Good Morning Luang Prabang!

Morning starts .. 

Its 0755 hours in Luang Prabang, Laos. The school gate in front of my breakfast table opened at 0700 hours and so did my taste buds to the freshly brewed Lao Coffee. Just like any other town, children walk, bike or are dropped by their parents to school and like any other children they are half sleepy as they walk through the gate. But something is different about this school and there is something different about this town. A teacher walks out with a broom in her hand and sweeps the side walk, the children follow, not in a line as told but as they are used to. The Crepe seller entices some of them as the scent from the hot pan touched with butter fills the air. Motor bikes sometimes just one and sometimes 4 - 5 wait at the gate and the children get off. A child is in a hurry to go in, as his parent tries to make him wear a jacket to take care of the early morning chill. It will get warmer in Luang Prabang as the sun comes breaking the clouds. It will get warmer but it wont ever get busier than this. This is why I love this place.
The river flows adjacent and the temple gives out a chant but I do not have to be away from the main street to be at peace. How many touristy places in the world have this, I wonder.

The Children and the Crepe .. 

The Children .. The Teacher and the Broom!

Today is my last day here and I am counting hours, literally. I don't want to go. Although I know I will be back, i still don't want to leave. 

I witnessed the Alms giving to the monks this morning. Did not sleep very well, but I still feel fresh, very fresh. After giving the sticky rice in alms to the walking monks I got a little weary of it. It does feel a little touristy and just like a ritual with the many tourists clicking pictures before dawn and then multiplying it as the light gets better. I thought I would sit through the final lap of the monks, but I got up much before that. I walked on the side of the river and witnessed the other Luang Prabang as the Locals got with their morning chores. A man polished his knives, a lady laid out the tables in front of her guest house and got the cakes, foil wrapped from yesterday to the front. A child walked out with a toothbrush in his mouth and the gardening staff of a posh hotel swept the fallen leaves. I walked till the scent of coffee lured me to the table where I am at. 

The school I think has started .. The crepe seller will try and get some tourists now with his main business with the kids getting over and  I will get on with mine … 

Goodbye Santiago!

Dear Santiago, 

Although I do not so much like you from the point of view of tourism, you are still dear to me. It is always late at night that I touch down on your runway and still later, when my tour bus makes it to your centre. I am tired, hungry and all those concrete and glass structures that greet me on the way to my hotel, I despise. What do you expect? I am coming from the South and from places where the woods and the waters have fascinated me over the years. As I sleep in your arms, I don't feel cuddled even in the super comfortable bed linen your hotels boast of. The feeling of going back to the south keeps knocking at my door, even when I am waking up to a day I don't feel like even starting. For I know it will be the day of the ‘city tour’. A day when you will impose more of your so called arty concrete in your old centre or the same glass in the business district. 

I get out in the open leaving the hotel behind, hoping of taking the bus not in your streets but back to the airport. I put on my head phones to cut the sound of the guide talking about history blah blah and more blah. I want to close my eyes and shut myself completely off from you when casually I look out of the window and see the people. Not too many, and certainly not less. I don't feel the difference from other cities in general. The cities that keep you company in your larger domain. Buenos Aires, Lima and Sao Paolo. All cities that I feel nothing in and only treat them with the same kind of remorse as I feel for you. 

The bus stops and I get down with my group. The same drill! I walk off away from them and into some street with a place to eat. I find a random eatery with some activity and occupy a table in the hope of making up for missing the same old hotel breakfast of scrambled eggs and coffee earlier in the morning. I know what I will eat, and I have to join the group back. So I eat, I pay and greet the waiter on my way out. As I walk back to my group at least my stomach is full with the ‘Avocado’ that I think is the only thing I love about you. The rest of the day goes on and there is nothing that I wish to write about you. In the hotel, I don't even feel like getting out to know you more. 

This, Santiago, has been going on since the first time I came to you in 2010 and ever since, I have told myself, never again! 

A few months back I finally managed to take you out of my tour itinerary by re arranging some flights that will only make me fly over you. So, when I landed this time at the same nightly hour as I always do, and felt the same on my way to the hotel, I smiled and said to myself, 'this thank god is the last time'. However an undercurrent crept up in me the night I went to bed. I still did not feel your cuddle and I still did not feel the warmth. But then I realised you are like this. You are always like this to everyone. To the many people that depend on you for their daily living, you never cuddle them. You simply provide. I know that all the cities do the same, they provide. But now as I know this is the last time I will be visiting you, I feel your eyes all over me. They are not asking me to come again. They are simply staring .. and in your stare I catch something. Something I cant explain through words but can only feel. 

Did you ask me something, through those eyes of yours? Coz even if you did not, i might have an answer. I finally know why I feel this way as I leave you. Not sad, but not happy. ‘Saudade’ is a word in Portuguese that best describes it. I at some moment of ‘yesterday’, while I walked out of the eatery felt like being a part of the people on the streets. People, not tourists! This, I have never felt in any other city and I don't know why I feel it with you. You were all dead to me and now suddenly you are alive and what a time to do it?!!

I know I wont come to you with a group of tourists. I know however I will come, just to be one of yours!

Bariloche to Puerto Varas .. The Tip of Patagonia!

On a cold windy evening, the sound of the waves hitting the shore makes me forget that this is not a sea I am hearing from. The Lake Region which comprises of land from both Argentina and Chile is the start of the wonder called Patagonia. When in Patagonia, if its not windy, the locals feel out of home. 

Lake Nahuel Huapi from my room in Bariloche

The morning starts all sunny with still views of the Nahuel Huappi Lake. The local guide very confidently exclaims “look at the lake now and then we will see it again on our way back”. As I sit by the view of my lake facing room, with the window just aptly open to let the sound of the wind and waves in, I can state that I have just begun to understand Patagonia. 

View of the lake from Mt. Companero

I first came to the town of Bariloche in 2013 and came here on a clue. A scene from the movie, ‘Motorcycle Diaries’, where ‘Che’ played  by Gael Garcia Bernal looks at the lake in front of him and then the mountains that fall on the waters and the words just flow out, ‘Viva Chile’, long live Chile! It is the first time he has crossed the borders of his country and entered a foreign land. I did the same crossing of the borders three years ago and then I don't remember exactly the feeling that went through me when I saw from the cross border waters the mountain that belonged to Chile. It certainly didn't feel like ‘Che’, It certainly didn't feel like Chile or that I was crossing Argentina. It just felt like Patagonia. 

The spring cherry blossom - Bariloche

The lake crossing of the Andes is one of the high points of North Patagonia with a full day dedicated to moving from Bariloche in the east to Puerto Varas, Chile in the west. Being on the east of the Andes Bariloche and inland gets its rain coming from the pacific blocked by the mighty mountains. Since more of ‘Patagonian Land’ is in Argentina, the minimal rainfall makes it look like a vast expanse of ‘Steppes’, mostly covered with dry grass. The rivers that originate in the lakes flow into the Atlantic and even then the green spots are limited only to the foot hills of the Andes on the Argentinian side. This scarce of green gives the Argentinian Patagonia its character. Where for kilometres and kilometres one sees nothing but dry grasslands. Where ranches known locally as Estancias feel like a mini province in its expanse. I have yet to see this expanse and I only write from what I have seen on the tip of the iceberg. 

  

The dry grasslands of North Argentinian Patagonia

Even though on the lake crossing it doesn't feel like a different country, once I’ve crossed over and gone just over 10 kms inland Chile, it feels like a different Patagonia. Grasslands become the terrain, but this time not like the Steppes but like the foot hills of the Alps. That is the reason the Germans and the Swiss were called by the then government of Chile to settle here and they did come, first alone and later joined by their families. With a landscape like back in Europe the highlanders sure didn't miss their home.  

The German feel is everywhere in the town of Puerto Varas, from the cafe’s to the beer that they serve here. The German thing however ends there and it gets purely Chilean when it comes to the way of dealing with people. 

The Osorno Volcano - Puerto Varas

Patagonian Chile feels different than Argentina through its people and more through its food. The people on both side of the Andes are warm, but I have to give it to the Chileans, for that little bit of extra effort they take to deal with tourists. The food, the seafood is a big point scorer too when compared with Argentina. Its all beef and meet in Argentina and even the fish is more or less the trout coming from the lakes. In Chile … What can I say about the seafood!!

It makes all the difference specially for a person like me. 

The Fish Market of Puerto Montt

The fish market of Puerto Montt feels like the original version of the Bergen fish market in Norway. 

Norway and Chile!! There is a whole lot I can write about these two nations. But this is not about the countries, as much it is about a region. A region where nature makes you look so small that you have no other option but to sit back in silence and wonder. 

The only thing to break that silence is the scent of its food and the warmth of the people of the South of South America. Nature alone is beautiful and for some people that would be enough. As far as I go, I need the culture to add on to the whole experience. Patagonia starts with the lake region and whenever I talk about it to the locals here they always tell me to go south. I simply smile and tell them, someday I will. I just will!

A Bug called South America

I am on a flight to Buenos Aires. I don't know how many more hours there are until we touch down and I don't even want to know(maybe coz they upgraded me to business class). I want to however land and get out on the ‘streets of the continent’. 

Buenos Aires although more European than any of its partner cities in South America, still feels one with the continent. In my travels, there have been these three regions on the planet that have fascinated me and made me go deeper into them for reasons best known to me. Scandinavia,  Eastern Europe and South America. When I think of these three regions I immediately think of the homogenous feel their elements have in whichever corner you touch. There is this distinct Scandinavian style in every aspect of how a town or a village looks to how the people that live in it are. The style gets a little more ‘not so easy’ to specify when you move east and go to Poland or Albania. However you still are ‘very aware’ that this is the east.

What makes South America and its ‘feel’ so unique is the expanse in which the character is spread. Nowhere on this planet would you find such tastes which are more or less similar and in an area so widely spread as South America. Yes, each one has its own different nature but it is not just the Spanish that is widely spoken makes up for the similarities. It is something that cannot be defined as easily as in Scandinavia or Eastern Europe, but you would know it is somehow South American.

The head of Patagonias untamed nature - Bariloche

 It was in 2014 - 15 that maybe I decided, more has to be done to promote the continent amongst the people back home, in India. To promote was to simply keep coming here no matter the number of people I have with me and certainly no matter if the economics are working out or not. 

The challenge itself starts from the flights. 

To Buenos Aires the length of the flight time in hours from India although maybe less than its North American counterpart like Chicago, but still the limitation of connectivity makes getting to the South a long shot and a more expensive affair than the North. However once you get to South America you would, like me, realise why you have to get there. The other part of the challenge would be the language, Spanish is an essential tool and needs to be employed from time to time with whatever skill quotient you have. The distance to travel and the absence of a rail network or more flights to conquer the expanse is yet another bit of a difficulty. However once you are on the continent you simply accept all this and keep moving, just as you do in India with its huge train network but double the madness. 

Pisco Sour with Parmesan Scallops in Paracas, Peru

The untamed nature, the warmth in its people or the food? I don't know what is it about South America that keeps me coming back. To people who call me to book the trip but are concerned with things among which primary is the price, I often say, “do not wait, simply come with me as I know the Bug has bit you, the more you wait the more you would suffer”.

As for me the infection grows. 

Peru with Love..

I came to this continent for the first time in 2011. A group of seven is all I had on my first tour. It was too early in my work as a tour organiser that I had ventured this far away from India. The land felt far but once I landed in Buenos Aires it didn't feel that distant from some of the other countries I had already been to. I had only been able to complete the preliminary level in Spanish and that was good enough to get me started with the basics in dealing with ordering food(very important when you have vegetarians) and getting things done on the ground. In my class I had already identified more with the chapter in which they spoke about food and travel and I remember revising the chapter again as I was inflight from Johannesburg to Buenos Aires. 

Chile felt just like Argentina with a little more warmth in peoples expressions and with only Santiago on the charts, it didn't feel anything special to be in two cities back to back. 

Then came Peru! At first nothing seemed pleasing. The streets of Lima were not kept well, the traffic maddening and the buildings on the way to the hotel from the airport looked like they needed a facelift. I may even have thought of whether I really wanted to do this tour again. Then came the highlands and at 12000 ft above sea level, Cusco hit me bad. I am not very altitude friendly and even today anything above 10000 ft makes me feel want to get away to the sea level, no matter how beautiful the place is. Cuzco, back then didn't feel beautiful, but it felt like South America! Yes, for the first time the continent came into picture in its real sense. The people looked different and most of them were not white. Everything felt slow, maybe because of my head ache. 

The Plaza de Armas - Cuzco

 But the language was more easy to understand and the people were more willing to help. After 5 painful but different days in the ‘high andes’ we were back on the sea level and in a sea side town called Paracas. I remember my first ‘Pisco Sour’, a cocktail made with lime juice, egg white and sugar all mixed together with 50 ml of the local Pisco and lots of ice. The pacific was in front of me and the Scallops that are found in plenty on the South Peruvian shore were in me. The bartender narrated stories of the coast and how its people are different than the highlands. Even with my little knowledge of Spanish his stories I understood and I realised what an important thing it is to speak the language of the country and its people.

The Pacific in Paracas

Today after 5 years as I fly out of Lima and to Iguassu Falls in Brasil, I think of all the times I have been to this continent and somehow only Peru sticks in. The itinerary has changed a lot over the years. From spending only 6 nights here in Peru, I am now spending 9 nights and 10 days. The Peruvian Amazon, replaced the Brazilian one, the Nazca lines had to be taken off and the altitude sickness that made me mad was dealt with by staying in the Sacred Valley at 8,700 ft for the first 2 days to acclimatise. The people have come to love the Peruvian cuisine and even the vegetarians eat out of their hands. The locals always have a pleasant conversation with my people even if its in broken English. The Pisco Sour I still have at the same bar in front of the Pacific Ocean in Paracas and I always end up telling the bar man the same thing. “This is the best Pisco Sour I have had in Peru”.

The Pisco Sour with Scallops Parmesana

My Spanish has not really improved and I keep making mistakes which the locals are happy to correct or just make sense of what I am trying to tell. 

“Peru for me is South America in miniature”, said a tourist yesterday. Its true, Peru has everything from the Andes, to the Pacific Ocean. The Amazon forest makes up for 60 % of the land and a lot of what is left is the Andes or the desert hugging sea shore. After the ‘mostly meat’ diet of Argentina, Peru feels fresh. Fresh in its peoples attitude more than anything else. No wonder, it overtakes all the other countries in tourism in this continent. It is very easy for the people working in tourism in any country to have a commercially inclined mindset after the tourism has boomed. I always tell people to go to Myanmar before the locals there smile because they are paid to do so and not because its in their warm nature to do so. Countries like Peru give me hope. A hope that no matter how much money comes to the country through tourism and development, it is the people and the culture that lives in them that finally decides their attitude. 

To me South America is Peru. Not that I don't like Argentina, Chile and Brazil. But there is something in Peru that makes me fall in love with it. Something, which I don't even want to analyse, but just feel!

Finding Iceland

I am writing this after more than two months of me coming back from Iceland. I had started to write in Iceland but somehow it felt too detailed, something which Scandinavia is. Detailed yet to the point. Iceland though not a part of the Scandinavian peninsula is very close to what Scandinavia feels like. For me Scandinavia means Norway and thats the only reason I had put Iceland on the back bench since it began to surface in my mind. 

‘The Northern Lights in Iceland’ read a Facebook post in September, and then whoever was posting those pictures posted a few more over the next week. Meanwhile my friends in Tromso, Norway posted their pictures of the lights and somehow it seemed like a showdown between Tromso, the official capital of the Northern Lights sighting on the planet to the entire Iceland, the new emerging sensation. I think somewhere in that period I clicked the ‘book’ button on the Air Iceland website. 

For the first winter since 2011, I had done two back to back trips to North Norway and when I touched down at the Keflavik airport in Iceland at 1530 hrs, the total darkness was not a stranger. It was only when I saw the prices in the menu displayed outside the restaurants on the main street in Iceland did I completely felt like being in an extension of Norway. 

The Continental Split between the Euro and North American plates.

With no plan in my mind I woke up in my hostel bed on the first morning in Reykjavik. The coffee was free flowing in the hostel kitchen but my mind wasn't with any ideas of what to do in the 3 days I had allowed myself in Reykjavik. In those first few hours I was sure I was not going to come back here again and maybe was even telling myself, ‘relax this is a holiday and Norway is Norway’. 

It took me 24 hours to go from ‘maybe not again’ to ‘have to come again’. 

The cities are cities, maybe a Reykjavik or an Oslo, it is only when the raw power of nature overtakes the tar roads and man made buildings does a real country makes its presence felt. The North of Iceland and just 6 hours of travelling in it made me change my mind about Iceland. 6 hours full of geysers, mud sulphur pools, frozen waterfalls, and a hot pool in - 10 deg centigrade. But it is not the pure nature that helped me make my decision. It is the simplicity of its people too. 

Like the ice-cream shop in Akureyri, still there as it was made in 1950’s, serving the locals and the house on the old street which has aged more than a 100 years and still stands with all its glimmer with the post christmas lighting, which they keep till the end of Feb. Electricity is virtually free and the surrounding dark, so wouldn’t. 

When the waters are at +40 Deg C, the Air doesn't matter

One of the many frozen Waterfalls in North Iceland

 I don't know when I will get back to this country again. A country where they say, “who needs hash, when we have ash’. Where the geo thermal activity makes it the most unique in Scandinavia, and its people who proudly display their ‘100% pure Icelandic’ tag are more friendlier than anywhere in Scandinavia. 

Iceland, in winter and in summer I wish to come back to you. Right now I have just found you, there is still the discovering to be done. 

Hanoi, Night and Day!

I generally dislike cities. I live in one of the biggest and the most populated cites in the world and that in itself makes me run away from anything similar when I travel. I live in a city which might not have a lot of sights to check, but has something more than mere sightseeing for the average tourist. It has a strong character. 

In my travels around, only Rio in Brazil had matched the colour of Mumbai. A colour which when looked at from the ground seems to be only of one shade. The shade that you currently see as experiencing the scene in front of you. That might be the grey of poverty, the red of glamour or the yellow of the bright faces one sees walking on the crowded streets. But, get above the streets and look at it from a different angle(and I don't mean going into the top floor of the towers) and you will not make up any shade. Its  a mad mixture of everything and yet there is a distinct colour to it. I love the fact that you don't know what you love in a place.

In Hanoi, Vietnam I have had a similar experience. There is something in the city I cant explain. At first when I came here 6 months ago, I immediately felt peaceful in the mad rush of its old quarter. I wasn't that far away in days from Mumbai, but even then it felt good to walk around the streets as if it was my city. The sweat was minimal though and with it the fragrance of different kinds of foods was the only thing which made my walk on the first night in Hanoi, somewhat different than the ones I have had in Mumbai. 

One of the busy streets in the old quarter, Hanoi.

 There is the Hanoi of the night which has a wild side to it, but even after my second time here I know it is not as wild as Bangkok. In the old quarter, which is the pulse of Hanoi, people, both tourists and locals sit on small plastic stools and go about their chore of eating. When I look at faces of locals and in them the tourists, all look the same. Its like they all have the colour of Hanoi on them.

Then there is the Hanoi of the morning, especially the early morning. In my first few minutes of walking on the lake front, I could smell the air different. The scent of food was still in the air but with it the sight of people, mostly locals starting with their day made me feel like a resident of the city. Tai chi on the lake remained in my mind as I had my breakfast of the Pho(noodle soup) with chicken at a road side stall and later downed a freshly brewed iced coffee. I wanted to stay for more but I had to go back to my hotel to pack up for my flight. That morning was left incomplete so I went again today. Since the last 9 days on this tour of Cambodia, Laos and North Vietnam, it is only Hanoi in the morning that made me wake up an hour before the alarm rang. 

Pho at a 'not so roadside joint'

When I think of both the times, the night has its energy like you would expect, but what makes the early morning different is along with the obvious calm there is a different pulse that comes with it. It is like the energy from the night just spilled over to the next morning. I have seen the odd food stall serving food late till the night and the same lady opening up for the morning breakfast, like she has been over the last 30 years maybe. 

Off course there are other parts of Hanoi which i haven't experienced yet and maybe they are the same like any other city with their offices and shopping malls. The old quarter however remains the place to be in Hanoi. No matter how cynic you are, no matter how much I tell myself, “oh I have had it with the dirt, cramped up food joints and loud noise”. It is to the old quarter that I return to. Like last night when I thought of eating at a shopping mall which I had taken my tourists to but eventually came back to an old quarter food joint, which turned out to be quiet an institution. Sticky rice with meat floss, white corn and chicken is what they have been selling for the last, i don't know how many years. Like the many little unknown food stalls, that have stuck to one item and mastered it. 

I am on my way back to where I live, after having ‘lived’ in Hanoi. 

Luang Prabang, Laos - European face, Asian smile!

My first view of Luang Prabang was on Google Images. I was not even aware that such a town existed. As my screen started to show a village like town from an aerial view with two rivers joining hands at its head, I was already clicking on more images. The initial reaction from my Hanoi based agent when I told her about wanting to add Laos and in it Luang Prabang to the Vietnam & Cambodia itinerary, was a ‘why’?

“Why do you want to go there? You have a similar kind of town in Central Vietnam, called Hue and much cheaper”, she said in one of our 30+ mails, exchanged to discuss what exactly to do different in the already touristy Vietnam and Cambodia. 

The only way I could decide between the Central Vietnam and Luang Prabang in Laos was by going to both the places, before having the tourists come with me. Back in October 2015, on a bus from Hue to Hanoi in Vietnam, I was kind of desperate in wanting Luang Prabang to be better than the architecturally old world chinese but very commercial, Hue. I had to however scrape through the madness of Vientiane, the capital of Laos to reach Luang Prabang. As I stepped out of my over crowded Toyota van, the first welcoming sign was the breath of fresh mountain air. We indians and especially people from Mumbai dislike sweat, crowd and rush when we travel. The first few minutes and I had already known that the matter of sweat is resolved, now I had to see if the crowd and rush give me a 1:2 ratio against coming to Luang Prabang. I wanted a 3:0 in favour of Luang. I still remember the relief I felt, when I first entered the centre of the town on a shared Tuk Tuk from the bus station. There were tourists, but for some reason it didn't feel crowded. 

The very French main street 

That evening when I had already made up my mind about coming to LP back with tourists, I changed a few dollars more than what I would normally on a 2 night stay. I was not worried about the left over Kip (local currency in Laos). A old world (not thankfully chinese) french town with a lot of south east asia character which dripped from the smiles of the local Lao people was a recipe for at least 3 - 4 nights of stay. 

I could just spend all the time walking on its quant streets (only post sunset) in the glimmer of the low lit shops and cafes. But I would have people with me and an answer had to be found to, ‘what to do for the period of stay’?

Trip advisor is something which I have come to have a love - hate relationship with. At the onset when one is completely unaware of what to do or where to stay in a place, trip advisor is a good platform but then I believe one should simply follow ones own path.  When a place becomes famous with a 4 star + rating on trip advisor it usually stinks of management making things work to just keep up the rating. The soul is replaced by plain smiling faces I think. When I chose the living land company for a half day excursion out of the near 2 days I had in Luang Prabang, I chose it for what their website said and how they appeared to be but the initial guidance came from trip advisor. 

When I visited the farm where the whole process from seed to feed is actively shown, I was happy. Happy that we would as a group, have a really different activity to do in the town which was at par with the feel of the town. 

'Suzuki' the water buffalow at the 'living land farm'

Sticky rice being steamed 

The other obvious choices, the Kuang Si waterfall with a asian bear rescue centre and the city tour made up for the 3 days I would choose to spend here. 

3 days ago as the flight from Siem Reap to Luang Prabang was about to land the flight attendant announced the outside temperature to be +15 deg C, a drop of 18 deg C from Siem Reap. I however knew the people would have a 180 deg turn around in terms of the feel, once they see the central street of Luang Prabang. I like it when someone from my group asks me on the first day at a place which I want them to like, “How many nights do we have here?”. In Luang Prabang as a 65 year old lady from my group looked at the Mekong from her room with a face I know well, the question came, “why are we only staying for 3 nights here”?

The river Mekong is the biggest in South East Asia and it runs through the length of Laos after beginning in China and ending in the Mekong Delta near Ho Chi Minh, Vietnam. It is in Luang Prabang that it meets the Nam Kham and therefore fish is an integral part of the cuisine here in Lao. The local snack, khai pan is a dish where, mekong river weed is dried with some sesame and fried to be eaten with a chilly paste. The paste usually is anywhere from spicy to super spicy and is therefore combined with sticky rice, a national past time. Rice is rolled in balls and dipped in any sauce, and you have a wholesome meal. The starch content in the sticky rice is more than the regular grain and therefore the average person feels and remains full till mid day after having a breakfast of sticky rice with fish or pork. The lunch again has to take care of not feeling hungry till dinner and therefore its sticky rice time for the mid day meal as well. 

We have had our quota of rice and before the noodles of Vietnam, something like a Pizza is a safe bet to give variety to the already deprived vegetarians. So it was Pizza for the guests. As for me, I had the other Lao meal. A fish fillet stuffed with pork and steamed in a banana leaf. 

Fish with Pork steamed in Banana Leaf

The more I come to Laos, the more I want to come again. As I write from my flight to Hanoi, and going back to the mad tourist rush, I know I wouldn't mind if Laos was the only thing that people remembered from this trip of Vietnam Laos and Cambodia. Without Luang Prabang and its laid back european ambience added to that the Laotian greeting of ‘Sawasdee’ coming from every person on the street, there is no Laos for me. As i sipped my last bit of the Lao mango juice on a cafe on the main street, the only thing asian about the experience was the mango, until the bill came and with it came, khop chai (thank you, in Laotian). 

Khop Chai Luang Prabang for staying Luang Prabang. 

Angkor Wat to Angkor Wat

‘Angkor Wat', the biggest temple complex on the planet. A Hindu King and his dynasty gave it all in making Angkor the biggest and the richest human settlement of the region and some say the entire world in that era. An era which when it ended in 1350 already had under it 400 years of glory. Like any other kingdom in its fag end, Angkor of the 1300’s also had a relatively meek death. The buddhist came from Thailand and conquered, and the statues of the hindu gods were replaced by idols of Buddha! The walls however lay untouched. Untouched and kept to fade away, slowly into being almost overrun by wild forests growing all around and into them. 

When I choose my travel destinations, I usually skip places with the above description. Age old history and monuments related to ‘the era’ hold no excitement for me. But something of the size of Angkor Wat in Siem Reap, Cambodia had to be done for touring purposes, just like maybe the Taj Mahal in India for a foreigner.  

In the last 48 hours, my group saw all the important temple sights. We woke up at 0430 hours on the first day and saw the sun coming up from behind the main temple. The sun shone from behind the stone and onto the few thousand tourists waiting on this side of the water pond, to take the reflection of the temple against the orange sky of dawn. Each one of us had the temple photo pass(we had to wait in a serpentine line to have our tired faces photographed), that gave us a full day access into the UNESCO sight. Some other tourists had taken their passes for 3 and a few for 7 days. I don't know how in a place over run by tourists will one be able to find peace with the monument, even if it was visiting it for a week. 

Angkor, the main temple at 0600 hours

The mad rush of tourists to take capture Angkor at Sunrise

I tried not to be over cynical with the place, so I kept my view as unbiased as possible, by not entering any of the temple. The structures however are unique to what I have experienced in the man made ancient world. But they are still man made, and thats why the only place I really felt was different, was the Wat Prong. Wat(temple) Prong(i cant remember) is different not because of its architecture, but the way nature destroyed what men made. The trees grew and they kept on growing since the 1400’s. The trees that grew in the soil were fine but then some started to grow on the roof and the roots give the structure its uniqueness. It rains and it is really rains in the wet season. The leaves from the trees after drying fell on the roof, which after decomposing, became the fertiliser. The seeds came later and took to becoming plants getting their water from the moss growing on the roof. The plant grew and when the moss was insufficient to provide the moisture, the roots reached for all the places they could suck water from, even if it meant to drop down 10 feet into the soil.

The roots reaching for the ground 

As a group and even as an individual this was my first time in Siem Reap. With the mad rush of tourists I might not want to promote it in the future. Irrespective what I think, everyone wants to strike Angkor off their ‘to visit’ list, and tourists (especially westerners) will continue to flock to Cambodia and in it Angkor Wat. With a $20 entry fee and at minimum of 4 - 5 thousand daily visitors the place has its economy intact for another 40 years.

But it is something that happened 40 years back, that caught my attention. I had  heard about the Khmer rouge in the same context as Hitler or the Bosnian war. We cant merit the ill fame of a human calamity by the number of lives lost. But if we have to arrange in descending order the ruthlessness of humans towards other human beings with the objective to achieve total control over a piece of land, Cambodia, and what happened here between 1975 and 1978 would certainly be in the top 5 human tragedies on our planet. 

I never intended to visit this part of the world and nor were / are the media channels interested in covering what happened in Cambodia in the dark years. So, I only heard of the full extent of the Khmer Rouge horror when I came to Siem Reap. 

What happens when a totalitarian regime dictates all the educated city dwellers to go and work in forced labour on rice fields? Then adding to that the village folk between the age of 15 - 20 yrs, are handed over the reign of the capital Phnom Phen, which they hold firm with a machine gun. 

Well what happens is 2 million people disappearing in 3 years from a population of 9 million. The Vietnamese then ruled the country for another 6 years, wiping out a further one million. The Berlin wall fell in 1989 and with it communism vanished from Europe. But it took another 20 for communism to leave Cambodia. 

Cambodia slowly opened for tourism in 1995. Angkor Wat became a worldwide sensation. From the greatness  of Angkor in the 1100’s to the popularity which it enjoys today Angkor Wat seems to have come a full circle. Much like the local people which are called the Khmer who are once again smiling with tourism feeding everyone. 

Angkor at 1700 hours 

The Balkans continued - Day 4 - Kosovo in a Day!

As my eggs hit the pan, I had to shut the door to the Hostel Kitchen. The lone woman at the reception was in her 5th month and already feeling pukish I think. It was a dinner of eggs over tinned Tuna, after all Albania was over. As I sat there and ate along, I couldn't stop thinking about what I need to do the next day. Through my Macedonian coffee post dinner, I was playing with the idea of taking a road trip in Kosovo. 

Pristina, the capital was only 2.5 hours away from Skopje. But it was not the mad capital I wanted to go to. The interiors and the town of Prizren was what I had read about and had even heard from my Tirana travel agent somedays back. The east of Macedonia which had to be dealt in the summer due to possible closed roads in the winter was a strike out for a day trip. So after some “what would be the price for a day” discussion with the reception, we reached a pick up time next day. In this way Kosovo made a wild card entry in the Balkan itinerary. 

At 0700 hrs on a - 3 deg morning, the driver entered the hostel. “Do you want some coffee”? I asked the driver, as I was getting ready to leave the hostel kitchen. He promptly replied “no”. This and the opposite of ‘no’ were the two words he used mostly through our next 12 hours on the road. In the beginning all my attempts at making a conversation with him were futile as he was struggling more with the crazy fog and a visibility, than he was struggling with his english. 

Through the years of traveling in countries where English is not the first language (all but New Zealand), I learnt very quickly that rather than them it is me who needs to speak their language in order to have a basic communication. Still, I have to be honest and say that it does get irritating at times when you are not alone and have a group of people waiting for a proper reply. On that foggy winter morning, however it didn't matter, as I was without my tourists, so it was all good. 

Kosovo has a very dark past. First, it was in the joint Yugoslavia and even then 90 % of the population was Albanian. When Slovenia, Croatia and even Bosnia gained their independence from ex Yugoslavia, but more to say, from Serbia, Kosovo kept being watched over closely by its strong neighbour, Serbia. After Serbia let Montenegro go on brotherly grounds(both are orthodox catholics), it was Kosovo’s turn to declare itself free. The result, bombing and mass genocide of villages in Kosovo by the Serbian army. The Serbians I have met in my travels don't fully agree, but it is only after NATO bombed Belgrade, did Serbia withdraw its army from Kosovo. With that came also the mass exodus of the 15% orthodox catholic population to either orthodox Macedonia, Serbia or Montenegro. 

The Bombed building from the war and the poster asking European Union to take notice

Its not some 100 yr old text book thing, it happened less than 10 years ago and so the wounds are fresh. They can be felt in a different way in Kosovo than in Bosnia, where it was worst coz a neighbour killed a neighbour. I was expecting real poverty as I stamped my passport and entered Kosovo. What I saw was a major industrial zone instead. Automobiles and everything related to it. I guess it were the taxes or something in this youngest country in Europe that had turned it into an industrial hot spot of the south east. As we drove through the countryside and to Prizren, I noticed more and more cars with Swiss number plates. In towns there were Pizza places called, ‘Norway Pizza’. Refugees of Syria are in news now, in the late 90’s however there were the other kind of refugees, The Balkan refugees. I looked out of the window and thought, ‘what has changed since’?

Prizren, Kosovo, on a cold winter day ..

The winter fog spread over Prizren, and through it pierced the minaret of the central mosque, screaming the muslim roots of the town. It was below freezing when I got out of the car and in the first 10 mins decided that Prizren would be a stop over for lunch in the itinerary and not maybe a place to spend a night.  It had a old town with cobbled stone streets and cafes lined up to serve the summer visitors, but the charm was missing.  The air was getting colder and I was ready to leave and proceed to my next stop, an orthodox monastery in the middle of a muslim land. 

UNPROFOR is a short form of United Nations Protection Force and never in Kosovo is its presence more felt than in town of Decan, which is ethnically muslim. It was also here that I saw statues of soldiers who had laid their lives fighting for Kosovo’s liberation and the Albanian flag was always there to give company. 

Some 2 kms from the town is the monastery where twenty orthodox catholic monks go quietly about their business of growing grapes and making a top quality red wine. The abundant green in the compound makes for some of the best goats milk cheese you can taste. 

The Decani Orthodox Monastery

The monastery was particularly special for my orthodox catholic driver who for the first time said more than yes and no. “This place, i want to come”, he said as he parked his car. The road to the monastery was heavily guarded as the last attack by the locals happened just 5 years ago with a few hand grenades being whirled inside the compound. I was told to give my ID at the check point by an Austrian young officer who was busy biting into his ham sandwich. With a ‘Visitors’ tag handed over to us, both me and the driver entered into a different world, right in the middle of muslim Kosovo. A young man showed us around and even spoke to the driver about the place. The driver had the face of ‘oh ya, I discovered something new’. I had to buy a bottle of red and a nice yellow goat cheese before getting back in the car. The place felt, I don’t know how to say, just special!!

Just 15 kms from the monastery was Pec (pronounced as pech) in Serbian and PeYa in Albanian. and as it is with all the town sign’s on the road, the cyrillic serbian letters were blackened by the locals, which announced that we were entering Peya. 

The temperature had dropped to - 5 and it was really chilly when I decided to take a random walk in the old town. The town reminded me of Sarajevo in Bosnia, after all it was the Ottomans who ruled this land for 400 years. The highlight of the walk was a stop at a local kebab place. I avoided a few Kebab places on my walk, but when the chill got to my bones, i simply walked in the next food joint and what a joint it turned out to be. The menu was priced in cents and the food was certainly worth more than the 2 euro 50 cent bill I payed. The warmth with which the four guys at the grill served the meat, made this place all the more a ‘no fuss eatery’. 

Both Albania and The Blue Mosque in Istanbul visible in everyday life in Kosovo

The batteries of my watch had given up on me but it was more than just that which I got from the local watch shop. “Why dont you stay here, you should know this place before you get your people here”, said the son of the watch maker. I know if I said yes, he would take me to his house. :-)

Those were the last words I heard from a local before I quickly skipped through the capital Pristina on my way back to Skopje. 

Kosovo is special .. not too pretty just special. “I drive to Tirana in 5 hours and pick up from Shereton” the driver said as he dropped me to my hostel. He had got his english tongue magically from somewhere, but I guess it was for his next pick up. 

As for me I had got the taste of Kosovo in a day. 

The Balkan's continued - Day 3 - Crossing from Albania to Macedonia on foot (nearly)

After an evening with food, I wanted to eat something light for the morning, as I was 30 mins away from taking the bus. “It’s just 5 mins by taxi, the bus station” said the mother, as she got the big veggie omelette to my table. Later I would thank her around noon, silently, for not letting me leave on a bread and honey breakfast. I was heading to a town in the east of Albania from where I was told ‘a transport’ would be available to the border. I was waiting for a similar shout of ‘last stop’ from the conductor but he looked at me and said “Macedonia, Here”. The bus dropped me in the middle of an intersection well before the last stop. I think he just told someone on the road that I need to cross the border. I had to pee and as I asked for permission to enter a ‘closed for business’ cafe, the woman said “yes” and when I came out “Macedonia, wait”. The Albanian kindness continued. 

On the intersection again, a bystander approached me and said “Macedonia, come”. Not knowing where he was taking me my feet followed him hesitantly. I only picked up some pace when the same man to whom the conductor had spoken earlier and had gone missing since, appeared from nowhere and he too went “Macedonia, go”. Like two was better than one, I followed the man with the ‘come’ as he was seconded by ‘go’. The man turned out to be a driver who helped me with he luggage into the back of his van pulling out 2000 Likas from his wallet. 

It was a fare amount i thought for a lone passenger to be had for 40 kms. But like the bus from Tirana, this was a ‘mini bus’ to the border town and not some taxi that I could stop in between to take some picture. The road did get scenic as we left this dusty town and we enjoyed the company of an unused railway line and the river flowing completing the trio of modes of transport.  The van was soon filled with random people who were going to different places on the Albanian side of the border. 

As the vehicle scaled a new mountain road, the driver simply uttered the word ‘Macedonia’ with a finger pointing out to the border control. A nice wind made the flag of Macedonia flutter with grace,  on the other side of the Red with eagles Albanian Flag. It seemed that both the flags were in Sync, forgetting how their countries have always had a unsteady relationship. 

Sometime later I was told that if you wanted to cross the border from Russia into Norway, it was ok to enter Norway on foot but it was not allowed to cross Russia without your limbs stepping on at least a paddle if not an accelerator. Russian Cycles were being sold to or rented to refugees to cross over from Russia and they would just lie there in the no mans land as they preferred to walk to Norway. If I knew this at my border crossing from Albania to Macedonia, I would've certainly answered the call of the elderly taxi man while still in Albania. I missed the opportunity of crossing my first border on two feet, as I simply took the taxi into Macedonia. “A good deal to Ohrid” he had said. The long line of four wheels at the control and then seeing passerby’s actually crossing over by foot, made me kind of hate the ‘lets play it safe’ guy in me. 

It was another 40 kms drive to the town of Ohrid in Macedonia.  I never mentioned the Macedonian Border police being thrilled and a little doubtful at the fact of an Indian going into Macedonia from Albania. “So you will show Macedonia to Indians” were the first words that came with a smile from him, after the initial, “you go, Macedonia?!! Why?!” with raised eyebrows. 

I have to confess that I over expected from Ohrid. My friends in the neighbouring countries had spoken highly about it. The town to my shock was even touristy in winter. The lake was covered in the winter haze and the food over priced. I think it was the combination of the over expectation and the central street being crowded on a regular winter day that made me think, “what would this be in the season”. I had checked in but not pre paid at the hotel booking website, through which I had booked the hotel. Like in Berat I had gone for a walk after throwing my bag in the room and like Berat I had expected it would stretch to at least 2 - 3 hours. But, I was back in the hotel after a short 90 mins, in which the stale fish served to me over a wonderful bread and local butter ruled for 30 mins.

The only bright spot in Ohrid - Not even the Fish but the Bread. 

“I would like to pay”, came my words to the lady at the reception. “Well you could do it tomorrow when you leave” was reply. When I told her that I was leaving ‘now’, she couldn't hide the disappointment. “Did you have any problem with our hotel”, said the lady  and then I said something which I don't like if I come to think of it today. “No, its just Ohrid”

Without Ohrid, I was lost not knowing what can Macedonia hold for the 3 nights I had in my mind for the country, which was to be a major attraction in the Balkan itinerary. On the bus back to the nation’s capital Skopje, I was thinking, should I just take a bus to Kosovo on arrival. 

I ended up staying for two nights in Skopje, and thankfully I chose a hostel, where the woman made it her goal to make me fall in love with the country everyone talks about, Macedonia. 

Thanks to her and her talks about the east of Macedonia, I actually started to think of a possibility of not doing Slovenia and Croatia in the tour and entering and exiting through Greece to make it a more rustic tour. Keeping it more towards the east rather than a east to west tour. 

I know I would have to travel back to Macedonia to find what I did not in my first visit. I hope I find my Macedonia then. 

The Balkan's Continued - Albania - Ottoman Berat, Day 2.

I had read about the Hotel Mangalemi, before I passed it as i stood in the ‘Linar 1’ bus to the centre of Berat. More about Mangalemi later. The taxi from my hotel in Tirana, took me to a bus station where the only sign that it was a bus station was a information board showing the timings of busses. Without a single human being in a radius of 100 metres, and certainly no busses, the driver had to shout out to a couple of guys sitting in a cafe outside, which sounded like “hey fellows”, the guys never looked and were busy in their board game as vapour came out of their mouths with the morning crisp sunlight hitting their faces. “Hey, guys, where the F### is the bus to Berat going from”. I think the guys only replied coz they heard the F word. However in the next 10 mins, I found out that the directions were based on the F word and they were wrong. This time the driver was more like “excuse me” as he asked an elderly man on the road who was busy with a group discussion, and in return everyone around him replied but the man just smoked and smiled. At least they all pointed in the same direction! 

In a few minutes I was on a bus that had been tagged Berat. It was a cold winter morning and although I wanted to wait out, I chose to keep myself warm on my seat in the old coach. Outside, the guy who was the conductor, kept on with his Berat shouts, as each public bus came in with people wanting to go somewhere. This was my first bus journey in Albania and I didn't know how things worked here. Whether the bus leaves on the time it is supposed to, or it leaves when it feels full to the driver? With only 50 % of the seats taken and a mere 10 min delay (according to the scandinavian standards) we left the ‘hard to find’ bus station in Tirana. 

Within 15 minutes the apartment blocks started being replaced by country houses and most of them had the Albanian flag on them. The blood red and on it two eagles facing to their sides would be a common sight, I would come to know, even in Kosovo. With only 80 kms to cover I soon understood why the bus was to take 2.5 hours to touch Berat. People, they kept on getting in, and for some reason like my travels in Bosnia and Serbia, baring the seat next to me, all the seats in the coach were taken. I have to say, that no matter how much I like my space, I did not understand why no one wants to sit next to me :-). ‘India’ was always an ‘Indiaaaaa’ when I replied to the locals when they asked me “so where from are you”. 

Unlike Serbia however the driver and conductor kept to the ‘no smoking’ norms in the vehicle and that was a relief.

The Ottoman Houses I was looking for ..

“You might even get back to Tirana in the night”, had said my travel agent in the morning. In the beginning I didn't consider that to be a possibility but when the conductor shouted ‘Berat, last stop’ I had been expecting something more than what I saw around me. Ottoman houses, white washed and idyllically placed on the hillside with a river running alongside was the image I was looking for. All I saw around me were apartment complexes in the of the dust that rising from the road. 

With both my hands on the stroller and my eyes still searching for Berat, Linar 1 pulled up in front of me. The people got in, and I did the same. In just about 5 minutes the river came in view and in another 2 came the houses on the hill. The apartment complexes were left behind and what was ahead of me was worth the Unesco World Heritage status. 

With not knowing where to get down, I just worked my way through the crowd as soon as I saw the ‘Mangalemi hotel’ on a cobblestone street leading up. I had read about it the earlier night in the lonely planet and I loved the first impression of this old Ottomon house, which only got better with the evening. The owner was kind enough to give me a Eu 15 price for the night for a very comfortable space dressed in wood. It was specially nice to see a decent space after spending the earlier night in what they call a ‘by the hour’ hotel in Tirana. 

The Stone Bridge 

I had only a couple of hours before night fall and so my shoes never came off in the room. It took me close to 3.5 hours of walking around the town which mostly involved hiking up the palace hill. At the end of it, I was happy to come back to the hotel and to reach a conclusion about Albania. 

What was supposed to be a lite bite at 5 pm, turned out to be a series of bites for the next 5 hours. The owner was a 28 yr old guy and was translating a very interesting conversation between me and his mother who was the hand behind my being glued to the wooden seat from 5 to 10 pm. The food .. what can I say!! She had a limited menu of 7 - 8 things and I tried them all. “She say’s she is very happy to see you eat, but seriously I never thought you could eat so much” said the son. “Even me” I said, with the walnut dessert still on my tongue. Maybe ‘no beer’ helped, or maybe it was just the idea of ‘Albania in a platter’ which the woman said I should go along with. The cosmetic beauty of Berat was wonderfully presented in the warmth of its people. A combination that always works to make a place welcoming. 

This is the way to serve a cold Rakija 

Berat was what I had wanted Albania to be and that night I slept in peace knowing I would come back to Berat again. 

The Balkan's Continued - Albania - Tirana, Day 1.

I always wanted to go to Sarajevo in Bosnia, don’t know since when, but I had the calling. So when the opportunity finally presented itself in the end of summer, which is the end of my touring season as well, I got on a bus from Zagreb and onto the other part of the Balkans, Bosnia and Herzegovina. 

Croatia and Slovenia were still the Balkans, but I would like to call them the European Balkans. It is only when you step on the soil in BiH (short for Bosnia Herzeg) do you really step in the Balkans, I believe. The reason for this intro being that in that travel time of summer, I never thought I would end up in the far east of the Balkans, in the middle of winter, that too in the same year. 

I dropped my first Scandinavia winter group and took a flight to Tirana. Albania, the name had no reaction from me a couple of years back. Then this year, it just became a part of the whole Balkan circuit, which contained Macedonia, Kosovo and Serbia as well, after doing Montenegro and Bosnia. This is a part of the ongoing research I am doing on planning an Ex Yugoslavia itinerary. It however became clear in the first 24 hours in Albania that it is a rightful choice over Serbia and therefore the name, Ex Yugoslavia had to be changed, to just ‘The Balkans’. The name is not important in planning an itinerary, the choice of places is all that matters. 

Today as I write, I realise that the planning of a tour of the Balkans, might be even more difficult than South America. The scale is not as huge as South America, but the distances are a lot if you consider traveling from Slovenia in the west to Macedonia in the east. This is what is challenging and makes the whole process of getting people here a responsible one. Responsible towards the Balkans and to promote the region in the Indian mind set where the most famous places can and will take a back seat and countries like Albania or Kosovo will come to the forefront. 

It feels good to plan an itinerary, knowing that nothing like this has been done before, not only from India but also by European or American tour companies, which mostly are stuck with familiar places like Dubrovnik in Croatia and Mostar in Bosnia. 

Very often in movies and in general, the image of Albania is very mafia like. Crime on the streets, poverty, is what I had heard loosely off. Since Albania was never on my to visit list, i did not even bother talking about it to my Balkan friends, which were mostly tour guides and drivers who themselves had never been this far east. Once, when I saw a tourist van with Japanese guests being checked at the SLO - CRO border, I asked my driver casually, “why are they being checked. they look like Japanese”, “Albania”, he said. “Albanian number plate”. 

Oh ya, I thought, the land of Mafias. 

The Central Sq. showing the communist painting

 In my first few hours in Tirana on a  + 2 deg night, wandering in the hip cafe district, I felt like laughing at my own oblivion about the country I was in. It felt like Zagreb on a weeknight (the weekends felt like Ibiza, in Zagreb). I kind of walked the whole of the Tirana centre in 2 hours and I noticed for the first time, an orthodox cathedral and a mosque being done up in the same christmas fervour. Its important to note here that none celebrate christmas. The orthodox celebrate it on the 7th Jan and the muslims, well!. In one view, the entire impression of Albania changed. Of course it also helped to hear “we in Albania, have only one problem, Economy, religion is open”.

The Church and the Mosque in the same light.

I was quiet pleased at the open ness of people. No women had a head scarf, even in the countryside. This was Albania, the land like any other in Europe and yet it felt different. 

I felt like traveling more in this country, but I was here on a job, the job to give 2 or 3 days maximum out of the 12, I had thought of giving the Balkans to Albania, having made the decision of actually including it in the tour. Albania didn't make my job any easier, as I had made up my mind in the next 24 hours that I need to give Albania more time. Berat, a town 120 kms to the south of Tirana, was greatly responsible for making me want to see more in Albania. To show the fellow Indians, what felt like being in the Balkans.