35 days in India

It’s been a while. Life in Wellington appeared to have stayed my restlessness. Here, at the end of the world, New Zealand was holding my gaze, at least for the moment.

But soon enough I was plotting a temporary escape. My gaze was wandering over the Tasman Sea and the Indian Ocean, to the seventh largest country the world. India had intrigued me for some time now, and hearing the multitude of stories from others only made the desire to see it for myself stronger.

It felt like a now or never moment. I had one month, which seemed like a short but not totally impossible window of time to try and experience at least some of a country home to a fifth of the world’s total population.

21 million of these people live in Mumbai, which, like many other of the world’s sprawling megacities, has the rich and poor living very much cheek by jowl. This is a country where 73% of the total wealth is owned by just 1% of the population, and the scale of this inequality becomes clear as your plane descends through the hazy Mumbai smog.

Just like Mumbai’s skyline, India is often described as everything, all at once. Cacophonous, centring, confronting and calming. Its sense of timelessness in its enduring religious devotion is matched by the urban pockets of modernity, living their own contradictions of inequality and possibility.

For now, I made my escape from Mumbai. I felt I owed the city a visit, but not just yet. So, I boarded my third and final plane to Goa. After a long, restoring sleep I woke shortly after sunrise. Cows lazed on the sand of Agonda beach while dogs roamed around, a few early morning swimmers emerged from the rolling waves. The sand was still cool from the previous night’s rain. I ate my first Indian breakfast, paratha with spicy pickles and curd. The paratha was hot to the touch and demanded a patience I did not possess.

Goa was a bubble. A beautiful, relaxing, peaceful bubble, but a bubble nonetheless. This was not why I had come, so it was time to go.

*

“Chai, chai, chai.”

The streets of Hospet were already bustling at 5am. The night bus stirred from its collective slumber and sipped at reviving, spicy, sweet tea. Rickshaw drivers handed out maps and urged travellers to remember them at the final stop, thirty minutes away.

Highway gave way to dusty road as we entered Hampi, 16 square miles of 15th and 16th century ruins described by UNESCO as an "austere, grandiose site" of the last great Hindu kingdom in south India, and at one point, the second largest known medieval city.

A long, hot afternoon exploring the site led me to countless temples, elephant stables and public baths. In Badami, we wandered around cave temples dating back to the 6th century, listening as the noise of the town drifted away the higher we climbed up the hillside, and into what felt like another world. One where the horn honking, selfie-taking present seemed to melt away into a sense of timelessness.

*

Another place where time often seems to stand still is the night bus.

I looked at my phone after the hundred thousandth speed bump of the night flew me up out of my bed and unceremoniously into the air, made all the worse by my accursed preference for sleeping on my side. Just an hour to go until we were due to arrive in Chennai and my skeletal system could rest easy again.

A four hour ride took us to Tiruvannamalai, home to the Arunachalesvara Temple and Arunchala Hill, where Shiva was said to have appeared as a column of fire to light up a world that been plunged into darkness. Later, the town became home to the Sri Ramana ashram, evident by the presence of a few westerners cycling around in linen clothes to drink tulsi tea and eat pumpernickel bread and momos at the German bakery come Nepalese cafe.

The waiting list for the ashram is often months long. In a shady compound devotees of Sri Ramana wander the grounds and browse the library of teachings. I sat in the grand hall as the nightly Vedaparayana, or Vedic chanting, took place. The hall was busy. Devotees chanted intensely as they walked around and around the Ramana’s shrine. I closed my eyes for a second and submitted myself to the rhythm of it. I felt, for the first time in the trip, a sense of tranquility and peace that was to be something of a feature of my time in India.

*

“It’s got to be around here somewhere. You hear it before you see it.” I reassured my dining companion for the twentieth time as we scurried across Madurai’s streets, which were heaving with lanes of honking, crawling evening traffic. I’d asked, mimed, hoped and dreamed. But perhaps we just weren’t going to get lucky this time.

Then, passing by the hectic bus station, there it was. The sound of happiness, drifting over on the night air.

Chop, chop, chop. Scrape, scrape, scrape.

Kothu parotta. If you wanted to know how to make Indian bread even better, try shredding it and frying it on a searingly hot iron griddle with egg, spices, curry leaves, vegetables and serving it with a spicy gravy. Have some meat with it if you are so inclined. Serve on a banana leaf with extra gravy on the side. Uncomplicated, pure bliss.

But the 20,000 people a day who visit Madurai are mostly here for the Meenakshi Temple, one of the most important religious sites in India. Each night, the image of Shiva is transported on a gilded palanquin in a candlelit evening ceremony across the temple grounds to spend the night with his wife, the goddess Meenakshi. Shiva is sent on his way with drumming, and offerings of sweetly scented flowers. The offerings are blessed and Shiva is transported into his wife’s chamber. Meenakshi’s nose ring is then removed, lest it cut her lover’s face in the passions of the night.

*

So far my time had mostly been spent exploring old India. But it was time for something new. So, I took an overnight bus from the hills of Tamil Nadu to Kerala for the Kochi-Muziris Biennale arts festival. Known as the Queen of the Arabian Sea, Kochi’s crumbling colonial architecture gives a clue to its past as an important spice trading centre. It was the first European colony in India, and the first of the princely states to join India willingly after independence in 1947.

The exhibition was both an international and national mix of installations, sculptures, audio visual pieces and photographs, and over half of the artists were women. A traveling bibliotheca of female writers and feminist thinkers, the Sister Library, was a particular highlight, as were the many thought-provoking pieces which explored India’s national identity, and whether indeed, there is one.

Bringing together this diverse multitude of voices, the curator’s note asked whether, in our modern, hyperconnected, talkative world, anyone was still actually listening. Like all good art should do, it certainly got me thinking (and perhaps doing a bit less talking).

*

Perhaps the incessant chatter of the world had got to me. A couple of days later, after a blissful Christmas in the middle of Kerala’s backwaters, drifting noiselessly along glassy lakes in the ethereal morning sun, I found myself pulling up in a tuktuk outside a yoga and meditation retreat in Varkala.

There, perched along the cliffs of the Indian Ocean, I spent three days, if not in silence, then certainly in a more verbally hushed place then I had been for a while. Still, tropical mornings were spent meditating in the cool, lush verdant gardens, listening to coconuts drop to the ground, opening my eyes rebelliously to watch the azure kingfishers perched in the trees.

During those couple of days, I didn’t learn to touch my toes behind my head. What I did learn was to how to pay more attention to my body and mind, and how to take life a little slower. To listen more. To be present. And for that I am grateful.

*
After a 30 hour, 1,500km train journey across four states, I arrived back where I had started, in Mumbai, and was immediately embraced by its fierce energy.

I spent my final days in India exploring this furious, beautiful, chaotic megacity, watching cricketers practice on the sprawling maidens and cycling through dawn streets. I found a good thali place and went there everyday, always stopping for a sitaphal fruit and chai on the way home. I turned 28 and felt blessed to be seeing in a new year in another corner of this beautiful planet.

*

I loved India. Even in those rare half hours when I didn’t. When I was hot, lost, tired or confused. Those moments were always healed by a friendly face and a warm smile, or an offer of a shared cone of roasted chickpeas on the bus.

As a traveller, India is wonderfully disarming in its demand to focus on the present. Tomorrow is another day. So be in the moment, talk less, listen and feel more.

Kia ora Wellington

Chiang Mai to Bangkok. Bangkok to Auckland, and finally, a short stroll in the New Zealand summer rain to the domestic terminal, to complete the last leg of my journey to Wellington, the windiest and southernmost capital city in the world, the first one to see the sun rise each day.

The downpour was short lived, giving way to a blissful two weeks of hot summer days. The first was spent wandering the city on bustling streets that gave way to forest paths, leading in turn to mountainous lookout points. Here, on top of Mount Victoria, 195 meters above sea level looking out over the Cook Strait, you begin to get a sense of the scale of New Zealand's beauty.

A beauty which, a few days later, had my nose pressed up against the car window as we drove a couple of hours outside the city to the Wairarapa coast. I've been fortunate enough to see some picturesque sunsets in my life, but as the clarion day fell drowsily into the arms of dusk, the sky above the mountains was suffused with a rosy hue that, framed by the endless rolling hills of Aotearoa's famous landscape, was breath taking. As night fell, a carpet of luminous stars hovered above us, making it easy to see why over 4,000 square kilometers of this country have recently been recognised as an International Dark Sky Reserve.

At Glenburn, there was nothing between us and the Antarctic. Just 3,000 miles of the Southern and South Pacific Ocean and the remote Chatham Island archipelago. Here, strolling along the expansive coastline at what feels like the end of the world, delicately picking up scattered whale vertebrae the size of dinner plates, you can't help but feel somewhat connected to this vast landscape. There really aren't enough synonyms for green to fully convey the viridescence of this country, one which accompanies you even alongside the highway, all the way back to the city.

Wellington has that infectious combination of urban energy and verdant charm. It's a city to imbibe in, with hundreds of coffee shops in a density that rivals New York City, 18 craft beer breweries registered with the Brewers Guild of New Zealand and numerous food markets. Sitting side by side to the expansive nature reserves, parks and protected green spaces is the cultural heart of New Zealand, with arts festivals happening throughout the year.

Wellington has a laid back charm that makes other major cities look frenetic in comparison. You can't help but fall in love with the mellow energy here, and it has so far proved to be a mere peek through the keyhole of what's in store for the rest of these two islands. Here, 12,000 miles away from where I started, life is good.

Back again

Over the summer, in the absence of any adventure of my own, I had, of late, taken to reading about others. Paul Theroux's The Great Railway Bazaar is an account of his 1973 journey by train from London to Japan and back again. Three decades later, Theroux boards the train in London once again, to retrace his cross-continent pilgrimage in his follow up book, Ghost Train to the Eastern Star. Before departing, Theroux reflects on the journey ahead;

It is almost impossible not to return to an early scene in your traveling life and not feel like a spectre.

This time last year I had found myself back in the UK after half a year of blissful travel across Southeast Asia. There, I had found what I sought and in recording it had put to paper many travel clichés. For my final stop, I had found myself in the Thai island of Koh Lanta, helping out in a treehouse style hostel, where I made many of my fondest memories.

I turned the idea of returning to this little corner of the world over in my mind for a few months, caught between my desire to be back and my concern that what I might find there would not match the rose tinted filter of retrospect. Eventually, like all good travel decisions, I let my heart book my flight and in November I boarded a plane for Bangkok. I reasoned with myself to go with no expectations and to compartmentalise the events of the previous year. A good friend told me it will be the experience you are meant to have. As I disembarked in Bangkok, I whispered this under my breath as I retrieved the same backpack, headed for the same destination, almost exactly one year later.

Of all the eventualities, the one I feared the most was feeling like Theroux's spectre, the ghost at the feast. I walked back into Chill Out House, my circadian rhythm somewhere above the clouds between Heathrow and Suvarnabhumi, a bag of nerves, but all too soon the comfort of familiarity and the warm welcome of the Chill Out family soothed me. It was good to be back, to complete the circle. It's a powerful (and sometimes life-changing) thing. Take these two Lanta lovers, returning to the island four years after first meeting at Chill Out House, to do the thing and make a pledge of their everlasting love in front of friends and family.

The general pattern of both life and travel propels us forward, too often we find our minds jumping to the next location before we have fully accepted and appreciated the current one. Returning to Koh Lanta was, for me, a chance to be for a moment, to both reflect on previous journeys, and the one I am about to undertake, another 6,000 miles away.

Koh Lanta, you've been great. See you next week New Zealand.

The subterranean cities of Cambodia

Each year, over two million pairs of feet pass over Cambodia's famous Angkor temples, former capital of the Khmer Empire until its decline in the 14th and 15th centuries. Angkor is a place of mystery, much more is known about its years of activity than its reason for decline. But now a new, subterranean discovery has thrown an architectural spanner in the works, adding another layer of intrigue to an already cryptic place.

My Angkor guide, Lychee, was early, parked up outside my sprawling hostel.  It was still dark, but as we raced the dawn light through the outskirts of Siem Riep, Angkor's popularity as a tourist hotspot became clear by the sheer abundance of gargantuan luxury hotels, gaudy even from a distance.  At the ticket office, $20 was dutifully handed over for my day pass, a regrettably (albeit self-inflicted) short amount of time to explore this world wonder, caused in part by the relaxing time vortex of Kampot and an impending flight to Myanmar.

Lychee raced us in his tuk-tuk to Angkor Wat in time for sunrise. We joined others on the banks of the ponds, where people jostled for position, cameras and smartphones poised. Slowly, the sun appeared behind the largest religious monument in the world, obscured by clouds but nonetheless atmospheric, whereafter the crowds departed to begin their days of exploration.

My time in Cambodia coincided with the tail end of the rainy season, so inevitably as the sun rose so the clouds converged, bringing a deluge of rain that intermittently continued throughout the day. Rather than a hindrance, the rain seemed to bring the temples to life. At Ta Phrom, "the tree temple", emerald leaves were vivid against the grey stone, while the eyes of the 200 faces of Lokesvara at Bayon glistening knowingly, shielding their secrets. The vast, majestic, ancient temples are a sight that naturally encourages the eye upwards, but in doing so, many visitors do not realise what lurks beneath, just a short distance away.

Research published in the Journal of Architectural Science last year has found evidence of multiple cities between 900 and 1,400 years old beneath the forest floor, some of which rival the size of Cambodia’s capital, Phnom Penh. Using cutting-edge airborne laser scanning technology, archeologists believe these cities would have constituted the largest empire on earth at the time of its peak in the 12th century. Evidence of elaborate water systems has also been discovered, built hundreds of years before previous estimates of their existence.

The sheer scale of the discovery makes it one of the most important in its area of study in recent years. This aside, it reminds us of the layers of history of the earth we walk on, where others have tread, and where future feet may still walk. Like many others, I left Angkor on that wet September afternoon unaware of what could lie underneath mine. 

Singaporean blancmange

It's long past sundown in Singapore. The streets are bustling with Friday night crowds, illuminated by fluorescent mall lights. My dining companion sits opposite me, a look of delight on his face, the kind that only comes with the opportunity to introduce someone to a controlled substance they haven't experienced before.

He tells me he knows just the street, just the guy. We'll have to drive there though, as it's some way across town. We climb into the car and make our way through the traffic, which slowly thins out as we pull up at a small roadside stall, lit up with flickering lamps. A few low plastic tables are laid out. We are not alone and thus, clearly in the right place.

A few minutes discussion with the vendor, some minor negotiation, money is handed over and it arrives at the table. The translation, meaning 'spike' or 'thorn', is apt both visually and odorously.  Here, sitting on the table in front of us, is the infamous durian, King of Fruits.

Rewind to an hour earlier in the evening. We are discussing my few days experience of Singapore, and talk inevitably turns to food. Earlier that day I had noted with a chuckle to myself the presence of signs in the subway system insisting that customers should not consume durian on board. Then it occurred to me that I was yet to consume it myself. I had heard of it and of course smelt it since I had been in Southeast Asia, but was yet to try it.

The smell is something notoriously difficult to describe. The novelist Anthony Burgess likens durian to "eating sweet raspberry blancmange in the lavatory". The durian smell/taste dichotomy is much like that of aged blue cheese. You probably wouldn't want to wear a necklace made of it, or use it as perfume, but the taste is sublime, unctuous and sweet, a cross between avocado and almond ice cream.

Like a fine wine, choosing good durian is something of an art form, and, like a fine wine, durian can be an expensive luxury, with some Singaporeans willing to pay up to US$50 for just half a dozen fruits. At the more affordable end, I'm told by my King of Fruit guide to never buy pre-packed durian segments, which are wrapped tightly in plastic and left to sweat in a polystyrene state of limbo. Having later ignored this advice and bought a substandard durian against my better judgement, I can attest to this. Once it has dropped from the tree, the durian has just 3 to 4 days before it starts to overipen.  A common saying is that a durian has eyes and can see where it is falling, because allegedly the fruit never falls during daylight hours when people may be hurt by its heavily armoured shell and weight of up to 3 kilogrammes.

Back to the table. Since polishing off a small, gateway durian, another, larger one has appeared enthusiastically in its place. Our companion recoils as our second course is sliced open. She tells us that while durian is enduringly popular in her hometown Jakarta, she is one of the many people who cannot stand it. Indeed, durian is so divisive, it is banned from many hotels, taxis and public transport systems, including the aforementioned Singaporean subway.

Equally however, the durian is subject of much adoration, the centrepiece of statues (Kampot, Cambodia), the inspiration for architecture (Esplanade Building, Singapore) and suggested aphrodisiac ("when the durian falls the sarong comes up", a traditional Indonesian saying).

Whether you love it or hate it, it's reputation, and stench, proceeds it.

On noodle soups

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. The journey of a thousand meals begins with a single dish. Mine was a bowl of thick, sweet, spicy laksa, eaten underneath a piece of tarpaulin slumping under the weight of the June monsoon rains, on a street in Kuala Lumpur.

I was excited but discombobulated,  poised and ready, and very aware that I was struggling to hold my chopsticks properly. A father and his teenage daughter smiled at me from across the small plastic table we were sharing, and eased my nerves as I ate tentatively, telling me all about the city I had just arrived in, what to do, where to go, and most importantly, what to eat.

Enduring travel memories are rarely the cinematic, Instagram filtered snapshots we tend to make them out to be. More often than not, they are sensory in nature. Many of mine are food based, shared and solitary moments of gratitude, mostly involving noodle based soups. Wherever I am in the world, I seem to gravitate towards noodle soups like a moth to a broth based flame. Burmese Mohinga, Vietnamese pho, Malaysian-Chinese lor and wonton mee. Oh, noodle soups of Southeast Asia, let me count the ways as I sit on a tiny plastic stool on a low table on the side of the road, chopsticks and spoon poised in anticipation of your spicy, life affirming goodness.

This experience is almost universal among travellers. The excitement at finding (or finding again) that tiny little stall where the food is fresh and fast. You may have to chase the vendor with their cart down the street, you may have to wait for what seems like an eternity in the midday heat, mouth salivating and forehead perspiring, but you know it's so worth it. You know this is where you want to be.

Roll on the next adventure, the next stall, the next dish.

Memories of Myanmar

Myanmar is the largest nation in mainland Southeast Asia, home to around 51 million people. The country is surrounded on three sides by densely forested mountains and plateaus, and around one third of Myanmar's total perimeter forms an uninterrupted coastline of over a thousand miles along the Bay of Bengal and the Andaman Sea.

I visited Myanmar in October last year and was immediately enchanted. Since returning home from my trip many people have asked about my favourite country. It's a question that is not easy to answer, as I loved each place I visited for completely different reasons, but Myanmar stands out in my memory as a country I will hold dear to my heart forever.

Mountains surrounding Hsipaw

There are many reasons for this. The landscape is beautiful and the people incredibly friendly. But it is perhaps a single evening that retains a hold over my many recollections from that month spent in Myanmar, taking place in a little village high in the mountains surrounding Hsipaw, a town in the Shan state in Eastern Myanmar. Many visit Hsipaw to undertake one of the many scenic, hillside treks, and we were no exception. We were around an hour into the walk, passing through some rice paddies on the outskirts of town when our friendly guide told us that there was going to be an annual festival in the village that night.

It was already a special day, as our trek that day coincided with my travel companion's one year travel anniversary. At sunset, we made our way up to the village temple. Already, a crowd of people from the surrounding villages had arrived ready for the festival. Monks prayed inside as people made offerings. Shortly afterwards, a drum beat began and the young people in the village began dancing in concentric circles, alternating between boys and girls. Some of the girls were in beautiful traditional clothes and danced with soft hand movements that mimicked the picking of tea, while the boys dancing was more vigorous, rhythmically kicking up their feet, their arms draped around one another.

Riding in the back of a pick up truck

Our guide encouraged us to join the women. We did our best to copy their grace and ease of movement. At intervals, the drumming ceased, the circles broke apart, and the boys rushed to stand in small groups in front of a girl they liked. The boys began singing traditional songs of love and romance, as the girls replied. No sooner had it stopped than the drumming began again, the circles reformed and the dancing resumed.

Our guide told us this was an annual matchmaking festival, a once a year chance for young people in the villages to meet and, just maybe, find the person they would marry. To be part of something like this, even for just an instant, is the reason we travel. It felt like a true honour to be there in that moment, to be present, alive and on the road.

That feeling was something of a theme during my time in Myanmar. Getting lost in the countryside and endless temples around Bagan, weaving our way through herds of cows and goats, climbing Mount Zwegabin in the searing afternoon heat to sleep overnight in a monastery, ascending higher and higher into the hills in the back of a small pick up truck, these are some of my favourite and most treasured memories of a trip that changed my life forever.

Waterfall, Hsipaw