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Sunita
The first time I saw Sunita she had a baby in a sling, and a red and black checked blanket draped over her head. Her smile was wide and bright, despite black plaque on teeth. As her smile broke open, she broke through. I felt it erupt in me like summer earth, cracked, wanting.

Whenever I saw Sunita she would point at something I was carrying or wearing, implying that she wanted one for herself — skirt sewn of sari fabric, Kulu shawl, new chappals, clean shirt for infant, earrings, a mala. Like other beggar women I encountered she would repeatedly drawl out her desires, “rice, chapatti,” an undertone in the daily cacophony.

Her baby girl, always tucked into dirty rag sling, was usually sleeping or suckling at breast. As I watched her grow older she would sit upright in sling gazing out at McLeod Ganj with wide eyes, smiling big like her mother. She would grab at my mala or squeeze my pinky singing delightful syllables.

I always imagined that Sunita and her family lived in settlement of shanties along river. The structures were built out of recycled materials, rotting wood, large sunflower oil tins, tires, stones, plastic bags. Huts huddled up against each other, grubby, tattered, foreboding. I imagined her husband sitting around all day smoking beedies with the other men as they waited for their wives and children to return from begging in the tourist town. At night they would all gather and compare their stash, trading amongst one another while cooking small rations of rice and dal on open fires in blackened aluminum pans. Maybe if one of these beggar women didn’t come home with enough, her husband would beat her.

I never saw Sunita swat her children or speak to them tersely like the many other beggars did to their own. She often had hand gently palmed on small son’s head and until her baby girl began to walk she was tucked in sling, a beacon like her mother. Joined at her hip, Sunita’s children were like vines and she, a wild young tree.

One night I dreamt that I stood with circle of Western women who were sharing poems. Sunita stood a few strides away, watching and smiling. As evening wore on and poetry circle continued to interact, Sunita’s intoxicating smile began to set and gather mist. Her glowing face transformed; she became creased and wracked with sorrow.

Through the year I would hand Sunita clothes that my two-year-old daughter, Tashi, had grown out of. I gave her old toys, rupee coins, rose water. She would quickly tuck offerings in her bag and move on. Sometimes she would ask for more, thankless, persistent. When on the following day I would see her child in Tashi’s old t-shirt, I would feel a rush of relief that this stuff wasn’t going to some pimp or overlord.

I longed to follow Sunita home and see the truth of her life. But in the early evening she disappeared as gracefully as she had appeared at dawn.

Ani La
One evening Tashi and I were having dinner at Ashoka when an androgynous character in burgundy robes and yellow rectangular hat approached table and pointed at French fries. I invited elderly Tibetan to join us and dished out some fries. She pecked at them slowly, all the while winking and smiling at my daughter. I offered chicken but she vehemently refused and instead asked for a Coke. She departed with bow of gratitude, holding bottle and straw against grubby robes.

It turns out that this nun was a fixture in McLeod Ganj and we often ran into her. Each time she would press forehead lovingly against Tashi’s. She would pull hard candies out of her robes that looked as if they’d lived there for a decade, or unwrap hanky full of dried yak cheese.

She seemed a mendicant, not associated with particular nunnery, always alone except when occasionally walking beside some Westerners. She was certainly devout, often found at prayer wheels, on circumambulation path, or at public teachings. From what I could gather she had no worldly possessions but for her robes, rosary and hat. She was full of spark and laughter, and some of her teeth looked as if they’d been glued to her gums with rubber cement. She was argumentative, often bickering with storekeepers or other robed Buddhists. She had a thing for Coca-cola.

One day we joined her on circumambulation path. She held Tashi’s hand, pointing out various views of the Dalai Lama’s residence. She and my husband exchanged some words in Tibetan. When he asked where she lived, she answered, “India.” when he asked her name, she mumbled, “Ani,” the Tibetan word for nun.

Whenever we would run into Ani La she would fuss over Tashi and then check us out, asking questions in mixture of Tibetan and hand gestures. Why did we buy bottled water when mountain water was delicious? Why was I wearing bangles when malas were superior? Were we on our way to circumambulation path, and if not, why? Had we eaten? Would we buy her a Coke?

It was a mystery where Ani La slept at night; she always appeared healthy and relatively clean. Toward end of our year in India Ani La donned a new hat. It was a floppy knitted sun hat, burgundy like her robes.

One day, as was often the case, we ran into Ani La at colorful prayer wheels near bus stop at center of village. She checked us out, doted over Tashi and accompanied us at spinning the wheels. She pointed out various paintings of deities upon walls, instructing us to press foreheads to them. At some point she turned corner, and when we turned expecting to find her, there was no one present in shrine’s corridor but a massive cow.

We were certain that Ani La could shape shift and had chosen that moment to do so.

About the Author : Zoe Krylova is a poet with a nomadic spirit who was born in Cyprus and moved to the U.S. at a young age. As a child she traveled a lot with her mother who was a travel agent. Once she was a mother herself she spent a year in India with her husband and two year old daughter. Zoe keeps a blog at http://www.valeofeveningfog.blogspot.com where she writes about family life, crafting, music and her adventures in Virginia, where she currently resides.

The TSM Fall Travel Writing Contest has been organized in association with On The Beach Holidays

“On est en Afrique.”
Loosely translated as “we’re in Africa now, baby,” it is hard to describe the humorous kind of shrug accompanying this wry statement. Used frequently by locals, it is the standard response to every conceivable question:

HOW many children did you say they have?!

Shrug: “On est en Afrique.”

Why is all this trash piled up along the side of the road?

Shrug: “On est en Afrique.”

I went to the bank to cash my check and the clerk who was talking on the phone let me stand there for 20 minutes as he finished his conversation.

Shrug: “On est en Afrique.”

(Come to think of it, this happened on more than one occasion in NY too, so never mind).

The taxi keeps following me, honking, even though it is clear I have no interest whatsoever in taking a taxi.

Shrug: “On est en Afrique.”

How is it that everyone I see has time to sit around and drink tea all day?

Shrug: “On est en Afrique.”

What do you mean there’s a power cut? I have deadlines to meet!

Shrug: “On est en Afrique.”

I went to the proper government office to straighten out my status with all my papers in hand and they told me no, I have to go back and send them a letter instead.

Shrug: “On est en Afrique.”

I come from a place where they have SIDEWALKS.

Shrug: “Oui, mais on est en Afrique.”

Needless to say, it is taking some time for me to adjust, because none, and I mean NONE of the usual rules apply. For example, back when I was working in NYC, business meetings were seldom interrupted for any reason. During my first week here, the director was filling me in on some important information and I was distracted by a curious, persistent noise between a moan and a cry coming from just outside the window. I found it so distracting after a while that I excused myself to go see if it was a human being in pain, or what. As it turns out, it was the noise made by a goat tethered to a post just outside the school, on a main street (we are located in the embassy district, right near the Club Med, so I am NOT talking remote bush village here). Needless to say, I was shocked, and that is when I genuinely realized with a start: “Ah oui, on est en Afrique.”

When I took my first taxi ride into the center of Dakar, I was astonished to see barefoot children, goats and chickens all running around unconcernedly in the midst of quite heavy traffic. Unless you’ve been, you cannot imagine how colorful it is in downtown Dakar – the gorgeous boubous and extravagant head ties (women tend to keep their hair covered, whether it is for reasons of fashion or religion I am not entirely sure), the street vendors with their mangoes and peanuts (a major crop here in Senegal), and bottles of red palm oil as well as household goods (hangers, glasses, brooms, you name it and someone, somewhere is walking alongside the cars selling it).

Walking alongside the cars? Yes, indeed, and this brings us to the next important word in our Dakar lexicon: embouteillages, known to NYC drivers as traffic jams. Let me put it simply: roads are not what they could be. Neither are drivers. The resulting combination is quite simply scary (see first column), as when, for example, a driver of a tin can on wheels swerves sharply into the path of oncoming traffic to avoid a really deep pothole. The first time I was seated in a car and this happened my heart almost stopped, and I attempted to register my concern with the driver. He laughed, saying this was nothing: “Mais ce n’est rien du tout. On est en Afrique.”

When one day over a long weekend I hired a car to take me to a reserve and see rhinos, giraffes and the like, the driver came over an hour after our appointed time because he had been ‘cleaning the car’. Early planning is not the norm here, I should add; it only occurred to him to clean it just as he should have been leaving to get his passenger, apparently. (What he should have been doing instead was checking the air in his tires, as we had to stop en route for a tire change. I tried to register my discontent, but of course you know by now what his response was…)

Astonishingly enough though, things here actually do work after their own haphazard fashion. People get to their jobs more or less on time, as they do in other countries, I don’t think that traffic fatalities are much higher here than anywhere else (my subjective perception notwithstanding!), goods are transported from one end of the country to the other or even exported abroad, children grow and thrive, as they do in other countries, there are cars and computers and even air conditioning for a privileged few, there is delicious cuisine, buoyant music as well as laughter and joy, so finalement, oui, on est en Afrique.

About the Author : Tamara-Diana Braunstein brings us her stories from Senegal every week. She was born in Brooklyn, New York. She is a restless wanderer who earned an MA from the University of Freiburg and has worked in a youth hostel in the French Alps, a law firm in Montreal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as in university press publishing. At the moment her home base is Dakar, Senegal, where she is supposed to be teaching but is doing far more learning, as you will see by reading her blog at www.senegalschoolmarm.blogspot.com

Photo : Flickr/Domc
New York, USA : As the sun set over a June Manhattan skyline, golds, oranges and yellows flashing through verdant maple via an internet of brash glass edifices, taxi cabs trumpeting evening, sidewalks straining with purposeful natives and lingering snappers, I hurriedly gorged my way from Gramercy, the Flatiron, Midtown, Times Square onto Ninth, the Lincoln and the Met were waiting. Ballet, opera, I cared not, the opening, rising chords of Gershwin’s Rhapsody In Blue performing con brio in my mind’s personal orchestra pit. Summer Swing in the city championed banners.

Once inside, the habit of a lifetime clouding judgment, I go for bottled Bud, yet before my transaction had been declared, the neighboring champagne stall, manned by a bright face in a tailored crimson waistcoat, yelled louder than any Bowery beat police officer. I was in New York – the home of my heroes George and Ira, Larry Hart, Bernstein and Runyon – so how could I possibly succumb to boring beer? The decision executed I dreamily stood, heavenly content, on the balcony, bubbles in one hand, a bowl of sumptuous strawberries in the other, as beneath New Yorkers swung and Lindy Hopped until a time when even the locals saw fit to retire.

Without the handcuffs of a Nine to Five and a full moon making the city too unbearably beautiful, I strolled downtown past a battery of iconic masonry, until, finally, Mumbles, a traditional dark varnished corner bistro on Third and Seventeenth, a place I had began to call home. By no means fancy, the food wholesome and substantial, not to pick and snack but to feast, and for a main running at around $10, it’s a boon to any exchange rate.

Although not shoulder to shoulder, three deep, there’s a happy lively buzz as Vicky and Trish pour and chat, whilst Steve, a lifetime propped on the sleek, brass appointed bar, recites Richard the Second in tones spectacularly similar to those of Anthony Newley. A girl called Aqua and her party from New Jersey gather. We drink. Draught Stella in the main, with special ‘in house’ bourbon chasers – emanating from a bottle worryingly bereft of a label – crashing gleefully onto chunks of ice, straight.

In the fashion of a stranger I make a pledge. Thunderous laughter follows. I receive, in the thickest of brogues, “Yeah, right”. The reason for their gaiety was my intention to walk to Brooklyn in the morning. Several no name bourbons followed. Walk down Third Avenue, I calculated, then at some point take a left. Had we not built an empire on such navigational impulsiveness? I argued. Mirth undiminished, the natives suggested all manner of transport, not necessarily to Brooklyn, but the sanatorium.

Around 5am, as she prepared to break another frame at Paddy McGuire’s, Vicky looked up inquiring as to whether my pledge still stood. My resolve remained dreadnought.

Saturday was stifling, in the eighties, and as the skyline stung my hangover head I edged unsteadily down Third, eventually hanging a left…..

Cork, UK : Decanting at No 48 on Lower Glanmire Road I discovered everything quirky, at an angle. Yet being slightly off kilter, no evident plumb line, is something possibly peculiar to Cork. Walking down MacCurtain Street, gazing left and right down slim alleys, at fine restaurants, veterinaries, building suppliers, bookies, chippies and rock star Rory Gallagher’s birthplace – Victorian, Georgian, and 60s brutal-ism of yellow, blue, claret, gray and bronze scrumming gloriously defiant against any aesthetic obligation – you figure that the Rebel City cares little for appearances, or what the foreigner may think. And why should it? Like a seagull to the lake, generations have been drawn to this enigmatic southerly retreat, its street signs leading to somewhere not intended no barrier to its delightful peccadilloes.

The Corner Bar encapsulates the haphazardness. Turquoise tiled on the outside, gnarled, chewed, drowning in Beamish on the in, the smoked postcards and notes of currency past pinned to historic beams and allied Formica lend a lost ambiance of the Lincolnshire country pubs I’d frequent as an underager in the late 1970s. However, with the visual anarchy comes the snug bonhomie – “A pint of the usual, is it now ?” welcoming a first return to the bar.

Ambles down the tree lined Lee in all its gold and marmalade autumnal splendor, theater ( Irish playwrights, obviously), film, music and Murphys by the pint saw out an engaging 6 days. The proprietor of my B and B, Jerry, would pull up a chair and join me for the traditional full breakfast fry up. English, Irish, Scottish, I find a full breakfast pretty much the same, and not one, may I say, to base any hopes of longevity. How my arteries survive I put down to Dad’s well laid sturdy genes.

With the rugby World Cup taking place at the time and with England in the semis I had to find a pub to satisfy my allegiances, so Counihans back room it was. One large screen, a bar stool and a steady supply of ale and I was set. The bar teeming, a substantial minority of whom were French – La Marseilles ripping off the roof, aided, unashamedly, by the locals who saw the lone English man as a perfect stooge – we witnessed a nail biter, I, as a fan of the nation’s football, cricket and rugby, am pretty much used to. As the final whistle blew the one, cheering, shouting voice belonged, as he giddily picked himself from the floor, to the English bloke. To be fair though, the Irish lads who’d spent the match goading away, involved me in their next round of Murphys with Bushmills chasers. More would inevitably follow.

Chocolate muffins accompanied by steaming black coffee from proper chunky mugs, as Jerry and I discussed the runners and riders at the Four Fifteen, suitably drew the curtain on a Cork visit high on eccentricity low on dullness.

About the Author : Pete is a mature student – yes, there are such things – and when his head isn’t deep in dusty academia, he is either at the theater, on his way to the theater, or checking travel sites for the latest last minute bargains. One needs a break, you see, from the never ending chapter rewrites, seminars and workshops – and if you believe that, well, quite frankly, you’ll believe owt.

The TSM Fall Travel Writing Contest has been organized in association with On The Beach Holidays

One of the wonders of our natural world are the bats. Blind, they are able to maneuver at great speeds due to the power of their sonar abilities. Each night bats leave the protection of their cave, together, and manage somehow to not knock each other out of the air. They zip around on delicate wings, seeing the world through sound, not sight.

Our understanding of sonar itself is also pretty wondrous. Sonar, or Sound Navigation and Ranging, was a technology developed in response to the sinking of the Titanic. British and American military scientists co-opted the technology and quickly developed myriads of military applications for it.

It was still a relatively new and novel idea when it surfaced just before World War I. In a far different sphere, zoologists began to unravel the mystery of bat flight. Studies were published, much to the dismay of the military, about bats sonar abilities. Attempts were made to quell the reports, for fear that the idea, and thus the technology, would fall into evil hands.

Then the whole world went to war and such trivialities were forgotten.

But to witness the epic awsomeness of bats and their sonar, one has to travel no further than the nearest cave or woods. To witness a true spectacle, though, travel to Austin.

In Austin, at the Congress Avenue Bridge, every summer a million and a half bats flock and flourish. 1.5 million. The first occurrence was 1980 and it has happened every year, like natural clock work, ever since.

Thousands of tourists: bat lovers, nature lovers, those who just love massive groups come to see the spectacle. Every night the hoard consumes between ten thousand and twenty thousand pounds of insects. If only I could command such a flock to protect me and my sweet blood that mosquitoes so much love.

Photo:Flickr/Blackfin2

Walking through the narrow roads in God’s own country, one realizes the true majesty of this state in India. Patched with the parrot green carpet of the paddy fields and the thick stripes of coconut trees, Kerala is truly God’s own country. Among the 14 districts of the state, Pathanamthitta is a hub for many educational institutions and religious places.

My journey is to a place called Mallapally, which is a small town in Pathanamthitta district. I am sure that almost half of the people who are reading this will not be able to pronounce the name in the proper way. With all the feelings of a person visiting his hometown after a span of four years, I stood by the door of the Kanyakumari bound Mumbai-Kanyakumari Express. The route involves the train going through Tamilnadu and then to Kerala.

When the train left the hustle of Coimbatore station after midnight, I was on my berth, trying to sleep and recall the sweet memories of my childhood in my hometown. My intuitions woke me up when the train crossed the Kerala-Tamilnadu border. Ignoring the cold, I rushed towards the door to catch a glimpse. The train came to a halt at Palakkad even before the red-streak broke across the horizons.

The station was sleepy but filled with happiness of those getting off and ready to be greeted by their loved ones. Palakkad could be said as the greenest part of God’s own country where the culture is a mixture of both Kerala and Tamilnadu. The Brahmins of Palakkad share similar rituals with their Tamil counterparts. After a halt of approximately half an hour, the train left on its way to KanyaKumari.

Following Palakkad,was Ottapalam, known for the communist revolutions which have left a deep mark in the history of Kerala. The former Indian President Mr.K.R.Narayanan belongs to Ottapalam. This place also hosts the world famous Kerala Kalamandalam which nourishes upcoming artists into professional ones mostly in the Kathakali dance form and also in other divine art forms like Bharatanatyam, Mohiniattam and other instrumental arts. Legendary writers who have changed the face of Malayalam literature like Vayalar Narayana Menon, who is considered as a revolutionary poet. Following the footsteps of Vayalar as he is called, is M.T.Vasudevan Nair whose novels every Malayalee relishes reading and gets a taste of the variety of the state.

Shornur came next followed by Vadakkancheri which are major players in the paddy cultivation of the state.

Eager to get back to familiar situations, my soul was stirred by my emotions and I was forced to stand by the door in spite of the chilling wind brushing through my hair and leaving a thin film of dampness over my eye glasses. As the train sped past the coconut farms which were barely visible in the dark I, felt the essence of my beloved state in the blowing wind. Lost in thoughts, I somehow realized that our train was crawling into Trichur railway station which nowadays is again given an age old name of Thrissivaperoor. The name is attributed to a famous Hindu temple of Lord Shiva. This place hosts the colorful week-long festival called the Thrissur- Pooram. Looking around for a coffee vendor I wandered on the railway station.

Somewhere near, came the familiar voice of the renowned Late M.S.Subbulakshmi. The voice which I grew up hearing and was somehow lost in the run of my life, was flowing straight into my soul. I got the coffee from a vendor, and at the price of Rs 4/Cup he had a business of around 12 Rs from me. I had to bring myself out from the hypnotic voice of the legend as our driver was in no mood to listen to the divine voice. After leaving Trichur, I thought of leaving the door side and getting back to the coziness of my blanket.

This thought of mine did not materialize as it was already Alwaye. Every Malayalee knows the taste of the colorful halwa made in ghee. Anyways I was not planning to have that ball of sugar in the morning. Famous for the Shivarathri festival, Alwaye ( Aaluva in local terms ) could be said as the next popular place after Trichur where people love to stay.

Even as the day brightened, the train took halts in between which we felt was without any specific reason. Halting here and there and bearing the cold wind of a winter morning, we reached Eranakulam. The Venice of the East, as it was called ages ago, it is now the technology hub of Kerala. I decided to make Eranakulam my venue for breakfast.

Back in Mumbai, my day used to begin with a cup of coffee and a sandwich if time permitted. The spicy aroma of the steaming Idli-Sambhar made me forget everything and even that I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. Pardon me for the cleanliness factor. I was coming home after so many years, and I could not resist.

The place where I was supposed to get off was still at a distance of 4- 5 hours. I was extremely sleepy and I decided to take a nap. While I was busy with my dreams, the train whistled past many places of historic importance. Starting with Thripunithura which till date is famous for the rivalry between the local rulers ages ago. Next in the route is Piravam which is known solely for the Hindustan NewsPrint factory. To describe about the importance of all the places that followed, this place will be very limited. To specify some, Ettumanoor is again a religious town where thousands flow in every morning to watch the early morning Pooja called the Nirmalya Darshanam of the deity Ettumanoorappan. My dreams came to a halt when the train stopped at Kottayam. Kottayam is the place which connects one part of Kerala to another. The tourist paradise Vembanad Lake is in this district. Kumaragom which is on the banks of the lake has a bird sanctuary and adorned with the beauty of Pathiramanal which is an island in the lake.

After Kottayam, comes Changanacherry which is also in the same district. Changanacherry hosts many educational institutions and for those who have a fair idea of the place, this note would be incomplete if I do not mention about Mannathu Padmanabhan who is the founder of Nair Service Society which gave the community an identity of its own. Changanacherry has the head office of N.S.S situated in the heart of the town. The station is pretty small when compared to other stations en route but for me it had the same importance as it was the last station before where I was supposed to get off.

Leaving the door, I got busy with packing my bags and prepared to get down at Thiruvalla, my destination. When the train rushed into the station, I couldn’t control my emotions and drops of tears rolled easily down my eyes. Getting down from the train, I felt that I have achieved something very special in my life. I have no words to explain how I was feeling at that moment. Having experienced this green patch in India, I now know why it is aptly called God’S Own Country.

About the Author : Hari Krishna is a software engineer and a management aspirant from India. Writing is his passion and traveling, his dream. He has been involved in writing articles for in house newsletters and his works have been published locally in India.

The TSM Fall Travel Writing Contest has been organised in association with On The Beach Holidays

Photo: Flickr/miiglea

I spend my days strapping Syrian and Lebanese preteens into flight simulators, and fall asleep at night while packs of stray dogs rumble outside my bedroom window. Such is my life in Turkey.

I live in an industrial zone which will never see the inside of a Lonely Planet guidebook, at an international science school whose students are stellar but whose management is strained and sketchy. And so at every day’s end, I hop on a dolmus and roll into the nearest three-million person city, where I know no one and speak Turkish that would embarrass a newborn. I hope for the best.

I stumble upon a raucous celebration rolling down the streets of Alsanjak, the downtown thoroughfare, as a Turkish flag the size of a football pitch dangles over the main drag. This is apparently Youth and Sports Day, which is a month after National Sovereignty and Children’s Day, and a few months before Victory Day. On third-story balconies, grizzled old Turkish men hold out portraits of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk: army officer, father of modern Turkey, and de facto secular saint. He had blue eyes, like mine, and a month from now a Turkish fashion designer will open an exhibit called, ‘The Blue Eyes of Freedom.’ Occasionally, I will catch a new Turkish friend suddenly staring fondly at my corneas, and it’s really rather unnerving.

There is a shop, located a few miles down from work, which sells amulets, concentric circles of bright blue glass. Turks, just like Israeli Jews or Mexican Catholics, believe that the evil eye – an envious or vindictive gaze – can bring misfortune down upon your head, so there is a whole industry in this country devoted to amulets called nazar boncugu, ‘evil eye stones’. I see them downtown nailed into the wall over the tellers at CitiBank, and babies have them fixed to their lapels to prevent colic and SIDS. I buy a few to hang on doorways of future apartments. This shop also raises peacocks. One particularly angry albino makes a lunge for my Achilles’ heel.

I am also mugged, very politely, by Kurdish street children in a Turkish cemetery. They don’t mug me directly: they simply assault me with youthful vigor, move far too fast for me to keep track of all of them, and hope that my anti-robbery radar short circuits at the sheer absurdity of my situation. Because their hardscrabble cuteness is the ultimate weapon.

One weekend, I am invited with my coworkers onto a personal boat as it motors off into the Aegean Sea. We make a beeline for an island that is famous for being strewn with malnourished donkeys, and after swimming ashore my coworker feeds them Gummi Bears. And while practicing our breaststroke in water that sparkles like crystal, we hear a sudden roar overheard, and look up just in time to see two F-16s screaming in the direction of Greece.

I often go out and have drinks on the waterfront, as cargo ships float by and out to sea. One day, I discover that Apocalyptica, a Finnish-cello rock group that covers Metallica songs, is playing at the local open-air theater, and so I spend two hours surrounded by an arena of Turks singing the words to ‘Enter the Sandman’ and ‘Master of Puppets.’ Afterwards, I wander into a downtown club called BIOS – which stands for Basic Input/Output System, as in the computer code – and dance to American rock songs, played live, that I haven’t heard since grade school.

My hat – a felt fedora that I wear damn near everywhere – gets noticed more than I do. In a move to modernize Turkey, Ataturk actually passed the Hat Law of 1925, in which he banned the traditional fez as a symbol of oriental backwardness and made hat-wearing compulsory by civil servants. But no one wears hats these days, and so I might as well have stepped straight out of a Dick Tracy cartoon. My beloved headwear gets passed around like the village bicycle, while a 6’9″ African man, who never says a word, spends the entire night calmly plucking my hat off the heads of random Turks, wearing it for a just a minute, and then passing it on.

And outside of Armenian genocide, a divisive history with Greeks and Kurds, and a salty yogurt drink called ayran that tastes absolutely vile, there’s only one thing about Turkey that gets my goat:

After working fourteen-hour days, don’t pay me with fake money, for crying out loud! It makes me quit.

About the Author : Jonathan Feakins is a lifelong dork and do-gooder. He’s lived in travel trailers, had picnics on London rooftops, saved hot air balloons in distress in Stockholm, sailed the high seas, and been mugged by very polite street children in Turkish cemeteries. He is presently trying to save the world, brick by brick, on the Gulf Coast.

The TSM Fall Travel Writing Contest has been organised in association with On The Beach Holidays

Photo : Flickr/Dagg2008

Fall foliage viewing, or ‘leaf peeping’ as it is popularly called, is a substantial source of tourist income in areas known for dramatic fall colors. In Vermont, USA alone, 3.4 million visitors spend nearly $364 million a year, according to sales estimates. Fall colors have been surfacing late over the years, and Dave Gram discusses the possibility of climate change being responsible for the delayed colors.

Whatever the travel budget, hailing a taxi in a new place becomes inevitable, at least when you are just getting to know the place. Here are caveats, tips and information from Dave about negotiating your way through a cab ride in your travels.

Photo: Flickr/MLHS

So many travel rules, so far away from truth. With due respect to guidebooks and local etiquette do-and-don’t lists, let loose your contrarian streak to test travel myths in John Flinn’s When in Rome…don’t be a slave to common advice.

GoLoco is a service that lets members easily arrange travel plans, share cars , automatically calculate trip costs and split expenses. Good for budget travel and better for the environment! Check out GoLoco and our previous issue of travel picks, where we linked you to material about hitchhiking on the Internet.

The best travel insurance is the one that never gets claimed. Inadequately insured travelers always run the risk of incurring huge medical bills and emotional misery, should something unexpected happen. Evelyn Hannon raises issues that need to be considered before picking an insurance package in Understanding Travel Insurance

To wrap up, and to make you smile, we go a step further to encourage you to investigate questionable travel coverage in this video of an insurance ad spoof.

It was the mid 1990’s and the US embargo with Cuba was in full effect. Travel to, and trade between, the two countries was nigh impossible. Scraggly rafts washed up on the South Florida shore with alarming regularity. The Elian Gonzalez episode was still a few years away, but everyone could see something like it was in the offing.

It’s possible that the travel bug is genetic. My parents have always been avid travelers, and while it has been a long time since we have done so, my childhood was highlighted by a handful of trips to far off places. We went to Mexico a few times and to Colombia once. My dad’s work as a doctor has taken him to almost every corner of the globe, and sometimes the rest of us would get to tag along. This was only because such family trips could be written off as ‘medical missions.’

My dad is the undisputed leader of these trips. Often he would books the flights, contact friends of his in various locales, and would announce matter of factly that next month we would be jettisoning off somewhere.

The trips were usually pretty tame. We’d stay with family or friends and my dad would work as the rest of us were left to fend for ourselves. The trip that stands out most in my memory was the time we went to Cuba.

We’re American, so getting to Cuba, especially back then, was a tricky business. First we had to fly to Cancun, Mexico. Then we chartered a flight, in a 1950’s Russian jet, to La Habana. If you give the Cuban customs agents a little kickback when you hand them your passport, they’ll innocuously turn to page 16 of your passport and stamp a tiny bank stamp that in barely legible letters says ‘El Banco de La Habana.’

I was young at the time, no more than 10 or 11 years old and the passport business was taken care of largely without my knowledge. We caught a cab from the airport and went to our hotel, the Copacabana (It was in fact the inspiration for the long famous Miami nightclub…Down at the Copa. Copacabana…you know the rest) and checked in.

Now I should preface this by saying my dad has never been one to abide by rules. He is by no means an immoral person, but he is of the mindset that rules can be bent and that authority is there to be challenged.

We had been briefed many times by many different people that not only travel to Cuba is illegal, but buying goods like cigars, coffee and rum— staples of the Cuban economy— is strictly forbidden. To stress that point, the sentence for such illegal trafficking at the time was a $250,000 fine and a mandatory 15 years in prison.

Merely more incentive to my pops.

From the first day, my dad went loco buying things he shouldn’t have been buying. Bottles of rum, boxes of cigars, pounds of coffee—everyday he would come back to our hotel room with something new and very illegal (“But it’s so cheap!” He would explain.)

By the end of the week, he had more stuff then would fit in just his suitcase; so, he passed off some stuff to my sisters and I. My mom, the just and saintly woman that she is, refused to participate. She forbade him from getting us kids involved too, but he managed to usurp her authority with small briberies (I think he gave me twenty bucks—which in retrospect is a gross undervalue).

Our time in Cuba quickly came to an end and we hopped back over to Mexico before returning home. The illegal goods were carefully hidden away in our exquisitely packed luggage and when we finally landed in Cleveland we all crossed our fingers and hoped for the best.

The three kids went first. We showed the customs agent our passports with the big fat ‘Mexico’ stamp. He never turned to page 16 and he never saw the tiny ‘Cuba’ stamp. With palpable boredom, he turned to my sister Sarah, 14 or 15 at the time, and asked her if she had anything illegal. Her wide-eyed deer in headlights look almost gave her away before she sputtered, in a small voice, “No sir.”

He brushed us passed and my mom followed suite after us. She of course came up totally clean and moved through customs quickly and came to join us. We were fervently watching the line as my dad got closer and closer to the front.

We saw him walk up to the customs agent, present his passport and then be quickly carted off to a side room for ‘inspection.’ “The family,” I remember thinking, “is forever broken.” We all let out silent gasps of horror. My mom sat down, ready for the worst. “He’s so stupid,” she kept repeating.

The next part of the story I only know secondhand from my dad.

Stupidity of stupidities, he had forgotten to grease the great wheel of justice upon arriving in Cuba. Instead of the innocent bank stamp, he was given, without realizing it, the big, fat ‘Cuba’ stamp. He was screwed from the get go.

The agent dragged him to an inspection table, and when he put on his latex gloves, my dad feared the worst. The agent asked him if he had brought back anything illegal and my dad, no doubt clenching his buttocks, answered truthfully, yes.

The suitcase was unzipped and all of the illegal stuff came spilling out. Boxes of cigars, coffee, were strewn across the table. Once my dad gets that jolt of law breaking, it seems he has a hard time stopping. His toothpaste was opened and squeezed out. By now the agent was certain that harder, more sinister things were in the suitcase.

“Sir,” he started off, “Do you know that the penalty for bringing goods—“ And then he stopped. Underneath all of the illegal stuff were my dad’s medical supplies for the work he did in Cuba.

“IWentToCubaWithMyFamily,” words came tumbling out. “I’mADoctorAtThe ClevelandClinicAnd…”

Suddenly a spark lit up in the man’s eyes. “What do you do there?”
“I’m an anesthesiologist.”
“Did you know I just had an operation at the Cleveland Clinic?”
An inkling of memory flared up in my dad. “Yes. Yes! You had eye work done, right?”
“Yes…and you were my anesthesiologist.”
“Yeah! I remember you! Scott, right? Hey, how are you doing?”
Grudgingly, the agent admitted, “Much better, thanks. You guys saved my life.”

Just then the head customs agent was making his rounds amongst the stations, checking to see who brought what and who was going to get arrested. Hastily, the agent stuffed everything back into the case. The head agent came over and asked the subordinate if it contained anything illegal. Without looking at my dad, he confidently said, “Nothing at all.”

The head honcho, appeased, left. The man sheepishly looked my dad in the eye and said, “Next time you go down there, don’t forget to bribe the officials and don’t ever, ever, bring back any illegal goods…I have a check up at the Clinic in a few weeks and I would love some cigars.”

And that was that. My dad picked up the suitcase and walked away. Serendipitous seems to come to mind. My mom, who was already well beyond frazzled, nearly beat him. “You’re such a bad influence! I wish they had arrested you, I really do. You never get your cummupins!” She looked at me and then back at my dad, and with vitriol in her voice she said, “And what kind of message does this send your son?!”

“What are you talking about?” He replied, excited and unconvinced. “We have a buddy in customs now! We can bring back anything we want!”

After tasting hot dosa, vada, idly with groundnut chutney and steaming coffee served with the aroma of Chennai, the breakfast induced energy in me for a long journey. Packing my kit with camera, water bottle, writing pad and towels, we left early just after dawn before the mercury could soar higher.
My affectionate friend Dwaraknath and his family members were courteous and their hospitality knew no limits. I knew him only as a colleague, a brotherly and jovial friend, but not as an enthusiastic car driver who eagerly agreed to sit behind the wheel.

Our destination was ‘Kona falls’ within the limits of the neighboring state of Andhra Pradesh which is 60 km from Tiruninravur, Chennai. Dwarak showed his mettle in skillful maneuvering of many sharp bends and irregular patches of roads. After crossing a tiny hamlet Nagalapuram near Tiruvallur, we reached the famous Poondi Reservoir, a mammoth store house with sluice and other inlet channels in perfect state. The inner service road and area were kept spotlessly clean.

Many agricultural lands of Oothukkottai were exhibiting different tints of green and the women folk were busy engaged in kernel transplantation. The chorus song they sang in the dialect to keep them energetic reminded me of the lines from Wordsworth’s ‘The Solitary Reaper’. We chose not to stay but gently passed after a click without disturbing them. The bumpy drive at times gave a soothing massage to the aching parts.

The curvy, clean, long road bedecked with mountains on either side was a joy to drive. Surutupalli is a calm village where we stopped for a while en route to catching the glimpse of the lord ‘Sri Pallikonda Swamy’. The temple under renovation was very calm and was being visited by the locals.

Just before entering the Puthur highway and swerving to the left, an arch welcomes you to the ‘Kailasanatha Kona Falls’ which is 2.6 km from the road. Though it slightly looked uninhabited, the movement of vehicles was clearly visible. Suddenly we entered a vast parking land surrounded by lush foliage. We gasped at the bustling activity, the crowd and the ubiquitous monkeys there.

Climbing a few steps we reached the spot. The serene surroundings with a picturesque hillock covered by lichens, ferns and many hanging wild herbs came alive with a downpour from the heights. Though it appeared scanty in the summer, the local folks say that it has abundant supply during the rest of the season and overflows in monsoon. Kona hills give a perennial source of water to beat the heat and cool down under the showers. There are visitors who frequent this place every weekend!

The experience of oneness with nature and the rejuvenating bath under the water falls left us dumb struck. Do we have more of these resorts to quench the thirst and recharge the tired souls of the city dwellers? Well, there are untold places to explore that are less traveled and away from the noisy metros.

Hot bajjis, mangoes, tender palm fruits and rice meal at the base of the hill were sufficient for lunch. Vroom…off the road we came with fullness and our search for the next destination has begun.

About the Author : S.Chandrasekar writes from Chennai, India. He is a freelance creative writer for Travel & Shopp magazine (Chennai & Bengaluru). With a post graduate degree in Science and Business Administration, he is at present working for a BPO company as Manager-HR. He has authored two books on self-improvement and has penned a few hundred essays and articles in English & Tamil. His website is http://www.geocities.com/chandruselva/Divine-Pearl.html

The TSM Fall Travel Writing Contest has been organized in association with On The Beach Holidays