Food in Myanmar – Some Eating Tips for Fussy Eaters!

This post needs to begin with a big disclaimer – I cannot claim the tag of a foodie – for I’m unfortunately a bit fussy about what I eat – fish, seafood and red-meat have rarely, if never found their way on to my plate. I’m allergic to prawns and lobster, the innate fishiness of fishy-smelling fish (fish can’t smell like anything other than fish, can it?) makes me look for other options and red-meat – well the less said about them the better in my foodie journey. So what does that leave me with? A lot of veggie options and the bad apology for meat according to hard-core carnivores – chicken! My fuss about food also extends to my inability to sit at roadside stalls and eat what the locals eat – I end up looking at the table, hunting for scurrying rats or roaches or sniffing about for unsavoury- I’m told all this in fact adds to the flavour and at about a tenth of the cost of what I’d pay in ‘posh’ cafes and restaurants. I hunt for clean and functional, not posh and opulent. And the truth is, in any country, there are several of these options available too!

Disclaimers apart, I hope this post helps kindred travel junkies like me with a sensitive stomach and an over-sniffy nose as their Achilles heel. Few posts helped me before I got here, so I’m hoping mine helps more like me!  Continue reading

The Travel Bug: It Bites Some Harder than Others

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The view of Mandalay from atop the Mandalay Hill

I’m on my final day of travelling through Myanmar. It’s been ten days since I got here. And I’m in love with a country that’s still learning how to embrace the free flow of tourists into their country. The systems are still not completely in place – public transportation, lack of signages or population that speaks English to help a lost traveller – it might take a few more years, but those that are in place are admirable – new highways, really comfortable long-distance buses, clean restrooms on highway stops (Allelujah!!) and honest people with smiles that make you want to hug them when they struggle through the language barriers to help you out.

Myanmar, I must admit is not the easiest country to travel  especially not in the non-touristy, monsoon season. The hotels offer off-season rates, but you have to shell out a premium for travelling in and around cities. Lack of tourist volumes mean that you are shelling out that much more. And there are few warnings or written material that can help you plan and budget your trip better – often, the hidden costs pop at you when you are already at the spot. There are tourist rates and there are local rates. And as in several other countries, tourist rates are in dollars. But all these aside, there is a joy of discovery when you move through the country. It still feels virginal and lesser explored – not jaded to the ways of foreign travellers poking and prodding through their history and lives.

When I talk about a new plan to travel – a new country that I’m excited about exploring, I’m often subjected to friendly chides – What? Another holiday? Do you even work? Can I have your job? If I could, I’d love to not have to work and only travel. So this post is dedicated to the travel bug – a bug I think that bit me very early in life. And still continues to have its tiny claws embedded deep in me. So what is it that makes you lock your home, pack your bags and take off?

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Mingalaabaa Mandalay

Over the weekend I travelled from Yangon to Bagan. The glorious town which has more Phayas shattered across the landscape is a sight to watch. That’s a story for as soon as I get back to Yangon. Today I want to attempt something different -a story..One that will end in Mandalay. Perhaps the land of the Glass Palace, where I currently am now has inspired me?

Since it is a story, there are few photographs. But I hope the story keeps you entertained enough not to mind the lack of pictures.

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Monsoonal Musings From Myanmar

If Procrastination were a punishable offence, I’d be serving a life term. ~ Anon* 
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I have been writing about my travels as a post script, never as a continuing journal or blog posts. So on this trip, I have resolved to not procrastinate and at least have short posts that perhaps later I can follow up with more reflections from my travel.

Guess where my backpack and I currently are? Myanmar – (and make that yet again! This is among the few countries that I haven’t lived in that I have visited twice.)
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An Ode to Nepal – A Lament for Bhaktapur

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I am reblogging bits of an old post with a small post-script – It’s a tribute to a country I briefly visited and always intended to go back to. Today Nepal is a country in crisis – a humanitarian crisis of a magnitude that might take decades to tide over. The death toll in the deadliest earthquake to ravage this quaint Himalayan kingdom has crossed 2400 and it’s only likely to rise further. This post is an ode, a tribute and more importantly an appeal to help Nepal rise from the ashes of Nature’s fury like the legendary phoenix.

I first wrote this post in March 2012, less than a month after I visited Kathmandu, Nepal for the first time. The occasion was a women’s rights workshop I had been invited for. The first day that I was in Kathmandu, we caught a local taxi to Durbar Square – the city centre of Kathmandu – the scene where a lot of films have been shot – showcasing the heritage buildings that were perhaps still standing due to sheer will to survive more than the help of any restoration efforts. Taxis in Nepal – mostly rickety Maruti 800s that are used out little metal shells brought over perhaps from across the Indian border after they have been discarded as unusable. The seats have springs poking out, the cars creak so much that you hold on to the seats in front in sheer terror. But I remember the first sighting of Durbar Square – it was dusk, every raised platform that led to spectacular looking buildings and palaces of the yore were occupied. Young people catching up with their friends, other tourists like me bumping into the crowds while gawking at the magnificence of the Durbar square. Today I’m told most of it has been reduced to rubble. I wonder if the gift shop which sold me a souvenir khukhri that my dad specially requested for is still intact. A shop selling beautiful Nepali Pashminas in a rather modern looking shopping complex by the entrance to the Durbar Square – wonder if the earthquake spared them. The first person I thought of when I heard of the destruction in the heart of Kathmandu was a frail old Thangka painter in a tiny shop in one of those old woodden buildings – his quaint shop had lured me to buy a painting from him for N. There was a way he handled his paintings that made it feel like they were not done just to entice some tourist to take it home. He explained the methods, he showed me big and small pieces till I chose one that I could afford. I wonder if he managed to save his paintings – or do they lie buried under the rubble?

But more than anything else, my heart weeps for Bhaktapur – a forgotten city with people, who appeared to me to be living in a time warp – with some help from UNESCO who had deemed it as a heritage site.  – For those who haven’t read the post before, read on about Bhaktapur.

I had resolved early that my stay in the Himalayan Kingdom could not end within the luxurious confines of the hotel and the false sense of decadence it lent to my first impressions of the country. So when a couple of friends suggested a visit to Bhaktapur, I leapt at the chance. Bhaktapur was the capital of Nepal once, I’m told, during the reign of the Malla kings till about the late fifteenth century. Walking into this world heritage site was much like stepping into a time warp.  I wish there was an easier way to describe the scale of architectural splendour that Bhaktapur proudly claims as its own. For, unless I explain the splendour, I cannot give you a sense of the struggle life must be for those that live and eke out a living in that mausoleum of royalty.

Bhaktapur backlanesTurn your camera in any direction and you are offered an exquisite frame. Temples, pagodas, shikharas – Hinduism and Buddhism melt symbiotically into one another, into a blend that is uniquely Nepalese. Little has changed, except for the single lines of electricity wires untidily criss-crossing the skies and snaking into houses through the elaborately carved latticed windows. The grand carvings speak of a prosperous past, but the rot in the buildings is unmistakeable, so are the  the dirty tattered curtains on windows – daily life struggling to keep its head afloat among the glorious ruins of a royal past.
 
As you walk into the majestically vast expanses of the Durbar Square, the dragons guarding the gates appear cold even in the hot merciless sun, stonily staring back at gawky tourists invading their grounds. The local population have learnt to ignore the invasion of their privacy, the constant clicks of camera shutters focussed on their doors and windows, voyeuristically capturing their daily lives.

If the dragons could talk they would have narrated their years of glory, soaked in the knowledge of their importance and relevance, and also of the sharp fall from grace as Bhaktapur gave way to Kathmandu as the capital – slowly slipping off the radar completely till UNESCO rescued the city from oblivion, marking it as a World Heritage Site.

Tourist lanesTourism, for the locals of Bhaktapur is the only way of life, this is a city that the tourists keep afloat. Every shop has roughly the same wares – while some have cheap trinkets, masks and souvenirs, the others make a killing on the soft as a cloud Pashmina shawls. I must say I came back much more knowledgeable about Pashminas and far lighter in the wallet too…but that’s besides the point.

The narrow alleyways that once housed prosperous merchants now are barely functional residences, with their fronts converted into roadside stalls. I wonder if there is a fixed price for anything across Nepal, Bhaktapur was no different. The same woman that sold me a Buddha statue and a pair of earrings for about three fifty Indian rupees fleeced another for cheap earrings for about a thousand rupees. And she did it without batting an eyelid! Bargaining is the only way out, but somewhere you wonder if the value of the trinket that you coveted wasn’t too cheapened by the ruthlessness of the trade. Then again, I guess, when survival boils down to a few rupees cajoled here and there, ethical selling is the last thought on the shopkeeper’s mind too. If you are gullible, you are the fool.

Bhaktapur LadyThe slaps of bright paint advertising Coca Cola appear rather incongruous, like an assault on the landscape that has largely changed little. The rickety boards that advertise ‘Internet Cafe with lightning speeds’ in dark pigeon-holed rooms deep inside the walled city leaves you bubbling with laughter at the irony. These are chords of dissonance – the attempt by the twenty first century world to make its presence felt in the forgotten metropolis

As the sun climbed higher and fatigue began to dim the need to explore the hidden alleyways, we sought ‘modernity’ – a cafe that wasn’t in darkness, that offered a modicum of hygiene and perhaps clean, western loos. The relief that we felt when we chanced upon one such is indescribable. Calling it quaint and charming now sounds hypocritical, for it had toilet paper and coffee machines churning out cappuccinos and moccachinos. Ohh and did I mention free wi-fi? As I sat in the cafe, sipping my coffee and re-connecting with the civilisation that seemed light years away, the sound track playing in my mind was the much stereotyped Dum Maaro Dum and Kaanchi Re Kaanchi Re from the film that made Nepal famous on the Indian silver screen – Hare Rama Hare Krishna…

I was the quintessential tourist, intruding into every corner that I could, exploiting the lost splendour of a once proud city and its inhabitants. Today they are voiceless as I invade their privacy and thrust cameras in their face as if they were in a living zoo and in exchange throw a few rupees their way. I haggle my way, look for cheap bargains and consider everything overpriced. I am not proud, I was the tourist and this is how tourists behave. Each local calls himself a guide and offers his services for a hundred cheaper than the previous offer. I wait for the dirt-cheap offer and finally decide I could just read it all off the wikipedia.

As I leave Bhaktapur hours later, my van kicks up a massive cloud of dust. I cover my face and hide my eyes behind sunglasses. But a terrible sense of unease tells me if I were to visit this forgotten city ten years from now, little would have changed, except for maybe an odd dab of paint here or there. It’s a relief that history lives on, but I wonder what about the forgotten people who still live there?

There are several organisations trying to rally together money and materials to help people in Nepal.

Here’s a brief list of organisations that I endorse

1. Uday Foundation – If you want to donate to their humanitarian relief efforts, read this. All their details and the work they will do are detailed there. They are setting up a basecamp cum relief centre at Sri Aurobindo Centre, Checkpost, Thankot P. O. Box: 1993, Kathmandu, Nepal.

2. Global Giving – The crowdfunding site is spearheading a Nepal Earthquake Relief Fund

I hope enough money can be raised to help Nepal tide over this calamity. I hope someday Bhaktapur rises again and is not replaced by concrete monstrosities that masquerade as cheap housing for those rendered homeless.

Prayers for Nepal.

The Forgotten People of Bhaktapur

DSCN2124The majesty of the Himalayas need to be experienced to be even savoured while describing it. As my flight neared Nepal, the white, serenely beautiful range of mountains materialised as if out of nowhere, perched amid cottony clouds.

I had resolved early that my stay in the Himalayan Kingdom could not end within the luxurious confines of the hotel and the false sense of decadence it lent to my first impressions of the country. So when a couple of friends suggested a visit to Bhaktapur, I leapt at the chance. Bhaktapur was the capital of Nepal once, I’m told, during the reign of the Malla kings till about the late fifteenth century. Walking into this world heritage site was much like stepping into a time warp.  I wish there was an easier way to describe the scale of architectural splendour that Bhaktapur proudly claims as its own. For, unless I explain the splendour, I cannot give you a sense of the struggle life must be for those that live and eke out a living in that mausoleum of royalty.

Bhaktapur backlanesTurn your camera in any direction and you are offered an exquisite frame. Temples, pagodas, shikharas – Hinduism and Buddhism melt symbiotically into one another, into a blend that is uniquely Nepalese. Little has changed, except for the single lines of electricity wires untidily criss-crossing the skies and snaking into houses through the elaborately carved latticed windows. The grand carvings speak of a prosperous past, but the rot in the buildings is unmistakeable, so are the  the dirty tattered curtains on windows – daily life struggling to keep its head afloat among the glorious ruins of a royal past.
As you walk into the majestically vast expanses of the Durbar Square, the dragons guarding the gates appear cold even in the hot merciless sun, stonily staring back at gawky tourists invading their grounds. The local population have learnt to ignore the invasion of their privacy, the constant clicks of camera shutters focussed on their doors and windows, voyeuristically capturing their daily lives.

If the dragons could talk they would have narrated their years of glory, soaked in the knowledge of their importance and relevance, and also of the sharp fall from grace as Bhaktapur gave way to Kathmandu as the capital – slowly slipping off the radar completely till UNESCO rescued the city from oblivion, marking it as a World Heritage Site.

Tourist lanesTourism, for the locals of Bhaktapur is the only way of life, this is a city that the tourists keep afloat. Every shop has roughly the same wares – while some have cheap trinkets, masks and souvenirs, the others make a killing on the soft as a cloud Pashmina shawls. I must say I came back much more knowledgeable about Pashminas and far lighter in the wallet too…but that’s besides the point.

The narrow alleyways that once housed prosperous merchants now are barely functional residences, with their fronts converted into roadside stalls. I wonder if there is a fixed price for anything across Nepal, Bhaktapur was no different. The same woman that sold me a Buddha statue and a pair of earrings for about three fifty Indian rupees fleeced another for cheap earrings for about a thousand rupees. And she did it without batting an eyelid! Bargaining is the only way out, but somewhere you wonder if the value of the trinket that you coveted wasn’t too cheapened by the ruthlessness of the trade. Then again, I guess, when survival boils down to a few rupees cajoled here and there, ethical selling is the last thought on the shopkeeper’s mind too. If you are gullible, you are the fool.

Bhaktapur LadyThe slaps of bright paint advertising Coca Cola appear rather incongruous, like an assault on the landscape that has largely changed little. The rickety boards that advertise ‘Internet Cafe with lightning speeds’ in dark pigeon-holed rooms deep inside the walled city leaves you bubbling with laughter at the irony. These are chords of dissonance – the attempt by the twenty first century world to make its presence felt in the forgotten metropolis

As the sun climbed higher and fatigue began to dim the need to explore the hidden alleyways, we sought ‘modernity’ – a cafe that wasn’t in darkness, that offered a modicum of hygiene and perhaps clean, western loos. The relief that we felt when we chanced upon one such is indescribable. Calling it quaint and charming now sounds hypocritical, for it had toilet paper and coffee machines churning out cappuccinos and moccachinos. Ohh and did I mention free wi-fi? As I sat in the cafe, sipping my coffee and re-connecting with the civilisation that seemed light years away, the sound track playing in my mind was the much stereotyped Dum Maaro Dum and Kaanchi Re Kaanchi Re from the film that made Nepal famous on the Indian silver screen – Hare Rama Hare Krishna…

I was the quintessential tourist, intruding into every corner that I could, exploiting the lost splendour of a once proud city and its inhabitants. Today they are voiceless as I invade their privacy and thrust cameras in their face as if they were in a living zoo and in exchange throw a few rupees their way. I haggle my way, look for cheap bargains and consider everything overpriced. I am not proud, I was the tourist and this is how tourists behave. Each local calls himself a guide and offers his services for a hundred cheaper than the previous offer. I wait for the dirt-cheap offer and finally decide I could just read it all off the wikipedia.

As I leave Bhaktapur hours later, my van kicks up a massive cloud of dust. I cover my face and hide my eyes behind sunglasses. But a terrible sense of unease tells me if I were to visit this forgotten city ten years from now, little would have changed, except for maybe an odd dab of paint here or there. It’s a relief that history lives on, but I wonder what about the forgotten people who still live there?

(This post was first published on my now abandoned blog Word Sketches. It is of 2012 vintage- the Bhaktapur piece is among my initial pieces of travel writing, the seed for this blog was planted then!) 

The Hunt for the Last Mughal in Yangon

In a quiet lane in the Yangon city is a dargah – tiny, rather inconspicuous looking.  The newly renovated modern building is unassuming and functional, the dargah of Zafar Shah as he is known around here. If you don’t look carefully at the arching name-board by the gate, you could miss the historical importance of it. 20140223_142734_1

The Zafar Shah, the faithfuls pray to is the last Mughal emperor of India, who was banished from Delhi when the British crushed the revolt of 1857.

The dargah was nearly deserted when we visited, just a handful faithful reading the Quran quietly by the graves of his wife and children. Zafar Shah’s grave is one level deeper. Solitary, but well-cared for with floral garlands over it. The once forgotten emperor’s famous couplets and some photographs of his final days line the walls of the dargah.  Continue reading