Reading War and Peace
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
We had it in mind that an elephant ride through a teak forest would be the perfect way to start Christmas day. We duly arrived at Mudumalai national park on Christmas Eve and went to arrange our ride. It could have been so staightforward, but of course it wasn't.
'Absolutely impossible,' the woman at reception announced. 'All booked up until the New Year.'
And we could easily have taken her word for it had it not been for a friendly guide who, perhaps hoping to get a few rupees for it, advised us at that it was only impossible beacause we had not given the woman at reception a few rupees. 'See the duty officer at four o'clock,' he suggested.
So at four o'clock we booked our elephant ride and the woman at reception showed not the slghtest embarassement that the 'absolutely impossible' had suddenly become 'ridiculously easy'.
The following morning the boys were remarkably accepting of the fact that Santa really is a big fraud who can't even find his way to India and instead happily plodded on an elephant through the chill of the morning with soppy grins on their faces.
Our Christmas dinner was less memorable. A menu was produced but it quickly became apparent that not much on the menu was actually available. The boys decided on chicken fried rice and there followed much discussion about whether it was worth going to get another chicken butchered for two small portion of fried rice.
So the boys had vegetable fried rice. Andrew and I had chappaties with our curry because they'd then run out of rice and another chicken lived to see another day.
On Boxing day we took the bus to Ooty and as promised by the sign at the bottom 'the road to Ooty strained our vehicle much.' After the pleasure of winding slowly upward through the hills Ooty itself was a big disappointment. It was damp, cold and smelly. I personally couldn't wait to get away.
It was then I discovered that Ooty had been worth putting up with in order to enjoy the experience of catching the toy train down. Taking three and a half hours to travel forty three kilometres there was plenty of time to gaze at the scenery, watch the sparks fly from the steam engine and marvel at the utter lunacy of the person who first saw this landscape and thought 'Yeah, we can build a railway up here.'
The following day we rested up in Coimbatore, doing nothing of any note. Perhaps it's description of itself as 'the Manchester of South India' did not inspire us to explore.
Instead we then headed for Allupuzzha, which likes to think of itself as 'the Venice of South India'. All the reserved seats on the trains were full because of the New Year holiday. This left us with the option of joining the scrum for an unreserved seat or taking the wimps way out and catching a delux, air-conditioned bus, i.e you get your own seat and the windows are open.
We were wimps.
Monday, December 22, 2003
I'm quite sure there are bargains to be had in Mysore. I'm equally sure that I shall leave without buying any of them. I've had so many pairs of socks, bamboo flutes, cotton buds and incense sticks shoved under my nose that I'm sick of it.
I'm so firmly fixed into 'Not interested, don't bother me' mode that one day someone will offer me something really worth buying and it really will be very cheap and I shall dismiss it out of hand.
That's not too say that Mysore has nothing going for it. It's worth putting up with the beggars, the hawkers and the dodgy rickshaw wallahs to see the Maharajahs Palace alone.
It's a ludicrously extravagant building during the day and on a Sunday evening when for one hour only they turn on the lights it's spectacular.
It's astonishing what one ordinary fifteen watt light bulb can achieve when it gets together with nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine other ordinary fifteen watt light bulbs.
'Better than the Taj Mahal' we all agreed, and even Eddie who hadn't been feeling at all well was glad he'd gone out to see it.
In fact everyone should see it. It's worth the effort and you can travel light. Leave behind your socks and bamboo flutes. Don't bother with the incense and cotton buds. You can buy them all here -'very cheap'.
Friday, December 19, 2003
Jog Falls has everyrhing you would expect of a world famous waterfalls, except the water, most of which has been diverted to create hydro electricity. It was very impressive nonetheless.
We left Jog on a rib-crushing, white knuckle bus ride for Shimoga. It took some hours for the blood to return to my fingers after three hours of clinging on for dear life. Casualties on route - one cow and one bus. Driver very relaxed throughout, altogether too relaxed for my liking. I also remain to be convinced that flip flops are the ideal footwear for driving a bus in.
Following that we all felt ready for another train and the following day we took the express to Hassan. Train definitely safer, except perhaps for the doors regularly swinging open. Quite relieved for once that 'express' didn't actually mean 'express'.
Health update - we've successfully seen off the worms. They will not be missed and should not consider themselves welcome to come again. Joe's digestive system is finally back to normal, he looks a little thinner but has lost none of his bounce. The mysterious burn on Eddie's neck is also much improved. He likes to think it was caused by a poisonous plant or a jelly fish sting and nobody else has any better suggestions. Andrew's foot is still swollen after acquiring a football injury in Palolem - will he never learn?
Finally I managed to plod through book two of War And Peace. Got a bit bogged down with the battle scenes but it's definitely worth persevering.
...a whistle in the air; nearer and nearer, faster and louder, louder and faster, a canonball, as if it had not finished saying what was necessary...
Saturday, December 13, 2003
'I'm moving to a new hotel,' Andrew announced at six o'clock in the morning. 'I don't care what you lot do, but I'm going.'
It seemed reasonable to me. Eddie was slightly more philosophical. "There might be some places we go to where all the hotels are like this,' he said. 'So maybe we should get used to it.'
Joe seemed oblivious to the fact that it was by far the grimiest, smelliest room we have stayed in so far and his opionion was therefore ignored.
Having decamped to more comfartable surroundings The town of Gokarno immediately seemed a rosier place to be.
Long before it was part of the tourist trail Gokarno was a special place of pilgrammage for hindus and there is constant activity at the many shrines and temples.
In the main street a three storey high chariot waits for the most important festival of the year in January when thousands of bananas will be thrown at it as it is hauled through the streets.
During our first walk around the outskirts of the town we were accosted by a very enthusiastic gentleman who was most insistent upon taking us to see the 'cow's ear'. This turned out to be a cave on the hillside and if our guide is to be believed is the main reason for the town's significance, the name gokarno meaning cow's ear.
Amidst much chanting and throwing of leaves we were lead into the cave and splashed with holy water from the spring. We were blessed and given the special honour of touching the Shiva Lingum. Of course we were also encouraged to part with a few rupees.
Two days later Joe has very explosive diarrhoea and also had to ask 'What are those little wiggly things in my poo?' I feel like going and asking for my money back.
Departure form Gokarno delayed. Worm therapy commences.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
War And Peace - Book One
The Main Families Involved-
The Bezukhovs
The Rostovs
The Bolkonskis
The Kuragins
The Drubetskoys
The Time - 1805
The Story So Far
The Story opens amongst the elite of St. Pertersburgh society against the backdrop of growing fears about Napoleon.
We meet the impetuous but likeable illigitimate son of Count Bezukhov who is accused of not even being able to 'enter a drawing room correctly'. This seems a bit harsh. He was however also involved in the incident where a bear was tied to a policeman, an altogether bigger faux pas.
Count Bezukhov lies on his deathbed as concern grows not only about the increasing certainty of war but amongst those concerned about the contents of the will. As his condition deteriorates even the undertakers gather in the shadows.
Prince Vasili, in league with the scheming Princess Anna Mikhaylovna, make a last desperate, but unsuccessful attempt to 'lose' the last known will which leaves everything to the disreputable Pierre.
As the Count breathes his last Pierre is suddenly transformed into a 'thoroughly good catch'.
Meanwhile Russian troops join forces with Swedish, Austrian and English soldiers to attack the French from all sides.
The first book ends at the Bolkonski household where the unhappily married Prince Andrew leaves behind his distraught pregnant wife and tearful sister.
The retired General Bolkovski bids him farewell. 'Remember this Prince Andrew, if they kill you it will hurt me, your old father... but if I hear thet you have not behaved like the son of Nicholas Bolkonski, I shall be ashamed.'
One book down, fourteen to go!
Meanwhile back at Palolem Eddie and Joe have found a friend called Tristan. They have discovered a shared interest in tormenting ants.
We move on tomorrow, ants not unhappy about this.
Monday, December 08, 2003
I used to like trains and I'm sure I will again. But at the moment I can live without them.
In one of a series of cheery cartoons our railway timetable queries if I have noticed how 'travelling together fosters a sense of sharing amongst co-passengers.'
Personally I found thirty eight hours on a train fostered a sense of general irritability.
Also I don't know exactly how far it is from Agra to Margao but I don't think it's as far as a thirty-six hour jouney would suggest. For a train which seemed to go backwards and forwards a great deal at thirty miles an hour the term 'express' seems to me a rather sloppy use of the word.
All in all a general sense of relief was felt when we finally got to Margao. At the station we were helpfully directed to a pre-paid rickshaw booth which sold us a ticket at exactly the advertised price. This was somewhat disconcerting after getting used to the rickshaw drivers in Agra who could not resist trying to divert you to a marble shop or take you to their Uncle's hotel because the hotel you really want to go to has allegedly closed down.
The bus from Margao to Palolem was equally straightforward and we found ourselves on a palm fringed beach in time for breakfast. Twenty years ago this must have been the perfect 'bounty advert' scene. Somewhere along the way however it appears to have collided with a slice of the Algarve. Pizza restaurants nestle happily next to Rajhistani craft stalls and cyber cafes hide amongst the bamboo beach huts.
Not that I'm complaining. The laid-back appraoch to life allows time to appreciate the 'sand between your toes' sort of pleasures that are so easy to find here. Pleasures like countimg star fish or discovering that the hermit crabs have pinched all the best shells. Waking up to watch the fishermen casting their nets from the beach or the dolphins dancing through the waves.
Overall it appears that if the British have left behind a ridiculous need to fill in forms the Portugese legacy in Goa is an altogether more relaxed affair.
It can't last of course. There are places to go and people to see. We shall leave on Thursday. By bus!
By the way I'm very happy to report that I've read the first ten chapters of War And Peace. But I'll tell you about that another time.
