The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  Phansigar: one of the secret fraternity of Thugs who strangled travelers in honor of Kali; known as “the People of the Noose”. See: Thuggee.

  pilau: (more correctly “palao”); Central Asian spiced rice dish, popular in northern India, Pakistan and Afghanistan.

  Pipal: [Ficus religiosa); large long-living fig tree common in India; the tree under which Buddha is said to have been sitting when he attained enlightenment,

  pognophobia: the fear of facial hair, especially beards.

  pomfret: flat fish of the Stromateidae family, abundant in the Arabian Sea; common dish in Mumbai.

  pongamia: [Pongamia pinnata); commonly seen tree in avenues and along river banks throughout India, with pale bark and wide sprawling branches.

  puchkawalla: person who prepares snacks on street stalls and sells them to passers-by.

  puja: rites performed in worship of the Hindu deities.

  Pandit: religious scholar versed in the ancient Sanskrit texts who oversee religious ceremonies and rites.

  punkhawalla: person responsible for fanning others before electric fans or air-conditioning were available.

  puri: small circular fried wheat bread.

  Pykrete: amalgam of wood pulp and ice said to be twelve times stronger than concrete; the brainchild of eccentric British inventor Geoffrey Pyke, who enthused Mountbatten and Churchill with the idea of constructing 2,000-feet-long Pykrete battleships, during World War II.

  Raj: rule, commonly referring to the British colonial rule of India.

  Rajput: princely rulers whose dynasties reigned over much of north-west India, especially Rajasthan.

  Rama: seventh incarnation of Vishnu, the heroic son of King Dasaratha of Ayodhya, dedicated to ridding the earth of evil-doers. See: Ramayana.

  Ramasi: secret language of the brotherhood of Thugs.

  Ramayana: ancient Sanskrit epic describing the deeds of Rama, the seventh incarnation of Vishnu; also popular Indian soap opera based on the ancient text, renowned for its lavish costumes and flamboyant portrayals of the deities.

  Rationalist: national movement in India seeking to curb the rise of mendacious godmen.

  rickshaw: (correctly “jinrickisha”); two-wheeled passenger cart pulled by one person, brought to India in 1880s by the Chinese; now only found in Calcutta, they are being phased out. Motorized version popular across India, indeed across Asia, is known as an “auto-rickshaw”, or simply “rickshaw”.

  Robert-Houdin, Jean-Eugene: French stage magician (1805-1871), regarded as the father of modern conjuring. Harry Houdini named himself after Robert-Houdin but later sought to expose his former hero.

  ruddiwalla: “rag-picker”; person who searches for rags or other scraps to be recycled.

  rumaal: handkerchief; especially a knotted one, as used by Thugs to strangle their victims.

  rupia: rupee, the currency of India.

  sadhu: holy man or sage.

  sahib: honorific title of address, meaning “sir” or “Mr.” in India; Arabic loanword, it signifies friend, owner and sir in various usages.

  sal: (Shorea robusta); evergreen hardwood tree prized for its timber; second in importance only to teak.

  salwaar kameer: lose-fitting shirt and pants, popular in northern India, Pakistan and Afghanistan.

  samadhi: state of profound meditation.

  sari: long piece of cloth worn by women in India as a robe.

  sati: custom of a Hindu widow immolating herself on her deceased husband’s funeral pyre, supposedly in emulation of Siva’s consort; literally “a virtuous woman”.

  Sayed: honorific title borne by descendants of the Prophet Mohammed.

  Shah: title (literally, “king”) borne by descendants of the Prophet Mohammed, who also trace their ancestry to the Sassanian emperors.

  In India, the name occurs as a surname in Hindus, particularly those from Gujarat, although they are not from the Prophet’s family.

  Shah-Saz: “King-Maker”; the epithet of Nawab Jan Fishan Khan.

  Shaitan: the Devil; Hindi loan-word taken from Arabic; derived from shatn, “opposition”.

  Sitar: Indian stringed instrument, similar to the lute, with a long, fretted neck.

  sopaari: see areca.

  sukto : Bengali dish of fried, diced vegetables.

  sumal: tree from mainland China whose wood irritates sensitive skin.

  swami: a Hindu religious instructor.

  taklu: “baldie”; derogatory slang term in Hindi for a balding person.

  talwaar: long Indian saber.

  tandoori: food cooked in a tandoor, a cylindrical clay oven, especially bread and meat marinated in yoghurt and spices and threaded on to skewers.

  tantra: religious texts laying out the path to enlightenment.

  tantrik: practitioner of tantra; a holy man.

  tapasya: self-inflicted regime of austerity or penance employed by Hindu holy men.

  Telugu: Dravidian language spoken across the state of Andhra Pradesh in south-east India.

  thali: metal tray in which an array of grains and vegetables are placed; originally from south of India, now found across the country.

  Thuggee: cult of ritual murderers dedicated to the goddess Kali, who strangled tens of thousands of travelers until their persecution in the mid-nineteenth-century. See: Phansigar.

  tikka: vermilion powder smeared on the forehead by Hindus during religious ritual as a symbol of the divine; now used by women as a decorative accessory; also known as “tilak”.

  tilak: see: tikka.

  transducer: sensitive probe arm attached to an ultrasound unit which scans a pregnant woman’s abdomen when detecting the development of a fetus.

  trephination: adaptation of trepanation – conceived by Dutch physician Dr Bart Huges in 1962; to drill a “ third eye” above a patient’s forehead using a high-speed masonry drill.

  Ultrasound: electronic medical unit designed to detect the development of an unborn child by use of a transducer; commonly used in India to ascertain the gender of a fetus, so that unwanted female fetuses can be aborted.

  yogi: a person on a mystical path; one who practices yoga.

  Vedic: relating to the Vedas, the ancient sacred Hindu texts.

  Vibhuti: gray-colored ash commonly produced from nowhere by Indian godmen, and sprinkled on to the hands of devotees.

  Vyasa: “the Compiler”; poet of the great Sanskrit epic, the Mahabharata.

  Yakshi: goddess who represents the forces of nature, especially trees.

  Felling a tree rouses the anger of the deity.

  Zarathustra: (also “Zoroaster”); deity revered by Parsis, who lived as a sage in Persia during the sixth century BC.

  TRAVELS WITH MYSELF

  Collected Work

  TAHIR SHAH

  MOSAÏQUE BOOKS

  For Rachana, with much love

  and twenty years of memories together.

  Contents

  ONE - Aboard the Maharajah Express

  TWO - A Conversation Paid for in Postage Stamps

  THREE - A Labyrinth in Fès

  FOUR - A Price on Their Heads

  FIVE - Brazil’s Sanctuaries From Abuse

  SIX - Buying A Home in Morocco

  SEVEN - Café Clock Cookbook

  EIGHT - Cairo’s City of the Dead

  NINE - Casablanca Junk

  TEN - Chatwin and The Songlines

  ELEVEN - Chefchaouen

  TWELVE - Colonial Clubs of India

  THIRTEEN - Damascus

  FOURTEEN - Desert Stopover

  FIFTEEN - Essaouira, A Portrait

  SIXTEEN - Fès

  SEVENTEEN - Friendship, Morocco

  EIGHTEEN - Gendercide

  NINETEEN - Goldeneye

  TWENTY - In Cambodia’s New Killing Fields

  TWENTY-ONE - In Search of King Solomon’s Mines

  TWENTY-TWO - In the Scorpion Palace

  TWENTY-THREE - The Islamic Legacy of Timbuktu

  TWENTY-FOUR - Jinn
Lore

  TWENTY-FIVE - Jma el Fna

  TWENTY-SIX - Little Lhasa

  TWENTY-SEVEN - Love in the Desert

  TWENTY-EIGHT - Memoir of a Torture Jail

  TWENTY-NINE - Morocco’s Alpine Hideaway

  THIRTY - Morocco’s Pirate Realm

  THIRTY-ONE - Moulay Idriss

  THIRTY-TWO - Of All the Medinas in the World

  THIRTY-THREE - Old Cape Town

  THIRTY-FOUR - On The River of God

  THIRTY-FIVE - On the Skeleton Coast

  THIRTY-SIX - Ostrich Hats and Model T’s

  THIRTY-SEVEN - The People of the Cloak

  THIRTY-EIGHT - Queen of the Ku Klux Klan

  THIRTY-NINE - Remembering Sir Wilfred

  FORTY - Romantic Travel

  FORTY-ONE - The Royal Mansour, Marrakech

  FORTY-TWO - Subcontinent of Miracles

  FORTY-THREE - Swallowing Live Fish

  FORTY-FOUR - Swiss Movement

  FORTY-FIVE - Tetouan

  FORTY-SIX - The Afghan Notebook

  FORTY-SEVEN - The Fattening Rooms

  FORTY-EIGHT - The Favour Network

  FORTY-NINE - The Forgotten Women of Bhopal

  FIFTY - The Guerrilla Girls

  FIFTY-ONE - The Khalili Collection of Islamic Art

  FIFTY-TWO - The Laughter Club

  FIFTY-THREE - The Magic of the Ordinary

  FIFTY-FOUR - The Mango Rains

  FIFTY-FIVE - The Mother Teresa Bandwagon

  FIFTY-SIX - The Penniless Trillionaire

  FIFTY-SEVEN - The Queen of Assamese Hearts

  FIFTY-EIGHT - The Romance of Richard Halliburton

  FIFTY-NINE - The Sanctuary of Lot

  SIXTY - To Tibet

  SIXTY-ONE - Where Widows Go to Die

  SIXTY-TWO - Women on Death Row

  ONCE UPON A TIME there was a little boy who loved picking up pebbles on the beach.

  No journey was complete until he’d spent time selecting the very choicest pebble, and stuffed it in his pocket. As soon as he got home, he put the pebble on his bedroom window ledge.

  Some of the pebbles in the collection were smooth, cool and black, others were jade-green, more still were coarse and, yet more, seemed to smell of a secret island far away.

  As the years passed, the little boy took comfort in his pebble collection. In times of sadness they were there for him, a reminder of happier days – triggering memories of a beach, of rolling waves, or of the setting sun.

  One day, the little boy grew up.

  It was time to leave home. He longed to leave on a journey in search of the Mango Rains. But, before setting out, he packed up all his belongings in tea crates, and put most of them into a storage locker, an eternity of waiting for things he once had loved.

  Before clearing his bedroom, he went over to the pebble shelf, stroked a hand over one or two of the stones, breathed in deep. Then, taking a battered old shoebox from under his bed, he laid out the collection in nests of crumpled newspaper.

  Twenty years passed.

  The box was never opened, not once. The little boy, now a man, kept it locked up in a cupboard. He never forgot it was there, and would take comfort that it was with him.

  The pebbles had been chosen at random over so many years, selected then studied, turned into the light, and observed from every angle once again. As the years passed, the types of stones he chose differed depending on his mood or age, the latter ones being quite different from the first one of all.

  The stories in this book are like the pebbles in the little boy’s collection. They’re all different shapes and styles, and come from all corners of the world. Some will satisfy the curiosity of a select few, while others will appeal to all. I hope that the words will remind you of encounters you have had yourself, and stimulate thoughts you have never entertained before.

  The common thread, if there is one, is fascination.

  I’ve written about people, places, and things that have had a genuine and even mesmerizing grip over me. Whether they be the women on America’s death row, or the thousands who live in Cairo’s cemeteries, or portraits of lands through which my feet have strayed.

  For me, this is a collection of work that exemplifies travels through many realms – north, south, east and west. Each story is a fragment of a journey, a memory to me of happiness or hardship. Designed to be opened at random, this book will, I hope, be a companion on a journey or in an idle moment at home. Although in random order, the styles and the quality of the writing vary – a reflection of my own journey on the writer’s path.

  The collection is a kaleidoscope of adventure, a lens held over humanity and oddity, and the ordinary as well.

  As for the little boy and his precious collection of pebbles, he’s now living in Casablanca, and has a little boy of his own.

  Yesterday I took him down to the beach just before dusk. Together, we watched the sun slip down into the calm waters of the Atlantic. When it was gone, we stood there in the twilight in silence. After a long while he asked:

  ‘Shall we go home, Baba?’

  I tapped a hand down to the beach.

  ‘Pick up a pebble,’ I said.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because it’s time you started a collection of your own.’

  ONE

  Aboard the Maharajah Express

  A WILD RUMPUS of Indo-Gothic style, Mumbai’s CST station stands as a glorious monument to the excesses of the British Raj. The evening’s rush hour is well underway amid its turrets and spires, great sprawling domes, leering gargoyles and, of course, the towering statues of Imperial Britannia.

  Moving at break-neck speed through the building’s cavernous heart, the oceans of commuters make a beeline for the waiting trains. Once the blur of humanity is safely aboard, with many more clinging to the outside, there’s a whirring of diesel engines. A jolt, then another, a grinding of steel, and the packed carriages heave away into the night.

  India’s rail network is vast and efficient, but low on frills.

  It’s all about getting a whole lot of people across town – or across the country – with the least amount of fuss. The network has more than sixty-four thousand kilometres of track, fourth most in the world.

  Despite the faded grandeur of its exterior, CST station has a stripped-down functionality, catering to more than three million passengers each day.

  In their rush to get home, most of the commuters don’t notice the commotion at the far end of the terminus.

  On the last platform, well away from the crowds, there’s the distinct whiff of luxury, on a scale that would have impressed even the British Raj.

  A small army of staff are rolling out a lengthy red carpet – up the steps from the VIP parking and along the platform. As soon as it’s laid, a bearer sprinkles it in pink rose petals, while another steps forward with a silver salver laden with flutes of chilled Champagne.

  A moment later, a brass band is in position. And, as they begin to play, the sleek crimson carriages of India’s most luxurious train, the Maharajah Express, glide into place.

  Then, right on cue, the passengers arrive.

  Hailing from the United States, Europe, and from India itself, they are soon festooned in fragrant garlands, symbolic red tikka dabbed onto their foreheads, their fingers washed in rose water. And, while they admire the spotless livery of the train that will be their home for the next week, the hospitality staff lead them aboard to their cabins.

  I boarded along with about seventy guests. To accommodate us, the Maharajah Express had sixteen guest carriages, two restaurants, two bars, and dozens and dozens of staff.

  The cabin assigned to me was in a carriage called ‘Katela’, located about halfway down the train. Adorned with sumptuous fabrics and with mahogany furniture, it was panelled in teak, bathed in old-world charm. Best of all – even better than the fact there was WiFi everywhere – was the en suite bathroom. I’m a sucker for fabulous bathrooms. Ornamented with marble and with silver
fittings, it boasted a flush-toilet and a power-shower. The larger cabins were even more decadent still, with roll-top baths.

  As I stood there admiring the details, my valet – named Vikram – introduced himself. Turbanned, ever smiling, and exquisitely polite, he begged me to ask him for even the most insignificant request. As I was to soon find out, he lived in little more than a cupboard in the corridor. Whenever he heard me approaching, he’d dart out. And, standing to attention, he would await orders, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  A few minutes after boarding, the Maharajah Express slipped out of CST station on a schedule all of its own. As it did so, I tasted real luxury – a world in which the train waits for the passengers to be ready for it to leave.

  Pushing out through Mumbai’s endless suburbs and slums, there was a sense of awkwardness at first. It was as if I was separated from appalling poverty – that was inches away – by nothing more than a pane of glass.

  On the first evening I took dinner in the Rang Mahal restaurant. Beneath a hand-painted ceiling – a gold floral motif on vermillion – the dining car was beyond opulent. The plates were Limoges edged with gold, the glasses finest crystal, and the flatware monogrammed with the letter ‘M’.

  With an entire carriage devoted to the kitchens – packed with chefs, equipment, and the freshest supplies, the two restaurants serve cuisine from both East and West. The beverage list, too, features a tremendous range of wines and Champagnes from France, the New World, and India as well – there’s even a sommelier to help you choose.

  Sitting there, as I watched the slums give way to countryside, I found myself thinking of the Maharajahs and their obsession with locomotives.

  With the coffers of the Princely States filled to bursting, funding railways between their dominions wasn’t held back by the usual constraints. Vying with each other to create the most over the top carriages, the Maharajahs installed salons and billiard rooms, private suites, and even air-conditioning – made from electric fans and blocks of ice.

  The Nizam of Hyderabad’s carriages were said to be the most opulent of all. They were adorned with ivory and 24-carat gold. But the prize for sheer bling-bling surely went to the Maharajah of Vadodara. He had a throne installed aboard his royal train.