is like Rodeo Drive in LA, a film-set one street town of wall-to-wall restaurants and bars. Maybe it always takes time to adjust to new surroundings. Judging by the average age of visitors and locals, this could be Bournemouth without the sea.
It is, however, unlike Bournemouth, famed for some very fine (time will tell) eateries in town and in the hills, always incorporating the chenin blancs, pinotage and sauvignon blancs from nearby wineries. A bottle, admittedly large size, of water cost more than a glass of the local wine, so what’s a man to do but yield to local custom.
Last night, sadly, our first brush with the law, for parking pointing the wrong way, i.e. against oncoming traffic, not a violation in most countries, and only introduced here three months ago.
So, a few more days before we give up (very) dry land for life on the open waves, fully armed with our Swiss anti-seasickness chewing gum, yes, really.
Well, it wasn’t quite true that we were about to board our ship as we had still scheduled a few days in Kapstad (Cape Town) to allow the ship to safely negotiate the icebergs of the south Atlantic before arriving here yesterday.
If there are three things one must do on one’s first visit to CT, they include the cable car ride to Table Mountain, weather permitting, the Waterfront and the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, so predictably that’s what we did, utilising the excellent open-topped bus service which links all these sites. We have also been able to inspect progress on the CT Soccer World Cup stadium taking shape near the waterfront for completion by mid-2010.
The bus service has the added advantage of access to some of the excellent beaches around the city as well as the micro-climates that meant that we were subject to changes from 75 to 50 ˚C in minutes, sun to heavy cloud and back again. While the sea looked very appealing, it is of course common knowledge that the sea is colder in the summer (now) than the winter, and not an attractive option for any but the most hardy of bathers or surfers.
We had made a most fortunate decision to stay in a heritage boutique hotel rescued from the bulldozers a few years ago in a charming downtown spot handy for local markets (Yes, there are still a few 4 foot giraffes left if you hurry) and restaurants and bars where as ever service has been outstanding and friendly. Although the local newspaper claimed two people had been recently killed ‘for an apple and a banana’, we have at no time felt threatened despite our concern at possible risks. I put this down to my decision not to carry apples and bananas which seems to have worked so far.
Well today, we really do board or ship the SS Discovery and set off around the Eastern side of South Africa and out into the Indian Ocean. However, in the time-honoured tradition of Burton family travels, there is trouble ahead by all accounts, as the natives are getting restless in Madagascar, one of our planned stops. I’m trying to calm things down, but we’ll have to play it by ear as usual.
Stops included two rather indifferent ports at Port Elizabeth and East London and the final stop in South Africa, Richards Bay, renowned for coal mining exports so you get the picture there. However, Durban, after a damp disappointing morning in a dodgy beach area, greatly improved in the afternoon as we set off through the wealthier parts of the city for the countryside, littered with yellow, red and purple flowering trees in full bloom, to immerse ourselves in Zulu culture and history, not all glorious as far as the English were concerned.
A visit to a Bantu tribe proved equally interesting where an elder of the tribe, an 89-year-old, was a bit put out when our crowd put forward half a dozen of our own to upstage her spiel about being the aged leader of the tribe. She did not realise we were a cruise party, I guess. However, I am pleased to have become fully conversant with the finer points, so to speak, of male circumcision, which broadly corresponds, in cultural terms, with bar mitzvahs but involves a Stanley knife wielded by a man on a horse. I think I got that right. We received an apparently reliable statistic that the numbers dying of AIDS is now 30,000 a week in SA, not helped by the fact that the tribes practise polygamy on a wide scale and are not that keen on prevention techniques practised in other parts of the world. Work it out; that’s frightening.
***
As the temperature headed towards 40C, we made it into Maputo, once known as Lorenzo Marques, in Mozambique where crew staff warned of pickpockets and the like, but this was probably just to avoid any risk of litigation as everything seemed quite relaxed, by African standards anyway. Unemployment is pushing eighty percent, so pressure in the market is intense for chaps to sell their wares to the few foreigners who hit town. Time and the climate seem to be taking their toll on the city since the Portuguese left, with the inevitable exception of the president’s palace and Mandela’s overseas second home. The bronze-domed railway station, however built in 1916, is a fine example of Portuguese colonial architecture though sadly devoid of any actual trains, at least during our visit. The beautiful purple jacaranda trees have, however, stood the test of time and mitigate against the general sense of steady decline in the city’s buildings.
As Madagascar is still deemed by the FCO to be off-limits during local elections, we are all at sea for three days, now heading for the island of Reunion, and as there does not seem to be much shipping around, it’s back to G&Ts and a hectic round of commitments to support all these keen types organising events every ten minutes from dawn to dusk and beyond. Meanwhile, I am up in the internet centre planning a much-needed holiday.
So far, the Indian Ocean has been quite kind to us poor seafarers, but I was sad to read that we are a few days from the anniversary of ’the greatest 24-hour precipitation total EVER recorded on earth, which happened on Reunion in 1952: 73 inches which is getting on for the total rainfall in London in a whole year. However, so far so good, and it was blisteringly hot in St Denis, the capital yesterday.
There are a number of other interesting things about this place, famous in the past as a pirate haunt and staging post for shipping to and from India. It is in fact a French departement so they get EU subsidies, unlike Mauritius which plumped for the British in 1810, (big mistake) and the Euro; in fact, it was the first place ever to get the euro as legal tender, even before Europe because of its time zone ahead of Europe. Needless to say, the atmosphere is a cross between an exotic Caribbean island and the French Riviera, replete with Leclerc and Bricolage and people lounging about all day in cafés over two-hour lunches.
However, it is real gem, or as the guidebook puts it, ‘No amount of hyperbole could ever communicate the guileless beauty of the island’s heart and soul: the cirques’, three austere secretive volcanoes, one still very active (2007) in the centre of this lush setting descendants of runaway slaves from Madagascar actually still live within one of the now defunct ones, only reachable on foot after a three hour trek. Apparently, the residents are not very friendly, but it is a unique experience to look down into the crater to see the few houses dotted about more than a thousand feet below. On the way back, I was delighted to hear we would be stopping at a distillery; my pleasure was short-lived when it became clear they distil geraniums for scent, not rum, so no tastings.
***
We’re off tonight for Mauritius and the end on the cruise (for us); the ship continues on to Mumbai and finally to exotic Harwich, gateway to Essex man).
By the way I would like to thank the reader who pointed out that Zulus are not permitted modern conveniences like anaesthetic or Stanley knifes for circumcisions; they do of course use razor sharp swords, so that’s alright. They then dispose of the said item in one of three ways: handing it their Dad (Thank you, son, just what I’ve always wanted), burying it in an anthill and you don’t want to know about the third.
Fawlty Towers has been shown on the in-house TV on the ship occasionally, including the episode involving the dead guest. Sadly, we had our own version as one of the Canadian passengers collapsed and died just as we left Maputo, so we’ve been one light for three days, and he was only two years older than me too. I had a light meal after I heard. Then another had a heart attack, so it seemed a bit like Basil Fawlty’s: 2 down, 25 to go. We rely for all our information on our table guest who, like everyone else on the ship, seems to spend more time at sea than on land. She says it is fairly common for the ship’s doctor to be kept busy this way, bearing in mind the average age of the passengers.
The itinerary of next year’s winter cruise was announced yesterday and immediately half the passengers signed up for it! It does seem that it really doesn’t matter where it goes to, they’ll all sign up. The travelling is the important bit, not the actual arrival. It seems a bit like booking your holiday based on your choice of airline, regardless of where they fly to. A rum do.
And these guys are racking up three, four or five cruises a year, often more than 40 of 50 in total and they know not just each other, but all the crew personally, how many children the Filipinos have back in Manila and who is looking after them; one big happy family. It’s like trying to break into the Cosa Nostra: impossible unless you talk the talk.
Well, we managed to exit our ship in one piece in Port Louis, Mauritius despite an atrocious storm the day before. This was, I think, no mean achievement, as a second passenger finally kicked the bucket before we arrived. At the going rate, I have worked out, there would be no passengers left after about twenty months, so it would be a bit like the Marie Celeste, three hundred crew (who all seem immune, perhaps because not many were over 40) caring for the last surviving passenger. Moreover, some poor soul was dropped off on the quay in Reunion with appendicitis, since time, tide and a cruise ship wait for no man (or woman). Not much difference between life in the wild or on a cruise ship really: survival of the fittest.
Anyway, before leaving the ship, we spent a wet day in the capital which had much more of an Indian flavour than previous stops, even though many of those had had significant Indian populations too. More pushy salesmen and more ‘can-do, patch up, you name it, we’ll make it’. Probably for the first time, we managed to locate not just one but two stamp museums, one containing the most expensive stamps in the world: the Mauritian Blue. Not much change from two million US dollars if you’re interested.
We are now firmly established in a small boutique-y hotel, fourteen bungalows yards from the sandy beach facing west. Sadly, the locals don’t seem to encourage local restaurants on the beach as in Thailand; perhaps they get swept away in cyclones. Consequently, there aren’t too many of them, perhaps because the large hotels tie in customers in half-board deals. We are trying to muster some enthusiasm for a bit of sightseeing, but the heat does wilt the will to move.
