The dark brown boat wobbled like a village drunk as I stepped into it. My husband, still on land, gripped my left hand (the right instantly flew up in search of balance). Our boatman laughed. He stood a little away, one hand resting on his waist, the other on a pole. Unlike the resort staff, he was dressed informally, in a once-white tee shirt and a yellow-blue folded-up lungi. As he caught my eye, he dropped his arm and in heavily accented English asked me not to worry. His hand now pointed at the (dirty fraying) rope holding the boat in place; maybe he thought this would be reassuring. I dug my nails deeper into my husband’s hand. The boat continued to sway.
He waited for us to settled down on the red cushioned wooden seat and once we were done, he swung into action. His movements were swift and well rehearse. He kept one foot on the quay and the other in the boat as he untied the rope. With his right foot he pushed against the concrete, propelling the boat into the water. He swung the long wooden oar around his body and in sharp fluid movements that defied his age, steered the boat away from the uncontrolled sprawl of water hyacinths. We watched in awe as he effortlessly led us through the backwaters.
He took us through a never ending expanse of water before hitting up on a cluster of tiny villages, past broken bicycles and drying laundry, past temples, churches and shacks. Kids playing along the water waved at us and we waved back. Everything was dense and green and humid and muddy. The silence magnified every tiny sound. The water parting under the force of the oar; insect and bird sounds punctured by intervals of clanging pots or a lone scooter puffing along the little road beyond the water.
He wore a crooked smile as he explained the history and socio-economic reality of the region to us. As we crossed an underconstruction houseboat – it was all wood and tarpaulin; the constant drilling, hammering and sawing on the water seemed oddly appropriate- he told us it would take at least four more months before the boat could be used commercially, which meant it would make money only in the next season. But apparently the owner was well-off and the wait wouldn’t be hard on him. That right there was Arundhati Roy’s village. It wore no frills, no plaques. And this was the home of the richest man in the region (he lives in the Gulf, only comes here during Christmas. See all the decorations they’ve put up. He will be here soon).
Then he twisted the boat into a tiny stream and with pride he added, “This is my village.” It was a mass of small homes hidden under thick dark green foliage, protecting the village from prying eyes. The only visible sign of activity was a middle aged woman, in a purple housecoat, crouched by the water not a few feet away from us. She was cleaning a pair of traditional Indian brass lamps in a forceful 1-2-3 scrubbing action. She didn’t look up. The boatman powered on.
Posted in india, kerala, lazy tourist | 2 Comments »
I remember driving into Zagreb the first time. It was a cold January morning. The city looked pale. I followed a set of twin spires, Zagreb’s main cathedral, the taxi driver said, all the way from the centre of the city to the apartment we’d rented. The spires were hidden beneath layers of scaffolding; ugly braces on a pretty face.
It’s three years later. The renovations continue. One spire is shiny and perfect. The other is still a work in progress. Along the left edge of the cathedral, uprooted angels stand against a chicken-wire fence, waiting to fly free once again.
Posted in croatia, snapshots | 10 Comments »
It is the Labour Day weekend. Venice is full. My first twenty minutes on the island are spent stuck in a slow moving mass. It takes an eternity before my husband and I escape into a derelict lane; it’s the back alley of a Venice hotel. The kitchen doors are cracked open and the madness is visible.
*
Along a street corner, a gondolier is taking a break. He is slumped over a black chair, his arms and head rest on his thighs. Even if he wasn’t in uniform, his upper arm muscles would give away his profession. His hat sits near his feet.
*
Walking around tiny streets we came across a local grocery store. It looks out of place amidst the souvenir shops and Italian high fashion, a crack in the facade the city puts up.
It’s hard to go wrong with pizza. It should be impossible to go wrong with pizza in Italy. But it happens in Venice. Not only is the food awful, but a waiter drags out two stuffed garbage bags in the middle of our meal. If that isn’t enough, the manager yells instructions at the top of his voice and then promptly drops a tray of spoons on the tiled floor.
*
You can’t hide in Venice. Be it drying laundry or a troubling thought, it all gets captured in a stranger’s camera.
*
Sitting on a bench along the promenade, I spot an old lady looking out of her window. Her hair is white and pulled back, her brows are pulled together. She sits on ledge oblivious to the passing cameras. A shard of sunlight hits her face. She still has high cheek bones.
Posted in italy, matadorU, snapshots | 6 Comments »
The awesome Nancy said some wonderful things about me here (if you don’t read her blog, I highly recommend stopping over. I do at least twice a day). The tag requires me to list seven random facts about me. Since I met Nancy over at Matador U and this blog is meant for travel and all things related, I thought it only right to put down seven random travel related facts. So here goes:
- My first complete memory of a holiday is from when I was seven years old. I remember standing behind a wet rock on the Victoria Falls counting rainbows. There were three.
- I never know how many pairs of shoes to carry when I travel. I invariably end up one pair short.
- As a kid I owned a gigantic atlas, a hand-me-down from god knows who. For a long time it was bigger than me. I’d sit on a page of a country that caught my fancy and learn everything I could about it.
- I am a souvenir junkie. My best find so far has been moose shaped table mats from Stockholm. They were not made in China.
- My husband is 6 feet plus. I’m 5 feet tall. We have the most fun photos from our travels.
- I’ve come close to becoming crocodile chow not once but twice. And my brother was almost abducted by an army of baboons. Best trip ever.
- I feel very at home in London, sometimes more so than I do at home.
And now I pass the tag and title to three amazing bloggers :
Windy Skies – Anil writes the most beautiful posts. When I fall short of words or feel restless, I head over to Windy Skies.
JoAnna – JoAnna tells the best stories and offers the most insightful comments.
Michelle - This was the post that got me hooked to Michelle’s writing. I am a fan.
Posted in snapshots | 6 Comments »
Rome is still asleep. The morning air tastes different, untainted as of yet by pizza and tobacco. A few workmen amble along the fountain, sharing a cigarette and a joke. Their laughter bounces against the old discolored stones and dies off in a musical echo. In the background Neptune stands tall, his muscles perfect, held in tension and plaster. His entourage hangs around him, playing it up in the fresh morning light. I follow their every curve, dent and detail in quick greedy movements.
In an hour everything will change: floating sunflowers, umbrellas and backpacks will push me to a corner. Tacky souvenirs will push the fountain in a corner. Vendors will set up their knock offs under the eye of a concerned Madonna. Somewhere in the crowd a wallet will be misplaced; and Rome will be lost in a swirl of clichés.
Posted in italy, lazy tourist, snapshots | 16 Comments »
