The Travel Gods Must Be Crazy

by Sudha Mahalingam

  And wisdom too, as I discover to my chagrin when I impulsively extend my stay in Rome on one of my official trips. It is only when I go looking for rooms to stay that I realize what I have gotten into, in the midst of summer holiday season in a city invaded by every teenager from across the Atlantic, the city ringing out with nasal Yankee accents, escalator handles and park benches stuck with chewed gum in psychedelic hues.

  Someone tells me there’s a counter in Roma Termini which books rooms for tourists. I head to the station with my suitcase only to find a sea of youthful humanity with the same purpose and intention. I join the serpentine queue in front of the counter and wait my turn.

  Almost when it is my turn at the counter, it is snapped shut. ‘Scusa’ says a hand-scrawled placard, announcing that no more beds are available that night. The queue collapses into a heap on the floor of the station in a tangle of limbs and backpacks. I have no option but to follow suit. I shove my suitcase into the locker in the station and come back to join the sprawl on the platform. After a few hours, I even manage to doze off.

  Around midnight, I am rudely woken by a few limbs tripping over me. There is a mad rush for the station gates as the limbs and backpacks reassemble and head out in haste. Roma Termini closes at midnight and everyone is shooed out. I too stumble my way out of the station and am promptly mobbed by waiting touts with offers of beds for the night. The rate starts at €120 for a night—depends on your level of desperation. The teenagers are ignored—they are never going to pay that much. In fact, they flop outside the station wherever they can find a spot. The touts then focus on the few people who are potential paying prey, including middle-aged me!

  I pick one of them who seems less threatening and we haggle quite a bit—these touts are multilingual—and finally settle on €60 for a bed for whatever is left of that night. He first collects his cash, then marches me outside the station and we hop into his tiny car parked somewhere in the dark recesses outside. Off we go driving around the darkened alleys and lanes of Rome on a hot July night.

  After about fifteen minutes of peregrinations through the streets frequented by dozens of drunks and streetwalkers in stilettos and net stockings, we reach an imposing gate. Alessandro, the tout, jumps out of the car, fishes out an impressive key bunch from his pocket and unlocks the gate, the first in a series that we would have to unlock and lock, like in the Arab tales of A Thousand and One Nights. After the second one, I feel I have already crossed the point of no return. With rising apprehension, which I hope is not evident in my tone, I ask, ‘How much farther?’ but Alessandro waves me off. Eventually, we reach the outhouse of a formidable mansion where the last door is unlocked. By now, my heart is pounding so fast I can hardly see where we are going.

  We enter through the kitchen. A woman is cleaning the floor at this late hour. There are three shut doors, presumably leading to three bedrooms. There is a 4-foot sofa in the kitchen which Alessandro gestures me to occupy. Sixty euro for this? My anxiety has morphed into anger. I try to argue with him, but he shushes me and points up. There, in the half loft that covers the kitchen, two bodies are sprawled, mild snores emanating from one of them. I resign myself to spending the night on the couch, my head and feet sticking out uncomfortably. Alessandro’s wife, a Polish woman as I would find out later, tells me I must be up at six since it would be breakfast time for the lodgers. It is already past one in the night!

  Early in the morning, I am rudely shaken awake by the mistress of this mansion, the same cleaning woman of the previous night. She directs me to one of the bedrooms through a tall door that is now open. My eyes pop out as I spy at least a dozen people sleeping in bunks and beds crammed into the space. She gestures, signalling I should lie on a bed just vacated by one of the lodgers, still warm and crumpled. I refuse and march back to the kitchen where my 4-foot sofa is now occupied by a couple of lodgers awaiting breakfast.

  Alessandro’s house has three bedrooms, of which two are crammed with bunks and beds. I count eleven beds in one bedroom; there must have been a similar number in the other, not counting the two in the kitchen loft. The middle room is occupied by Alessandro and his family comprising wife and three kids. Every inch of space in the house seems to have been used to accommodate hapless stranded souls like me. This is very lucrative business for Alessandro and his wife.

  I pick up my bag and leave, looking for some Italian coffee to clear my clouded and confounded brain. The day is spent at the Sistine Chapel, braving the crowds and clicks, but a welcome relief from the trauma of the previous night. Michelangelo has worked his magic on the ceiling of the chapel, transporting you into another era where angels and saints flew through the skies in clusters. Images of teeming humanity portrayed in its naked weaknesses and indestructible strengths and God with His ability to transform everything and accomplish anything come alive from its walls and ceiling to haunt you for weeks. It is truly a feast of frescoes—throbbing, alive, forceful, vital and exuding inexhaustible energy.

  Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam has endured in the imagination of generations of art lovers and critics—the most photographed, the most easily recognized of the Sistine Chapel frescoes. The sense of life flowing from a bearded God’s fingers into humanity through Adam is a stunning depiction of Creation, of elevating man from a supine, listless creature into one electrified by vitality, energy and immense power. The physical perfection of both God—with his muscles thrusting under his robes, his intent gaze and his flowing beard—and Adam—a picture of innocence, untainted by sin as yet—are so evocative. The outstretched fingers barely touch; one can almost see the spark that ignites mankind; the moment is suspended in eternity and conveys the effect of dynamic, palpable tension.

  Later that evening, I decide to go to Pompeii hoping to find rooms in Naples, which surely must be much less crowded. There are far more glamorous places in Italy—Venice, Pisa or Florence—for the young horde to descend on. Pompeii would not be on their bucket list, I hope. I head back to the dreaded Roma Termini to board a train to Naples.

  You’ve heard of intelligent machines, but have you encountered any? Well, you would, at Roma Termini. Every time you ask for a ticket to any destination on Trenitalia, the vending machine invariably displays the most expensive train and ticket options. For instance, when you query for a ticket from Rome to Florence, it would offer you a couchette on the long-distance Eurostar to Venice, although the journey time between Rome and Florence is just two hours! After you’ve coughed up the extortionate fare and picked up the ticket spat out by the machine, it will display all the other options, the cheapest being just a quarter of the fare you just paid! My search for a ticket to Naples, also two hours away from Rome, throws up a couchette ticket on a long-distance train going south through Rome. It even includes a ferry ride to the Isle of Capri where I have no intention of going. I pay up, having woken up to the ways of intelligent ticketing machines only later.

  I just about manage to lug myself through the vestibule and locate my fancy couchette and we’re already chugging into Naples with its familiar and comforting architecture—multi-storied matchbox-like buildings with laundry fluttering in the balconies. If you still don’t feel at home, step into the toilet at Naples station where you’re guaranteed to.

  The helpful rooms counter attendant at Naples station points me to an imposing and ornate rococo building just a few hundred metres across the station entrance. Awestruck, I query about the price. He shrugs his shoulders and says it should be okay. I am very impressed, even excited. I can go back home and boast how I stayed in the grand palace of the Medicis in Naples, never mind the Medicis never came this far and my history is half-baked. It is an ornate mansion with a flaring central staircase like in Bollywood movies of yore, curving balustrades and curling columns from which concrete cherubs hang precariously.

  As I gingerly ascend the grand staircase and reach the top, I find there’s hardly anything behind this grand facade—mostly demolished rooms, fallen beams and debris
scattered everywhere. On the left wing, there seem to be some rooms intact, accessed through carved wooden doors at least 10 feet high. The doors are slightly ajar. I knock and enter. Lounging in reclining sofas, surrounded by frilly cushions, are an octogenarian couple, or so I believe, from their wizened visages.

  Their room could be straight out of a period film: French windows, exquisite glass chandeliers, Victorian bric-a-brac, stained-glass bowls and vases, lace curtains, the works. Before I can ask them about renting a room in their mansion, the old man nods, springs out of his sofa like an agile teenager and briskly leads me down a long corridor strewn with more debris. At the other end, there is a biggish room, also embellished and ornate, with a four-poster bed in the centre. He then draws a twenty-five in the air. I ask, ‘25 euro?’ He beams and nods. I look around for a bathroom—there is none to be found. I mime a shower and bathing and he leads me to another corner behind the staircase and throws open yet another pair of over-embellished doors that lead to an elaborate bath and WC.

  If you think all this is a great bargain for €25, think again. There’s constant banging and breaking, machine drills and construction noise to put up with. Besides, the couple speaks no English whatsoever. They were bound to be no help in navigating Naples. When I ask them about timings to visit the ruins of Pompeii, they stare in utter incomprehension. Perhaps they think I am haggling. She shakes her head vigorously in the negative. He, like all Italians, is expansively expressive. He lets loose a volley in Italian, shrugs his shoulders and gesticulates. Now my turn. I too nod, gesticulate violently, turn on my heels and go down the overwrought staircase in search of another hotel.

  Riding with the King

  The knotted black bundle under our feet heaves rhythmically as the occupant seems resigned to its fate of being trapped in a bag. But then, every now and then, our vehicle hits a bump, causing the bag to jerk and twitch. We hold our breath, keep our feet safely up and away from the bundle and hope we do not get into any accident that would throw up consequences similar to those faced by Pi Patel in Life of Pi.

  In fact, the consequences could be even worse in this case, considering we are travelling with a live, 11-foot-long king cobra, rudely interrupted in its quest for a mate. The bag in which it is coiled up is made of cotton cloth and nothing more. Its fangs can easily reach out to lacerate and inject its infamous venom into any limb that strays close enough. As if guessing my thoughts, our companion on this dangerous journey, Ram Prasad Rao, turns to me and says they do not stock antivenom serum for a king cobra bite. Very comforting indeed!

  My friend V and I are accompanying Ram Prasad Rao and Ajay Giri, both researchers at the Agumbe Rainforest Research Station (ARRS), on a cobra rescue mission. The previous day, as we had landed at the ARRS, tucked away in a rainforest on the outskirts of a small village called Agumbe, in the Western Ghats, some 60 km from Udupi in Karnataka, we were told that there was little chance of spotting a king cobra in the wild; that king cobras were shy creatures who preferred to make themselves ‘invisible’ except when hungry or overcome by the urge to find a mate. Disappointed, we had shuffled through the research station where we were shown honeybees building hives and dracos climbing areca nut palms.

  Even as we were wondering whether the visit was worth the effort of travelling more than a thousand kilometres, the ARRS got a rescue call. A live king cobra had been spotted entering a house in Kellur village, some 15 km from the research station. In fact, the village residents had seen two of the species in the adjacent fields, headbutting each other, a typical ritualistic combat between male cobras fighting for the right to mate. Mating season starts in earnest around end March, but fortunately for us, there are a few impatient males about even in February! We happily accompany Ajay and Ram Prasad Rao on their rescue mission. By the time we reach Kellur, it is dusk. The entire village has turned up outside the house to watch the rescue.

  There is an open well with no embankment where the cobra is hiding. If it slithered into the well, not only would it be very difficult to rescue it, but it might also render the well water unusable. As our rescue team arrives in Kellur, everyone is cautioned against going anywhere near the open well, which is difficult to spot in the dark. Ajay skirts the well with his hook, locates the reptile, expertly hooks it and drags it away from the well. All this happens in a split second even before we realize what is happening. Ajay has been working at the ARRS for the past six years and specializes in king cobras. He wears an infrared torch in a band around his head. Flashlights can confuse the reptile.

  It takes Ajay quite a while to coax the reptile into a long cylindrical bag he has brought for the purpose. He lifts the snake with his hook and holds its rear end in his hands, trying to guide its face towards the opening of the bag. But the snake has other plans. It turns right back, forcing Ajay to drop it. King cobras have a long striking range. The snake turns away from the bag and goes looking for somewhere to hide. Its skin is a dull brown with bands. It is easily distracted by camera flashbulbs and torch beams. So we are told to switch off all lights.

  Now it is pitch-dark save the infrared light on Ajay’s forehead. There is an eerie silence and even Ajay moves stealthily so that he does not upset the reptile. Of course, snakes have no ears, they cannot hear, and this one, despite being in the prime of its life, seems to have weak eyesight too. Or, it is simply confused. Yet, there is not a trace of aggression in it. The ominous hood remains unopened, which is a good indication that the animal is not panicking—at least, not yet. But I am unable to resist the temptation to click. Naturally, my flashlight confuses and then provokes the snake into opening its hood in the classical cobra posture. This is a danger signal for Ajay. Now he has to be very careful. The king cobra is in an aggressive mood and might strike.

  But not all king cobra bites are venomous, Ram Prasad Rao explains to me later. Fewer than 20 per cent of the bites carry venom. After all, it takes several weeks for the venom glands to secrete the venom and the king cobra would not want to waste it unless it feels absolutely threatened. Cobras seem to have a mechanism by which they can withhold venom even as they bite. No wonder then that despite the density of their population in the Western Ghats, king cobra bites are rare.

  But all this knowledge is little comfort when you are confronted by an agitated and aggressive king cobra dazzling you with its expanded hood. Ajay keeps his cool. Eventually, the cobra backs down and slithers into the waiting bag. As soon as its tail disappears into the cavernous bag, Ajay pulls the string to close its mouth. Then he and Ram Prasad Rao use a stick to gently guide the snake into the interior portion of the bag. With the stick in place to keep the cobra from springing back, Ajay flattens the top half of the bag, knots it tight leaving little room for manoeuvre. Then they hoist the knot with the stick and gingerly carry the bag and deposit it in a corner of the yard. The relieved villagers crowd around Ajay, the hero of the moment.

  We then go looking for the rival male reptile, but it is nowhere to be seen. The female, over whom the two fought, must be hiding in an abandoned termite mound, we are told. The female is usually smaller than the male and does not risk her life when titans clash over the right to mate with her. Males are attracted by the pheromones the female secretes during the mating season.

  On the way back in the car, with the magnificent serpent curled up under our feet, Ajay tells us about his many encounters with king cobras. Our rescue mission ends with the release of the king cobra into the wilderness. Ajay locates an uninhabited wood, carries the bagged snake and releases the knot. At first, the reptile is confused but soon slithers out and makes for the bush. In a jiffy it is on the fence, its gleaming body glinting in the flash of phone cameras. It raises its head and watches for a while before disappearing into the darkness.

  Mekong Diary

  ‘Why Mekong?’ asks S when I tell her of my plan to sail up the river. ‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘Isn’t it the spine of Asia? Hurtling down from the highlands of Tibet, the river courses through five
countries before it reaches the South China Sea, some 4350 km away. Turbulent and untamed, this river has never been dammed, at least not yet. On its banks are some gorgeous towns: imperial Luang Prabang, stunning Angkor Wat, very French Vientiane and scores of smaller towns, all vibrant and sizzling with humanity. Besides, a sail up the Mekong throws up vignettes of life like no other.’

  The filibuster is enough to rattle the resolute and the robust—what to speak of S, already seduced and ready to capitulate? From now on, it becomes easier. We both team up and use similar tactics to wear down two more friends: R and RB. Now we are a nice foursome, important for the economics of a trip like this.

  So, on a bright day, the four of us land in Ho Chi Minh City, the springboard for our ten-day adventure. Apart from obtaining visas for Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos, I had done little else by way of preparation for the trip, but did not let the other three get wind of it. I had been assured by a friend who used to work in Vietnam that it would be possible for us to hire a boat up the river, from a place called Chau Doc. I believed him.

  We spend a couple of days in delightful HMC. If you think traffic in India is chaotic, go to Ho Chi Minh City to disabuse yourself. Scooterists weave in and out of traffic with unrivalled abandon even as dangling electric wires add a touch of danger and drama reminding me of our very own Ballimaran in Delhi. Vendor women with baskets of merchandise yoked from shoulder poles cross nonchalantly, not even glancing at the traffic lights that blink in utter confusion. We dodge traffic to visit the war museum, a sobering experience.