The Last Blue Mountain

by James Chilton

  The claim of the Great Ocean Road to be one of the great drives of the world was somewhat dampened by grey skies, a drenching mist and a southerly gale but even in these conditions the startling clarity of the blue sea was apparent. The more scenic parts of the eroded coastline had been christened with fanciful names such as The Arch, The Grotto and Loch Ard Gorge. We stopped at most of them since it seemed wasteful not to indulge in these wonders; we would not be passing again. Were we to do so, it seemed doubtful that many would still remain. Previously great bays were reduced to a modest bite, London Bridge had lost one of its two arches and only five of the Twelve Apostles remained standing.

  By a quirk of climate and geology, The Great Otway Forest covered the high hills that bordered the coast for many miles and we stopped off at Mates Rest (named from a British forester who regularly watered his horse there on his monthly patrol). We took a trail cut through rain forest dense with massive tree ferns, Australian red cedar (Tone ciliate) 100 ft (30m) high, lush undergrowth in every shade of green and noisy streams of clear water. A Japanese women’s tour group in strange dresses and high heels tripped along in front negotiating the muddy paths and dripping vegetation and taking giggling photographs with tiny cameras that could have shown only a fraction of the great size of these magnificent trees. Then, as the road descended again, the lushness vanished when altitude-specific plants demanded more space and light. The resort town of Apollo Bay was busy with weekenders who patronised boarding houses and hotels with colonial names such as The Victoria, The Blenheim and The Royal. The high street was awash with tourist tat and fish and chips outlets. On the town’s edge neat little clapboarded houses in pastel shades had clumps of pampas grass in the front gardens, the signature of seaside suburbia. Further on this gave way to natural stands of six feet (2m) high artemisia and beech myrtle. The Queen was in Australia at the time (an astonishing seventeenth visit) and the heartfelt welcome she received was surprising and stirring. The more so since the Welsh-born Prime Minister had been elected partly on her Republican sentiments. These were emphasized by a welcoming handshake rather than a deferential curtsey.

  Melbourne on a hot, summer Saturday was in marriage mood. Women in chiffon and silk, topped with fascinators and tottering on six-inch heels, decorated the city centre, twittering and twirling in mutual admiration outside several pseudo gothic churches. With their scrubbed and suited beaux they rode the trams, jammed the pavements in jolly groups and added bonhomie to a city of pleasant parks, towering glass and solid stone institutions. Here was the epitome of Australia; cosmopolitan, one foot clad in the solid brogue of colonial history and the other squeezed into contemporary and comfortable footwear – immigrants justly proud, prosperous and cheerful. The convicts, their overseers and the impoverished settlers that followed them would have been astonished.

  Postcard Home

  We’ve walked through Wooloomooloo

  Done Wagga-Wagga, Way-Way too.

  We’ve tramped the Krungle-Bungles,

  Climbed Harbour Bridge and cut through jungles.

  (Even been to Chipping Norton, it’s north of Liverpool!)

  Dodged dingos, dingbats, wombats, ‘roos,

  Seen lorikeets and cockatoos.

  Found platypus and possum

  And trees weighed down by blossom.

  Chewed billatong and bully beef

  And Moreton Bugs on Barrier Reef.

  And then, of course, there’s billy tea

  Brewed beneath a cool’bah tree.

  Now we stretch out the chaise longue

  By a shady billabong

  And glass in hand unravel

  Reminiscences of travel.

  India II

  January 2012

  ‘The normal stigmata of a travel book are the fake intensities, discovering the ‘soul’ of a town after spending two hours in it and the boring descriptions of conversations with taxi drivers’ – George Orwell

  Mrs Varughese sat huddled but dignified in a corner of the sleeping compartment – ‘First Class with AC’. I knew her name from the number of packages strewn around, each annotated in pretentiously large letters. Also strewn around were three of her 20-something-year-old daughters. They were considerably larger than Mrs V and the fact that they were two too many for the four berth compartment did not seem to worry them a jot. They readily acknowledged that a pair were ‘on the waiting list’ but it was quite apparent that waiting list or not they were here to stay and had probably slipped a sufficiently fat brown envelope to the conductor to ensure this was the case. In contrast to the depressing and depressed condition of the train, there was taped to the outside door a typed list of the authorised occupants of cabin B, carriage 26 of the Gondwana Express, train number 1268 departing Delhi at 1515 on Friday December 30th 2011. There were Varughese S, Varughese M, Chilton J, and Waters M (my 15 year old grandson, Max) – four persons in four berths. The Varugheses had a great deal of luggage since, as they explained, six of the brown boxes tied up in brown paper or sacking were for a friend in Jabalpur, the station after Katni where we were to disembark. None of this was of the slightest interest to me nor was the small talk which covered the weather, a cousin in Manchester and the London Olympics. My only concern was the matter of a maximum of four persons in four berths in a small, largely airless cabin for the 14 hour journey through Madya Pradesh in central India.

  As it turned out, the adjoining cabin was not only a two-berther but at the time of departure it had not been claimed by those on the typed manifest. There was no sign of two sprinting, yelling late passengers nor were there any packages to indicate earlier possession. Experience had told me that there are those who, if accommodated less comfortably, will roam the carriages hoping for a chance encounter with empty berths; so, gathering up our modest luggage we said goodbye to the undeserving Varugheses, swiftly moved next door, locked the door and drew the curtain. At each subsequent station, we waited nervously the appearance of Singh M and Singh T but providence favoured our opportunism.

  Bandhavgargh National Park has the reputation of being India’s best tiger sanctuary. On New Year’s Eve it seemed that most of India knew this as jeeps, packed up to eight occupants strong, each woollen-wrapped up to eye level against the chilly dawn mist, waited in eager anticipation for one of the entrance gates to open. There was a gate for each of the four sections of the huge forest and there were strict regulations. Each jeep had to conform to a standard specification (4WD, mechanically sound, no noisy exhaust etc) and have an accredited driver. Additionally, the park authorities placed a guide in each jeep as a naturalist and to report on misdemeanours. No food was allowed, no use of mobiles, no getting out of vehicles (those with weak bladders had no alternative but to suffer), no music and no smoking. Each of the jeeps (a maximum of 36 were allowed at any one time) was given predetermined routes. All this kept out sightseers, deterred the riff-raff and apparently gave the tigers a relaxed environment to wander about. But disappointingly they were not wandering about during any of the five visits we made; at least not visibly. With our driver Chitty and guide Allin we bounced around the rutted sandy tracks and saw few other jeeps but not a tiger either. There were fresh pug marks as big as my palm and on hearing roars from behind a rocky outcrop, there was a deep urge to sneak over the stones but self-preservation held this in check. Then we had to race for the gates, since to arrive late would have meant a month’s suspension for our guide and driver.

  Our room at the Tree House Hideaway was so hidden away that we were given a sketch map with distinguishing natural markers along the route. Right by the termite mound, left by the bamboo clump and mind the pit dug by the boars. But we carried no flag to raise above the shoulder-high grass should we have strayed, no whistle was provided and our cries would have gone unnoticed. Speke and Livingstone must have felt this way as they cut their way through the Congo but without their train of 200 bearers, driven cattle and a straggle of camp followers, our two man expedition moved faster.

/>   The rain was expected. Saubar the manager said, “In three days.”; Chitty the guide sniffed the air and declared, “Maybe a drizzle tomorrow.” They should have known it was imminent with the air smelling crisp and metallic, as though it had been seared by the lightning buried in the clouds. It came during dinner, overwhelming, drenching and powerful. Like a cannonade, a sudden and thunderous roar rocked the glasses, lifted our teak table and sent a dog whimpering into a corner. Simultaneously lightning shafts stabbed the ground, the rain sheeted down as dense as the Niagara and instantly flooded the earth which in turn enveloped the open dining area. Staff rushed to lower heavy canvas awnings but the rain summoned its ally, the wind. The awnings blew in, snapping the fastenings, more glass shattered, a second salvo loosed off and then a third. The sound was immense, the curtain of rain impenetrable and the lightning spectacular. Sensing a slight easing of the tumult, we made for our treehouse, running on paths treacherous with mud and as heavy with water as a flash flood down a Saharan wadi. Reaching the salvation of our room, the barbarous elements were kept at bay although they hammered in frustration at the windows. We thought this was the climax but we were fooled. In a finale, hail sugared the ground and blasted the metal roof in a din that seemed to gather all the snare drums on earth, lightning was like photo flashes in the face of a celebrity and rolling crescendos and rockslides of thunder bombarded us for another hour. Then exhausted, the players retired, returning from time to time to crash a cymbal or two lest it be thought that their stamina was weak. We too were exhausted, in awe of the elements, exhilarated by its power and thrilled to be at its core. By noon the next day the paths were dry, the prairie rinsed and green, tendrils of steam rose from the grass, the damage was repaired and Thor’s spectacular performance only a memory.

  Leaving the tigerless forest, the road to the west was snarled with trucks for all of the four hour drive to Jaipur. Snaking along the edge of the highway was an almost continuous line of establishments to cater for the needs of their gaudy, overloaded vehicles and their drivers. Tyre changers, oil changers, money changers, mechanics, places to eat and ladies to sleep with. You can feel the vibrancy of the city while still on the approach to its boundaries. The number of trucks increases even beyond the congestion of the highway, camel carts plod the main road to hobble the traffic, the colours of saris notches up from bright to dazzling and metal beaters, stone carvers, bus repairers, bed makers, car breakers and all the noisiest, dirtiest workers that crowd around a city’s periphery make their presence known on the kerbside. Plunging into the city’s heart, you are assaulted by the odours, the colours and the frenzy that occupies an orderly configuration of streets. The great Rajput, Mahahraja Sawai Jai Singh built Jaipur as a planned new town in 1727 and so it remains today with buildings of a single style, balanced on either side and at each end of a grid system of streets with no building more than two stories high. Five generations later when Ram Singh II was to receive a visit from the Prince of Wales, he was concerned that the intense glare might be too much for his royal visitor. This anxiety was solved with the declaration, “Paint the town pink!”; he owned the town after all. Now a city of over two million, its original central concept and buildings remain and are still pink – well, pinky/orange/apricot. Turning down a small side street that would usually take courage or naivety to enter, you come across Samode Haveli. This former merchant’s house sprawls in so many lateral and vertical directions, up so many little stairs, across so many hidden balconies and down so many narrow passages that it is suggested that a guest calls for a guide to return him from his bedroom to reception. But this maze is also an infantile pleasure of hide and seek with the knowledge that you will always be found. The place is an oasis of hospitality, peace and comfort and we were gratefully seduced by its charms.

  We were seduced too by the dogs we befriended at the next stop. Indians have no affection for dogs. They are tolerated as all life is and they roam around every town and village, related in appearance if not in genes. They are left to themselves to scavenge and breed and if one is killed by a truck, no tears are shed. It was a surprise therefore, on arriving at the tented camp of Chhatra Sagar, to be greeted by a Harlequin Great Dane that stood as high as my waist and around whose legs darted a trio of Jack Russells. Here was Sarko and his three small friends Castor, Pollux and Pluto. We took them all for a walk one evening and they relished chasing monitor lizards, wild boar, antelope and anything else that moved.

  The camp was the inspiration of two brothers, Raj and Nandi Singh. Urbane, educated and charming they had erected a dozen spacious, elegantly decorated and well equipped tents stretched along the top of a dam. The dam had been built by their great grandfather at great expense to provide a reliable source of water to irrigate the land of his tenant farmers and their villages. Following Independence, the land had been taken away from the family and distributed to their tenant farmers on whose behalf the great grandfather had almost bankrupted himself a few years earlier. The political expediency of providing social justice can slap the good with the injustices of the grasping. But now there was harmony and the evident prosperity of the local farmers was evident from the machinery and solid houses that were scattered over the former Singh estate. And efficient farming too; cumin, aniseed, chilli, aubergine, millet, barley, henna and fenugreek were all grown rotationally (with exception of henna that remains as a shrub annually cut to the ground) according to their water requirements and the marketplace. The irrigated fields needed constant attention to the ditches, the little mud walls and the diversion of water. In the community there was a hereditary division of farming skills: either you grew crops or you shepherded sheep and goats. The latter grazed the stubble and in return provided manure; additionally, the fields had a scattering of Neema trees that are pollarded annually (the grotesquely hacked stumps looked as if they had been chewed by some monstrous passing beast) and this was the shepherd’s job at the end of the summer, when the shade the trees have given is no longer required but light is needed for the winter crops. The prunings are given to the sheep and goats.

  The divisions of the fields were marked by vertical stone slabs, the most abundant local material. Since the stone is naturally layered like slate, it is easy to split into pieces two feet (50cm) wide and six feet (2m) long. These are dug into the ground at random heights since wild antelopes are confused by this uneven line. The stone is expensive but is justified as it is not only long lasting but it is an investment that can be realized in times of hardship. The nationwide law that prohibits the killing of any wild animal or bird results in large numbers of ducks on the reservoir and great flocks of pigeons and laughing doves who are an irritating scourge to the hardworking farmers.

  Back in Delhi, the salute from the turbaned Sikh doorman at The Imperial Hotel presaged the elegant interior. The historical paintings and lithographs that crowd its public spaces in profusion form a gallery of imperial pomp and maharajas’ extravagance. At the street entrance, framed by marble columns that support gates of extravagant curlicues, we hailed a dented tuk-tuk and plunged into the squalor and exuberance of Old Delhi. In a few minutes the suffering and insufferable divisions of India were manifest; the mutilated beggar appealing to the suited; the makeshift hovels that border the world’s most opulent hotels; Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs coexisting in wary harmony; the odour of diesel smoke, the perfumes of the flower market, the retching nausea of blocked drains, the sweet pungency of spice; the calm order and wide avenues of New Delhi and the frenzied, crushing alleys of Old Delhi. Lives being led leisurely or distraught, indolent or desolate.

  Postcard Home

  Tiger, tiger burning bright

  In the forests of the night

  What spark caused you to ignite?

  Thrilling us with savagery

  Elephants to trace your route,

  Tusk high grass in slow pursuit.

  Took careful aim, prepared to shoot,

  Captured you in imagery.

  A detour th
en to Bharatpur,

  Taj Mahal and pink Jaipur.

  Always spice in plats de jour

  Flavours near incendiary.

  India washed in shades of sepia,

  Frenzied, unfamiliar.

  Sights to stimulate and stir.

  Always extraordinary.

  American Train Trip

  March 2012

  ‘I have seldom heard a train go by and not wished that I was on it’

  – Paul Theroux, The Great Railway Bazaar

  The Windy City lived up to its name. Gusts swept across Lake Michigan and played hide and seek amongst the canyons of downtown Chicago. Turning a corner meant leaning forward at an angle that would have found one scrabbling on the pavement had the wind suddenly dropped. The James R Jardine Water Processing and Purification Plant (America’s largest) had white horses and salt from the pavements, scattered two days before in preparation for snow, whipped up like sharp gravel. Writing in the early ’50s, Jan Morris was disillusioned by what she found. ‘This festering place... in a desolate expanse of depression. There is a persistent rottenness of the place.’ She talks of The Syndicate, that central office of vice but nevertheless is heartened by ‘the endearing braggadocio’ of the city’s traditions. Now, these traditions have transformed the place. Better still, the snow had gone, the wind had vanquished the clouds and blue sky was now the backdrop to the architectural wonders of the city.