On day three, we go in search of a taxi, which would take us to Chau Doc some five hours away. After much haggling, we squeeze ourselves and our bags into a rickety jalopy sans air conditioning in this steamy weather. After a few minutes on the road, we suspect the vehicle doesn’t have a clutch or gear either. We drive on, through dirt tracks, gullies, crowded villages and on to cattle ferries. We cross the Mekong five times—all on boats—before we are deposited in Chau Doc, in a heap of dislocated limbs and luggage.
You may struggle to locate Chau Doc on the map, but that doesn’t deter the town from living it up. It is so lively you might believe you’re in Piccadilly Circus or Montmartre. The wharf hums with dinghies and skiffs and boats of all sizes and denominations. Its streets festooned with colourful buntings, string lights, balloons and illuminated stars, Chau Doc seems all set for Christmas. Scooter-borne Santa Clauses wave cheerily, pedestrians jaywalk merrily, street food aromas mingle with the stench of sewers to tickle your olfactory nerves, young couples stroll hand in hand, licking ice cream from the same cone. Slung across the quay is an incongruity—an illuminated hammer and sickle, the symbol of Vietnam’s ruling Communist party.
The riverbank is packed with locals: picnicking families, exercise freaks, walkers, cyclists and vendors hawking everything from boiled clams to balloons. We go find a hotel, dump our bags and head to the ferry terminal to book our tickets only to find that all ferries are fully booked by the ubiquitous European tourists. For the next two days, not a skiff is available; this is holiday season, we are told.
The other three plan a mutiny against me, but antagonizing me at this stage will have consequences. At least they think so, since they believe I have already made bookings in other Mekong towns. So they shut up and follow me, sulking away. We amble through the streets of Chau Doc, stroll through its Corniche, watch fisherman fix nets, visit the numerous wats and offer incense, praying for an early ferry out of this town. We spend our days mostly on the riverbank, impressed by the extraordinary vibrancy of Asia which best manifests itself in a riverside town like this. RB samples every living, breathing insect and reptile on offer, the other three of us being vegetarians.
The interminable wait for a boat exposes my incompetence and cracks open fault lines in our friendship. Nothing tests friendship like being thrown together on a long trip. Much as I tried to explain to them how you don’t need bookings in these remote riverside towns—in any case, that’s what the guidebooks had told me—I knew I had lost their trust irredeemably.
Finally, our wish is granted on the third day when a compact boat becomes available. One condition though. The main cabin is occupied by sixty octogenarian French tourists, and all that we can occupy is the narrow stern where a few plastic chairs have been placed. The area is open to the elements. By now, we were so desperate we would have been happy to cling to the railing of the boat if need be. Soon we set sail, the foghorn blaring to clear the traffic.
I spy a little ladder leading up to the roof of the boat. Quietly I haul myself up, spread my shawl and surround myself with water and some snacks brought from Saravana Bhavan in Delhi. What bliss! My demure friends suffer the stuffy stern, too coy to see themselves clambering up.
Family outings on the Mekong, a cluttered waterway
The fog clears soon and Mekong reveals itself in all its glory. It is a congested waterway and the banks are alive with activity. In a while, it becomes very hot and humid, but I decide this rooftop perch is better than the stench in the stern, what with so many incontinent geriatric stomachs battling unfamiliar fare.
And from now on, we are treated to Asian riverine life at its rawest. Little boats sell everything from pots and pans, flowers, veggies, fruits and baskets of fowl and fish. There is a skiff rowed by two young boys, laden with snakes, many dangling on the side and some writhing on the floor of the boat. Apparently a delicacy in these parts.
The banks are a voyeur’s delight. Old men in sarongs lounge outside floating homes, smoking cigarettes or playing mah-jong. Mothers bathe their infants on the ledges of their wattle homes while other women are bathing themselves, doing their laundry or washing kitchen utensils. There are boat-repair shops and cycle-repair shops, all perched precariously on wattle and bamboo platforms jutting into the river. There are even small factories with smoke curling out of the chimneys, and a few schools; we spy herdsmen herding their flocks of ducks and geese on the river; families travelling to their destinations on their own little canoes; fishermen hunched over their catch. In fact, fishing nets are a ubiquitous sight throughout the stretch; the hauls could range from sardines to eels and coils of river snakes. The river is said to be replete with otters and dolphins, but we do not see any. Every now and then, settlements fade away and wavy rice paddies take over.
After about eight hours of sailing, we reach Kaam Samnor, the immigration point for entry into Cambodia. It is a ramble of thatched shacks on an island. A few customs officials lounge under the shade of a tree. Empty beer cans and bottles litter the ground. All the romance of clearing immigration on the river evaporates as we sweat it out in the sultry sheds. It takes three hours for the officials to rouse themselves from their post-lunch stupor and attend to us. Finally, the sun is about to set when our passports are stamped and we are off.
Dusk invests Phnom Penh with an ethereal beauty; its banks sculpted with scenes from the famous Manthan—devas churning the ocean with Vasuki, the serpent—are silhouetted beautifully. Glittering wats line up on the banks as if in ceremonial welcome. The French tour group is finally rousing itself from its somnolence to get a glimpse of the magical moment as we dock in the Cambodian capital. We eye the French tourists wistfully. A gleaming Volvo bus is waiting for them at the jetty and they will soon be whisked straight away to Siem Reap, while we have to lug our bags and go looking for a hotel for the night. Ignoring the reproachful glower of my friends, I pull out a map and walk purposefully into the hotel opposite, a run-down seedy lifeless pad, and book two rooms for the night. And then I begin making inquiries about how to reach Siem Reap where the magnificent Angkor Wat is located.
Devas churning the Mekong with Vasuki offer a ceremonial welcome to visitors coming in to Phnom Penh by the river
I would love to sail up to Siem Reap. It would be a fitting tribute to an ancient civilization that built this stunningly aesthetic architectural marvel, the world’s largest temple complex, primarily because of its ability to harness the waters of the Mekong. However, we discover that the river is no longer navigable from this point on and that we must take a bus to Angkor Wat.
The Angkor complex, situated on a 200-square-km area on the floodplains of the Tonlé Sap lake at the foot of the Kulen mountains, was the seat of a very advanced civilization presided over by the Khmer Empire between the ninth and fifteenth centuries. Dedicated to the Hindu god Vishnu, this temple complex is the largest among all places of worship founded anywhere in the world. Angkor was also the centre of the largest pre-industrial urban sprawl known to man. Contrary to popular perception, Angkor Wat is not a single monument, but one—perhaps the grandest—of the many temple complexes that dot the large area. The Angkor monuments dazzle us with their perfection and symmetry, harmony and symbolism and, above all, their scale and size.
Who could have dreamt up such an ambitious monument and how did they manage to build it in a pre-industrial age? Why should a temple dedicated to Hindu gods be built in Cambodia, where Hinduism subsists only in stone today, and not on the Indian subcontinent, where it was born?
Piecing together information culled from various sources, historians found an answer to the second question. Kambujadesa—mangled into ‘Cambodia’ by European colonizers who found it a tongue-twister—was established by a valiant Hindu king who had his origins in India. The earliest mention of this theory is found in Chinese records, which refer to Kambujadesa as Funan, an Indianized settlement in South East Asia. Chinese accounts have been corroborated by Sanskrit versions, which state that a king,
possibly from the Chola dynasty, married a Naga princess who ruled over Tonlé Sap and settled down in today’s Cambodia to found a kingdom in the early centuries of the Christian era.
According to researchers, the Khmer Empire flourished because of its ability to alter the course of the Siem Reap River and harness its waters, but fell eventually because nature triumphed over man’s ingenuity and reclaimed control. This precipitated the decline of the Khmer Empire, which was no longer immune to floods and drought, the blight of its neighbouring kingdoms in Asia.
After three days in Siem Reap admiring the ruins of Angkor Wat, we go back to the river to find a ferry to take us to Laos, only to discover that upstream, the river is full of cascades and is dangerous. My secret is already out and the other three prevail over me, marching me to the airport to try for a ticket to Vientiane or Luang Prabang, both in Laos. Luckily, tickets are available and we hop on to the tiny aircraft headed to Luang Prabang, a town like no other.
Lying at the confluence of two mighty rivers—the Mekong and the Nam Khan—Luang Prabang, the former imperial capital of Laos, belies the notion that the East and West can never meet. It is a felicitous blend of two very different cultures, the French and the Buddhist, and is perfectly at ease with this hybrid identity. Luang Prabang’s high street is lined with trendy street cafes in the best tradition of their Parisian counterparts. Yet, the street is also home to splendid Buddhist wats and monasteries with gilded pagodas and glittering Buddha statues. The delicious aroma of freshly baked baguettes and croissants and the strong smell of dark-roasted coffee mingle with the heady fragrance of jasmine and parijaat garlands waiting to adorn the deities in the numerous temples that dot this town.
We spend a few days in this languorous land of the lotus-eaters, where everyone smiles beatifically. Orange-robed monks come by at dawn to collect their alms from devotees who line the street with offerings. We too join the lot, with rice cakes bought from street vendors. This daily ritual is so solemn and somehow defines Luang Prabang more than the wats and palaces. Yet, later in the day, you spot the same monks whizzing through the streets on their bikes, talking on their cell phones. This is Luang Prabang for you, perfectly at ease with its Janus face.
‘What in Heaven’s Name Brought You to Casablanca?’
Our trip to Morocco was an afterthought, an impulsive, unscientific decision based purely on cartography. Just because the map revealed Morocco to be just a ferry ride away from the Andalusian coast where we were attending a conference, my friend R and I decided to extend our trip to this glamorous North African destination. Beyond obtaining a visa for Morocco before leaving Delhi, we had done little research, leaving everything else to the trusty old Lonely Planet guide—in this case, a dusty and literally old copy I had fished out from the dark recesses of my shelf.
Our peregrinations through Andalusia over, we end up in Algeciras on the Mediterranean coast of Spain, dump our bags in the locker at the ferry terminal and board a cattle ferry that would take us across the Straits of Gibraltar to Tangiers in Morocco. En route, it calls at Gibraltar, that glitzy and glamorous British outpost better known for being the location where the James Bond opus, The Living Daylights, was shot. Not having a British visa, we have to be content with gaping at the Rock from the decks of our Comarit ferry.
All five hours I stand on the deck, craning my neck for the first sight of the African coastline. When we pull into the Tangiers terminal, it is crowded enough to give us a hint of what lies ahead. But we are oblivious, in our hubris of heading to Africa, even if it is only Berber, not African Africa. When we reach the railway station, it seems like a mini Kumbh Mela. There is a sea of backpacking humanity sprawled all over the place, even on the floor, blocking access to the ticket counter. Lonely Planet had assured us that there were trains from Tangiers to magical Marrakech, romantic Casablanca and exotic Fes. I traipse over stretched limbs and strewn luggage to access the ticket counter at the far end. The only tickets available are two seats in an overnight train to Fes. I have to make a split-second decision whether to take it or go looking for lodgings in Tangiers.
And having made it, I have all night to rue my decision. Our ladies’ cabin has four berths and eight veiled women crammed inside beside fifty-odd pieces of luggage in all denominations and shapes. I nod off fitfully on the hijab-covered shoulder of my neighbour. Every time the train jerks me awake, I glimpse a hennaed hand or bejewelled ankle poking through the hijab. The train deposits us at Fes station in the morning; we’re all bleary-eyed and dazed.
At the station, we are mobbed by touts, all of whom converge on us wanting to escort us to the fanciest riad (traditional houses) in town. But we are armed. We wave the copy of Lonely Planet on their faces and lo and behold, they vanish like vampires shown garlic. Don’t they know the types who would haggle over every dirham, armed with a dog-eared copy of yesteryears’ guide? We hail a cab and head to the Medina to look for a hotel. Didn’t Lonely Planet advise us to stay in the labyrinth for a better appreciation of Fes?
The oldest of Morocco’s imperial cities, Fes was where Morocco as a political entity was born more than 1200 years ago. Everyone goes to Fes to glimpse the real Morocco of narrow alleyways inaccessible to motorcars, and to photograph its sprawling tanneries that produce some of the finest leather in the world. Moors, Berbers, Jews, Turks and Christians mingle in its bazaars, trading in the finest goods of their time. The Medina of Fes is a confusing labyrinth of 8000 lanes and gullies that would confound even local residents. But we are undeterred, even though this was pre–Google Maps era. The cheapest pension recommended by our guide looks a bit seedy, so we decide to try the next one, which seems even seedier. The third one seems less so, but has no vacancies. As we tick off the list one by one, we find that each new hotel we check out turns out to be pokier and seedier than the earlier one. Worse, even these are fully booked. It is getting rather late—it is already quite dark—and we’re deep into the maze of alleys. I am not sure we can find our way out of here even if we wanted to.
Therefore, we decide to take the next one, however dreadful it might be. Pension Tala is perched on a terrace and boasts terrace views—of other similar pensions no doubt! We poke our head into the cave-like, winding metallic stairwell and shout into the gloom inquiring if rooms are available. To our surprise and delight, a disembodied voice answers in the affirmative. We pick up our backpacks and go in search of the voice, feeling our way through the narrow winding staircase.
The reception is a hole in the wall on one side of the stairwell. But that’s not the problem. To reach the reception, I have to plaster myself like a lizard on the wall and shinny up to the entrance. And having entered, I find that the roof is so low that I—all of 5'4"—have to kneel. There are three other backpackers already kneeling or squatting before the reception desk—which is a low stool on the floor! They look at me in dismay, wondering whether I am a threat to their claim to a room in this pigeonhole of a pension! But after two hours of loitering in the winding alleys of Fes, we’re truly grateful for a bed even if it is in a windowless dungeon. After all, we came to this heritage town only for the authentic Fes experience!
Fes may be a magnet for the sanitized Western tourist who finds everything exotic, but only too familiar to the jaded Indian eye. Its labyrinthine lanes remind us of the streets of Agra or Mughalsarai, its numerous dye vats not unlike those in the back alleys of Chandni Chowk. We wander through the dark, dungeon-like alleys where the bluest of blue skies appear like narrow ribbons between buildings, chequered by dangling electric lines; we clench our noses to escape the fragrance of tanning leather, pick our way through dye vats that stain not only the fabled Moroccan leather but also the streets and walls of Fes, duck under clothes lines slung about with washed bed linen from the hundreds of pensions that dot the town, and dodge the ubiquitous donkey carts piled with merchandise or, sometimes, just rubbish. And yet, despite the familiarity or perhaps because of it, there is an irresistible charm to Fes. It transports y
ou to a bygone era.
From Fes, we head to Casablanca, also by train. For those of us on the wrong side of fifty, the mention of Casablanca brings alive black-and-white images of that electrifying pair, Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, exquisite in their 1940s outfits. But don’t go to Casablanca with stars in your eyes and nostalgia tugging at your heart. Now it is a modern city that has little that is ‘black-and-white’. There are colourful banners and posters advertising the latest designer ware or perfumes. A sprawling metropolis more European than Madrid or Naples, Casablanca seems to be going through an identity crisis. The picture-book emerald palm trees that lined the streets like soldiers in a parade are still there, but so are the art-deco buildings and designer-ware shops, the homes of the ultra-rich with their manicured lawns and sparkling swimming pools. Whoever would say Casablanca is in Africa? This seems more like Costa del Sol on the other side of the Mediterranean—in Spain, or the California coast.
Well that may be because I had preconceived notions of Africa—of ebony-skinned, curly-haired, statuesque men and women in chunky bone and horn jewellery and colourful bandanas, souks heaped high with spices, endless stretches of sand interspersed with lush jungles and untamed rivers and hordes of wildebeest seen only on National Geographic channels, etc. Banish the thought. Morocco is hybrid, neither African nor European, and yet entirely metropolitan. The Phoenicians, Romans, Arabs, Portuguese and finally the French, all of whom have ruled Morocco at some time in the past, have surely left behind their genetic and cultural legacy.
On to this delightful melange is grafted modern Islamic architecture in the form of various palaces and mosques built by their beloved monarch, Hassan II. Our train from Marrakech deposits us at Casa-Voyageurs station. The jade minaret of the Hassan II mosque—the mother of all Moroccan sights—looms over the Atlantic coast. We hire a taxi and head for the mosque. Our drive takes us along the beach, which, on this working day morning, is so crowded, despite the relentless African sun! And along the beach are endless swimming pools, all of them choc-a-bloc, presumably with tourists! Vendors are selling baskets heaped with what seems like peanuts. On closer inspection, I find they are boiled clams! Our driver wants to show us the sights of Casablanca, especially the rich people’s villas and mansions. When we ask to be taken to Bogart’s Rick’s Café, he takes us to Rex Café and insists the film was shot there.
The Travel Gods Must Be Crazy Page 6