The Travel Gods Must Be Crazy

by Sudha Mahalingam

  After a few hours, we enter Ramallah, a dusty town with concrete apartment blocks and nary a feature to distinguish itself. We make our way to the single attraction in this derelict town—the tomb of Yasser Arafat. Arafat’s smiling visage draped in telltale scarf dominates the government buildings, peeping from rooftops through a tangle of electric wires.

  At Arafat’s Mausoleum, we surrender our passports to the security. Instant smiles light up their faces as they glance at our passports. Indians are welcome, the officer says deferentially, and escorts us to the tomb to pay our respects to their departed leader. A proud Palestinian flag flutters atop the grave.

  We get back into the car and drive to Jericho, a couple of hours away, through more dust-blown, dreary roads. En route, we pass some tombs covered in green and red silken chadors.

  Jericho seems to be an oasis in the desert. The town is full of leafy neighbourhoods and sprawling bungalows peeking through a profusion of palm fronds. Jericho sprawls on a flat plain abutted by ruddy-hued hillocks on one side and the grey sliver of the Dead Sea shimmering on the horizon. The infamous West Bank of the Jordan River is no more than a dried-up ditch with nary a drop of water. The settlement is an oasis nourished, no doubt, by many springs and fresh-water sources that are not readily visible. Even in the Bible, Jericho was referred to as the City of Palm Trees.

  Old Jericho or the Biblical town is situated on the slopes of the hillock with its warren of caves. You can huff and puff your way up the 1.3-km trekking track to reach the Greek Monastery of the Temptation atop the cliff or you can simply glide up on a cable car for an astronomical fee. With temperatures on the wrong side of 40 °C and one of us on the wrong side of fifty, there is little choice but to cough up the unconscionable fare and ride on the dangling contraption. Just as well—you get spectacular views of dense banana plantations and emerald squares of orange trees.

  What they don’t tell you at the cable car station though is that the car doesn’t ride all the way up. It deposits you midway to the old town and you still have more winding slopes to conquer before you reach the entrance to the cave where Jesus Christ is believed to have fasted for forty days. There are more caves and canyons beyond, but in this heat, all one can do is to escape into the cool and cavernous interiors of the monastery carved into the hillside. It was to this piece of real estate on earth that Joshua, successor to Moses, first led the Israelites when they escaped from bondage in Egypt. The monastery was first constructed in the sixth century CE on the hillock identified as the Mount of Temptation because it was here that Jesus undertook penance to resist the temptations held out by Satan.

  Then came the Arabs who overran Palestine and conquered most of these areas including Jericho sometime around 630 CE. The Crusaders came nearly 500 years later to rescue Jericho from the Arabs and built two churches on the slopes. Later, the Arabs reclaimed Jericho from the Christians and demolished these churches. Towards the end of the nineteenth century, the Greek Orthodox Church purchased the land from the Arabs and built this monastery around the cave in which Jesus is believed to have stayed. In the end, like most sacred sites, faith is what determines its provenance.

  At this time of the day, we are the lone visitors to the monastery and we’re allowed to roam freely around the premises, although warned not to take photographs. The cave is bare and cool. There is a Greek chapel with exquisite frescos of biblical scenes. A stone slab with a cross cut out of its middle hangs from a balcony perched on the cliff side. It offers a tantalizing view of Jericho through the slits.

  Jericho never lets you forget it is the oldest continuously inhabited town on the planet, although Damascus in Syria and our own Varanasi also lay claim to the same fame as do many other cities across continents. Archaeological remains unearthed in Jericho point to a settlement as early as 8000 BCE. In later periods too, Jericho seems to have been a hot favourite of emperors and conquerors. Cyrus the Great, the Persian king, refounded the city and returned the Jewish exiles after conquering Babylon in 539 BCE. Alexander the Great had once made Jericho his personal estate way back in the fourth century BCE. Mark Antony had given Jericho as a gift to Cleopatra. Subsequently, Herod who got suzerainty over Jericho built a hippodrome in the town.

  The town draws upon its religious heritage and archaeological relics to make up for its otherwise unremarkable contemporary character. We stroll through shops packed with Biblical mementos and touristy kitsch. A buffet spread of local bread piled with shredded carrots and beetroot constitutes our lunch although we top it up with a glass of the freshly squeezed juice of Jericho oranges—truly a drink fit for the gods.

  Naif resumes his chatter as we whiz past bleak countryside to reach the Dead Sea. We don the regulation Dead Sea mud pack and slosh around a bit in the mucky, oily broth. Naif drives us to another historic site, the Tomb of Moses, before depositing us at the barbed-wire barricade with machine-gun-toting Israeli guards at Bethlehem from where we would make our way back to Jerusalem.

  Tokyo: Perched between Temples and Tech

  Not only does the ATM promptly spit out my perfectly valid global cash card, but to add insult to injury, on the ATM screen, two comic figures—a boy and a girl—nod and bow their heads in commiseration. Try the machine a second time, and it beeps in panic. The comic figures have been replaced by squiggly Japanese characters blinking in red, which one presumes is a warning. Arriving at Narita, one of the most modern airports in the world, you would expect things to work better. Most ATMs refuse global cards. Currency-change counters are already closed and if you think you can swipe your credit card everywhere instead of handling unfamiliar currency—one that runs into tens of thousands even for simple purchases—think again. Except expensive outlets, the rest accept only cash in this city that prides itself as one of the finance capitals of the world. Outside Tokyo, it is virtually impossible to get by with only a credit card. Fortunately for me, my hotel has sent me pick-up.

  My faith in Japanese technology is restored soon. The Japanese excel in the art of pampering your bottom, literally. While outside temperatures may plummet to below zero, loo seats are kept comfortably warm. An array of buttons, much like a console in a plane cockpit, serves up a variety of ablution options, at desired water temperatures. There are jets, squirts, trickle and drip options, if you go by the pictorial buttons. Sensors function like silent ghosts, switching on lights, activating the flush and faucets and so on. Initially, I was worried I’d scald my bottom if I pushed the wrong button, but was reassured by the concierge that the water temperature is always set to a comfortable 35 °C. In fact, wherever I went in Japan, my first challenge was to divine the faucet controls.

  Tokyo dazzles, with its steel, glass and chrome high-rises, lit by neon lights and LEDs. Yet, this city does not intimidate the way Beijing does. Small-town Tokyo still peeks out of the forest of spires. Tiny houses with even tinier, in fact, postage stamp–sized, gardens line the narrow alleyways. Not a square inch of land is wasted in this densely populated country. Japanese diligence and attention to detail is evident everywhere right from the way the laundry is pegged to the lines to the artistic arrangement of tiny potted plants at the doorways of homes.

  Tokyo’s roads are narrow and hence run one on top of the other. It is still possible to walk or cycle on the lower levels, even on the high street. Scores of bikers, especially old women, confidently pedal away, doing their own shopping or chores. Never mind if it starts drizzling while you are pedalling. Just stop at one of the numerous vending machines that dispense umbrellas. Vending machines sell almost everything—from condoms to travel insurance, from eats and drinks to ice cream. If you find it difficult to figure out the denominations of coins below ¥100, you just scoop whatever coins you have and dump them into the machine which does the calculation for you and spits out the surplus.

  It is easy to figure out the Tokyo Metro with its meticulous colour-coding and numbers. From Asakusa, home to the touristy Sensoji shrine, to the glitzy Ginza, Tokyo Metro almost
makes taxis redundant. Everyone seems to be in a tearing hurry, yet, there is an underlying orderliness and courtesy. Or at least so we Indians might think. Tokyo Metro authorities, however, are not impressed. Metro stations sport eye-catching posters that exhort commuters to behave. From tongue-in-cheek teasers to pictorial representations of dos and don’ts, commuters are constantly reminded to behave.

  I head to the ultimate pilgrimage destination for all Japanese. Yasukuni is a Shinto shrine established in 1869 for all those who laid down their lives in the Boshin War. Subsequently, in 1877, thousands of soldiers who put down the Satsuma rebels were also interred in the shrine under the orders of the then emperor of Japan. Yasukuni has evoked controversy for enshrining even war criminals along with other martyrs. The shrine authorities insist that they also served the emperor and hence deserve a place here. Protestors in black vans parked outside the shrine belt out music and distribute pamphlets to lodge their protest. The emperor, a shadowy but revered figure, lives next door behind the imposing walls of the imperial palace, and the protesters hope their message will reach him.

  At all Japanese shrines and temples, there is a little tank with bamboo-handled water scoops for pilgrims to purify themselves before entering, much like we have in our temples. I am tempted to pilfer one of these objects of beauty, but it was too long to hide anywhere. The Japanese believe in reducing everything to writing—spoken words are transient. Inside the temple premises, there are designated prayer frames where devotees can hang their private message to the deity. The prayer frames are festooned with identical white chits (sold at the shrine itself), each with entreaties inscribed by the hands of the devotees. At the magnificent Meiji shrine, the beer-makers’ guild has placed its offerings in the form of freshly brewed beer stacked in a row of casks.

  Many of us have our own misconceptions about the Japanese, gleaned largely from manga comics. If you come to Tokyo expecting to see spiky-haired youngsters sporting psychedelic hair colour and pierced all over, you might be disappointed. Although fashion-conscious, Japanese boys and girls are generally soberly dressed. Manga comics have given way to mobile phones. And Japan seems to be the least adventurous, gastronomically too. Try finding international food—pizzas, pastas or burgers—outside of five-star hotels. Ramen rules. Restaurants have plastic mould reproductions of the food they sell, prominently displayed at the entrance. And the Japanese smilingly refuse to recognize or accommodate vegetarians. If you’re the sort who dislikes seaweed or seafood or are a vegetarian, you might as well prepare to live on biscuits and fruit.

  I make my way to greet Hachiko, the dog who waited for his master at Shibuya station every day for thirteen years. He did not know his master had been killed in an accident. Tokyoites have erected a statue for Hachiko in this busy square. It is a touching monument to a faithful friend, albeit of the quadruped variety. The busy Shibuya station millions of commuters cross every week, is now known as Hachiko square.

  The high streets are full of young boys and girls who cajole pedestrians with their mellifluous sales pitches. In fact, calling out to customers is a rampant practice in Japan. Glitzy Ginza, once considered the rival of Champs-Élysées for hosting the maximum number of designer labels, has now bowed to other districts in this shopping-crazed city. I wrap up my visit to Tokyo with a quick trip to Sensō-ji temple (all temples have the suffix ‘ji’). The temple is crowded with worshippers, all Japanese. Rice-cake stalls do brisk business. The route is lined with touristy kitsch. Incense wafts from giant vats. Large Japanese families spanning three or four generations are a common sight. After all, despite all its pretensions, Japan seems thoroughly Asian at heart.

  Hidden Treasures in Moreh

  Gingerly stepping up a creaky ladder in the dark, we reach the penthouse, so to speak, of this three-storeyed thatch house. Maraikayar disappears into the dark depths below to re-emerge with a kerosene lantern that he hangs on a hook suspended from the bamboo rafter above. Then he vanishes again, leaving me alone in this gloomy room. The reluctant illumination casts eerie shadows on the thatch walls and reveals a freshly washed dhoti spread on a charpoy below. Cicadas are chirping lustily. Two lizards chase each other on the wall. There seems to be a mild drizzle outside. I am a bit uneasy wondering whether I should have accompanied him here at all.

  But then, Maraikayar is back in a flash, this time with a small cloth bundle knotted at the top. With a flick of his wrist, he loosens the knot and shakes the contents of the parcel on to the white dhoti. Thousands of glittering gems—mostly pink Mogok rubies, but also some emeralds and blue sapphires—tumble out on to the dhoti and wink back at me in a blur of sparkles. I am mesmerized.

  Surreal, and incongruous, considering the setting: a modest bamboo-and-thatch cottage built on stilts somewhere in the mosquito-ridden marshy backstreets of Moreh, a sleepy border town between Myanmar and Manipur. Maraikayar, a Tamil Muslim, has been a Moreh resident for over forty years now, and dabbles in everything from dosas to gems. Actually, I had come to his roadside eatery lured by the Tamil board outside which advertised dosas in this most unlikely corner of India, the Manipur–Myanmar border.

  The dosa itself had been unremarkable, but our conversation was not. Maraikayar traced the history of the Tamil population in Moreh—they all came from the east, many on foot, trudging for months through the malarial jungles of what was then known as Burma, during the Second World War. Those days, there used to be a huge Tamil expat population in Malaysia, mostly traders. The lot comprised refugees fleeing Japanese-occupied lands, traders from Penang and beyond. When they reached the Indian border, some were too tired to trudge any farther and chose to settle down there. They went on to build their own Tamil schools, of which there are five now, and an equal number of Tamil temples. Garishly painted Ayyanars, the dwarapalakas of the Tamil pantheon, adorn the entrances to temples, and the gopurams could have been plucked out of interior towns in the deep south. The Tamil settlers in Moreh trade in ginger mostly, but also do a bit of smuggling on the side—mostly Chinese blankets, thermos flasks, torches and, perhaps, other contraband too. As I was leaving his eatery after my meal, Maraikayar asked me tentatively what my business in Moreh was and whether I would be interested in looking at some gems.

  Back in his thatch hut now, he scoops a handful of similar-sized rubies and arranges them into a necklace on the dhoti. ‘Take the lot—it’s only 6500,’ he says. He also tells me about a famous classical dancer who had come recently and picked up gemstones worth more than a lakh of rupees. He arranges another lot in the form of a bracelet. Unfortunately, I had not anticipated this cornucopia of sparklers in this most desolate corner of our land and had come unarmed with cash. Maraikayar, of course, would not trust me with credit even if it meant sending someone with me to Imphal where I could possibly arrange finance.

  This was the year 2001. My trip to Manipur was to visit my husband who was posted there. After a few days in Imphal and Loktak, I still had a few more days to kill and hence decided to check out other places nearby. The Burmese border was just five hours away, and I was itching to see what a border town was like. Since hubby was too busy to go with me, I set out on my own, travelling from Imphal to Moreh on a rickety Sumo crammed with a dozen other passengers, alongside baskets of fowl and bundles of clothes and household items. It was a gruelling five-and-a-half-hour ride during which we were repeatedly stopped at numerous check posts and our vehicle inspected with exasperating precision by all manner of uniformed men, at times from paramilitary outfits, at others from the local police. Moreh is the very last town on the Indian side of the border.

  Moreh, a frontier town in the boondocks, looked every bit its part. Swampy and mosquito-ridden, it was a picture of despair. But for the disenfranchised lot of Tamils who could not find a home in prosperous Malaya (in those days it used to be called Malaya and the Malayan Federation included Singapore as well), it was a land of opportunity.

  Curiosity takes me to the other side of the border, a Myanmarese village
called Tamu. You can cross the border check post—a waist-high cattle gate where a lone security official sells day passes costing Rs 10 each.

  There are tuk-tuks waiting to ferry you to the village on the other side. Burmese girls draped in floral printed sarongs, with high cheekbones and cheeks smeared with bright tanaka, squeeze together into the tuk-tuk rattling its way to Tamu town through paddy fields and banana plantations. We soon alight in downtown Tamu. Vendors hawk sweet sticky rice cooked in bamboo poles. I make my way to the high street to see what it has to offer.

  I can’t believe my eyes. This tiny, nondescript village in a godforsaken corner of the jungle has a row of shops stocked to the gills with—you guessed it right—ruby-studded jewellery. There are bangles and necklaces, studs and tops, rings and bracelets, all glittering from inside their glass cases. There are also heaps of rubies and sapphires, cat’s eye and peridot, jade and topaz, all neatly arranged in bowls and sold by the carat. I have never seen so much jewellery and so many gems in one place, not even in the jewellery section of Mustafa store in Singapore or G.R.T. Thanga Maligai in Chennai, both sprawling on football field–sized floors in their respective locations. I wonder who comes all the way to Tamu to pick up this exquisite and expensive jewellery. Obviously, they must be doing brisk business; why else would they be there? I count twenty-nine shops on the high street, but lose interest after that. Not when my wallet is so emaciated that all I can afford is a ride back to Imphal in that rickety Sumo.

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