San Gimignano

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As my bus whizzes past lush green vineyards across the Tuscan countryside, I cannot help but marvel at the view. The whole scene looks ripped off a classic movie or maybe an Enid Blyton book. No human being in sight for miles at a stretch. Just the countryside, me and of course a mellifluous song, that only I can hear.

15 minutes later, I reach San Gimignano, a tiny Tuscan village. It was love at first sight. There were flowers mushrooming on both sides of the cobbled streets and idyllic houses with windows adorned by flowerbeds; quaint, wooden doors hidden behind ivy creepers and vintage letterboxes hung on brick walls. I am in a village straight out of a fairy tale, a scene where I can picture Rapunzel letting down her hair out of those windows. An elusive fragrance envelopes me as I walk down the streets, not being able to keep my eyes on the road. The villas are inviting and the windows are wide open as if ready to hug.

As I begin exploring this medieval town, I choose to start with the San Gimignano Street, flanked with huge stone towers akin to castles, on both sides. According to my Lonely Planet Guide, this ancient town was once an Etruscan village, home to affluent and powerful families, who flaunted their opulence by building tower houses. There were once 72 such towers, today there are 14 of these remaining. San Gimignano showcases Roman and Gothic architecture in their full glory.

As I walk through the city towards the Main square, the Piazza Della Cisterna, it starts raining. Taking shelter in a souvenir shop, I befriend Sara who is happy to accompany me while I explore this fascinating town. While my mind is abuzz with several questions, I am most intrigued about the Italian’s fascination for adorning windows with flowers.

Sara tells me it’s a welcoming gesture. No wonder clusters of flowers are found outside Pizzerias, cafés and stores!

The streets are now washed with rain and we venture out. San Gimignano makes for an ideal one day excursion from Florence and is best explored on foot.

What to do in San Gimignano

So what can one do in San Gimignano apart from losing your way in the alluring alleys?

1. Shop on the Main street

From chic footwear to fragrant hand made Toscana soaps, the street has a variety of souvenirs to carry back home. For wine lovers, there is the dry white Vernaccia wine, local to this region. The tower town is also known for its gorgeous ceramics. A pity I couldn’t carry some of that stellar looking crockery back home. Sara tells me the town was also known for its saffron farming.

2. Dine under the Tuscan sun

The freshness of a Tuscan meal, with all its aromas and flavours, is something you will not forget easily. My vegetarian meal at the Ristorante Pizzeria included Pappa Pomodoro [a thick tomato soup], Fagioli Uccelleto [beans] and Verdure caponata [Roasted vegetables]. This was served with lots of fresh salad, topped with eggless cake and downed with a breathtaking view of the vineyards.

Could it get any better?

3. SanGimignano 1300 Museum

This museum showcases a brilliant ceramic representation of how the town looked in the medieval ages. It gives a bird’s eye view of all the towers and an insight to the town planning. The lady at the desk can’t contain her excitement about meeting an Indian and coaxes me to sample some local Biscotti, Canestrelli, and Amaretti. These are cookies cooked with almonds. Delectable and a must try!

4. Wine tasting and exploring vineyards

The San Gimignano Vernaccia Wine Museum, perched at the highest point of the town, shows the journey of wine making in this region. You can see vineyards from the museum and sample local Vernaccian wine in the museum. Additionally, the museum also conducts wine tasting events and day visits to farms.

5. Indulge in an innovative gelato

Visit the famous Gelateria Dondoli in the Piazza Del Cisterna to indulge in some innovative, homemade delights. Whipped by Sergio Dondoli, former gelato world champion, some of his exotic creations include Crema di Santa Fina [saffron and pine nuts], Dolceamaro [aromatic herbs], Vernaccia Sorbet and Champelmo [pink grapefruit].

6. The Cathedral and its frescos

With beautiful frescos, intricate paintings and arty ceilings, the Collegiata Di Santa Maria Assunta or the Duomo di San Gimignano is more than just a religious place. Truly an art lover’s delight, the Cathedral has biblical stories painted on its walls, which sadly cannot be captured as photography is prohibited.

7. The historic centre

No cars are allowed in this town and hence the sanctity of the town is maintained. Walk through the Piazzas, throw a coin in the wishing well, climb up the Bell tower for the glorious views and let the magic of this medieval town wash itself upon you.

I toy with the idea of spending at least three months, in one of these gorgeous villas, living the local Tuscan life. But as all fairy tales have happy endings, this one was no exception. The sights of the countryside are now imprinted in my mind and the aromas of the Tuscan food are etched in my memory.

Satiated, I close my eyes till my journey back to Florence, occasionally sniffing the handmade soaps—perfect souvenirs from the fairy tale town.

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Bali

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Casting off the snug cloak of certitude and comfort for the scruffy, patched up jacket of adventure always gets me high and my travels often bring me face to face with others who are enlivened with the same idea. I always thought we are identical in that sense.

Turns out we’re as identical as two similar looking ice cream flavours—both white and creamy—but one is speckled with Oreos and the other with brown chunks of caramel. And you don’t know which is which until you take a closer look. I did just that and found Seema’s travels amount to lounging by the sea, watching waves; Paul likes to visit local cafes; Jacelyn hikes in the wilderness while my friend William, a Miyazaki fan, visits Japanese sights that are inspirations for artistic settings featured in Studio Ghibli films.

I put myself under the microscope too and discover I’m the type that thrives to explore everything in the guidebook, from the touristy to the ‘nobody cares about’ sights. Until my hamstrings ache, I don’t feel I’ve travelled at all. And with this realisation came the desire to try a radically different travel style and see if I can still quench my curiosities and gain cultural insights.

Discreetly lit paths wound past majestic banyans, thickets of bamboos, ferns, climbers and coconut trees, leading to thatched roof cottages

Bali is my lab

I’d execute my plan in Bali—an Indonesian island, nine times the size of Mumbai and up the ante by restricting myself only to Ubud, Bali’s cultural capital. This trip wouldn’t be about spreading myself thin but about anchoring myself.

For 300k Rupiah, Agung was driving us from the airport to Ubud—but not without asking the question every cab driver in Bali enquires of his backseat passenger: What are your plans?

I had talked myself out of building an itinerary—a colour-coded table of hourly activities I fondly churn out before every trip and devoutly consult. So when Agung rattled a sequence of activities from exotic temple sightings and volcanic mountain visits to Kecak dance performances, I became increasingly nervous. A sarong clad resort staff saved me from spiralling down the wormhole of self-doubt by holding the car door for me to shuffle out and reconnaissance my base for the next four days. Discreetly lit paths wound past majestic banyans, thickets of bamboos, ferns, climbers and coconut trees, leading to thatched roof cottages. Number 27 was mine, with a mossy green door.

What has remained unchanged for centuries is their belief that it’s a cause for celebration when the departed soul crosses over to the spirit realm

Liberating days

Mornings began by waddling out of the four poster bed and settling on the porch facing a little garden enclosed by 3-feet brick wall. A bendy Frangipani stretched its arms like a sinewy dancer from the north west corner of the lawn and dropped pink flowers at my feet while a gecko riding a decorative stone elephant kept watch until the butterflies flitted in, which is when it scurried after them. Shafts of sunlight poured through the leaves and I saw gold dust dancing in the air which smelled of dew and pungent earth.

It was liberating to not be pulled away from this. Just because there wasn’t a plan in place I once joined the free morning walk offered by the resort and followed our guide to the paddy fields of Kedewatan village with nine enthusiasts. “We use an ancient irrigation system called Subak to water our fields. No pumping required”, said our guide. For thousands of years, Balinese farmers have cut deep into volcanic earth to feed water into aqueducts from where bamboo pipes carry the water to the top of rice fields and let gravity pull it down from terrace to terrace. Ingenious!

“Because of steep land prices in Bali…” explains our guide who has now gathered us at a graveyard “…mass cremations are economical”. A single cremation may cost $9,000! It sounds like a practical solution to a contemporary problem but what has remained unchanged for centuries is their belief that it’s a cause for celebration when the departed soul crosses over to the spirit realm. “Shedding tears is prohibited, especially upon the body of the deceased. It makes the passage difficult,” cautions our guide. “There’s a band! Everybody dresses up and feasts!” he adds. Our own morbid approach to death back home makes it hard to comprehend the Balinese way but it’s humbling to learn about it.

After breakfast I decide to stretch my legs and walk on JI Raya towards Ubud Centre, passing warungs [small eateries] promising “paddy field views”, spa parlours, convenience stores and craft shops like Pithecan Thropus, where I treat myself to a lovely batik wallet. The constant drone of mopeds swishing by keeps me company till I reach the wooden Campuhan bridge straddling the Wos river and overlooking a deep gorge.

Bridges Bali, a seven tiered restaurant, offers front row seats to this spectacular sight and I settle down on their roofed veranda with a cup of Rooibos. It feels like I am nestled inside a green womb, an experience so intimate that I spend several unplanned hours hypnotised by the tune of gurgling water and the bizarre maze of vegetation.

Every intricately detailed painting on the walls depicting Balinese life and legends was proof of his expertise in Keliki miniature painting

Bali up and close

Across the bridge is a discreet looking temple and one afternoon, when the weather was fine, I climbed down the stairs from the street and followed some shy teenage boys and their newfound girlfriends in school uniforms on what’s called the Campuhan Ridge Walk. Trust a gorgeous scenery such as this: an unending spindly road snaking through deep emerald valleys to soothe young romance. Their awkward handholding was soon replaced by whispers of sweet nothings.

The trail was occasionally steep and just as I was heaving from a climb, Wayan Surana flagged me down, invited me inside his modest art gallery and shoved his credentials into my hands. This was unnecessary because every intricately detailed painting on the walls depicting Balinese life and legends was proof of his expertise in Keliki miniature painting, a craft he’s been practising for over 20 years. “Art galleries demand hefty commissions, so I cut the middleman and sell directly to you”, he says. If only he’d thought of the studio’s visibility, he wouldn’t have to ambush prospective patrons. “It’s cheaper here, please, which one you like?” I sense his desperation, but buying art cannot be rushed. So I promise to return and walk back to the bridge, onwards to JI Hanoman, where the atmosphere is zingy.

Hard-nosed businessmen usually found negotiating with tourists are overseeing the placement of Penjor—majestic bamboo poles festooned with decorations—on either side of the road. Tomorrow is Galungan—a revered Balinese festival marking the victory of dharma over adharma.

“Penjor represents Basuki dragon, who protects us from evil”, says an onlooker as he relates the story behind the symbolism that essentially involves supplicating gods, defying demons and appeasing ancestral spirits. It seems everything in Bali, from birth and death ceremonies to ancient irrigation technique to subjects of miniature paintings, is affected by celestial and infernal interventions.

As I become aware of this, I begin to observe things I would’ve otherwise overlooked. My trip ends with dinner at Bebek Bengil and something tells me that the conical shape of that mound of steamed rice served with crispy duck isn’t merely decorative. “It represents our holy mountains—abode of God and ancestral spirits,” says the server. That’s when I knew my self-inflicted social experiment wasn’t a goner.

GOOD TO KNOW

When to visit

With mild and temperate weather year-round, Bali is always enticing. Nov – April can be slightly hotter and humid with brief torrential showers while May – Oct is fairly dry and great for outdoor activities.

Where to stay

Uma by COMO, Ubud is an ascetic hideaway in the lap of nature outfitted with luxe amenities. You are not just spoiled with a daily choice of activities, from cooking classes to adventure tours, but also by the unmatched hospitality of their staff.

Where to eat

A 15-minute walk on a narrow path flanked by expansive paddy fields, obscure cottages bellowing smoke out of their chimneys against an enormous blue sky transports you from the modern trappings of Ubud Center to the idyllic settings of Sari Organik, an organic farm and eatery where you can indulge in healthy, tasteful food paired with lush views and quietude.

Getting around

Ubud is best enjoyed on foot. Set off on nature treks in the nearby Campuhan and Kedewatan villages and when you miss Wi-Fi head to the town centre along Jl. Raya, Jl. Hanoman and Jl. Monkey Forest, where men hawking their taxi services are found every step of the way.

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Tharangambadi village

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Our train dropped us, early in the morning, at the rain-washed station of Mayiladuthurai. The rains were unexpected and we had no umbrellas. Leaving my son to take care of our luggage, I hurried to find a taxi that would take us to our destination. The drivers were huddling inside their vehicles, reluctant to step out. Eventually, one of them agreed and we made our way through the rain-drenched streets of the city to a small fishing village—Tharangambadi, along the Tamil Nadu coast.

Arriving in the sleepy fishing village

The little town of Tharangambadi was still fast asleep when we arrived. Only a few fishermen were visible, returning with their catch. The first indication that this was no ordinary fishing village came when we passed through the arc of the Town Gate. Restoration was in progress and it clearly pointed to a past era of grandeur and importance, much different from the sight it presented today.

The narrow road passed by old houses, churches and schools, and dropped us at the gates of another grand old structure, the former British governor’s bungalow, now a heritage hotel, the Bungalow on the Beach. While waiting for our room to be readied, we sat on easy-chairs on the veranda, enjoying the sight of the waves crashing on the shore, their roar reverberating through the silent beach. Complementing the waves was the rain that beat a rhythmic tapping on the roofs. The sea and the rain seemed to be playing a jugalbandi, and the effect was so melodious that I could guess why the early settlers had called this land Tharangambadi—the land of the singing waves!

Past glory of the Danes

Tharangambadi had become Trankebar with the arrival of the Danes in 1620. The Danish Admiral, Ove Gedde, had built a settlement here, the heart of which was Fort Dansborg. The central citadel, which is all that remains of the fort today, is typically European, a trapezoidal structure that faces the sea and has borne the brunt of its moods over the centuries. There is no sign of the moat that once surrounded the fort, and only traces of the walls that once protected it remain.

We had been eager to explore, but the fort’s caretaker was nowhere to be seen. Although when the rain subsided, he arrived and led us into a courtyard carpeted with tiny yellow flowers, from where the brownish-orange sandstone walls of Dansborg rose. From the top of the fort, we had a wonderful view of the sea and the village and it was almost like time had stood still.

For my son, it was a joyous adventure to walk on the partially submerged brick walls of the fort. For me, it was a scary escapade. As he stood there, the wind teasing his hair, his eyes rose to see a flock of flamingos flying past. I stood on the shore, ruminating about the rise and fall of fortunes.

On the shore, right outside the fort, stood a stone plaque commemorating the arrival of Bartholomaus Ziegenbalg and Heinrich Plutschau in 1706, the first Lutheran Missionaries to arrive in India. Both were zealous men of faith who spent years studying Tamil, understanding it, and becoming so fluent that they translated the Bible into Tamil! They also brought along a printing press to distribute copies of the translated Bible. The three churches in this tiny coastal village—Zion Church, New Jerusalem Church and the Lutheran Church—are testaments to the number of devotees the missionaries garnered.

Changing times

After the Danes, the British took over the village, even changing its name to Tranquebar. However, once India won her independence, and they were forced to leave, Tranquebar once again became Tharangambadi. Reflecting on the ever changing and cyclical nature of life, we headed next to explore another aspect of the town.

Dedicated to Lord Shiva as Masilamani Nathar—the unblemished one—the temple told us a story that was far older than the fort. Built during the reign of King Kulashekhara Pandyan I in the 14th century, the temple stands by the village shore, with the waves lapping at its steps. As we sat on the steps, our feet emersed in the water, we listened to an old priest tell us stories about the temple. He didn’t know of any legends or myths about the temple, but he told us it had great importance during the Pandya rule, when the village had been a busy port. Romans had come here, as had the Chinese. “There was a Chinese deity affixed atop the spire,” he insisted, “to draw more Chinese traders here”. We must have looked sceptical, for he added, “You ask them at the museum. They will tell you it is true.” As to where the idol was now, he had no idea. “It must have been washed away in the tsunami. Not the recent one, the one they say came centuries ago.”

This coast had been prone to nature’s fury, and a tsunami, centuries ago, was believed to have swept away the first temple built here. We know little of those times, but the tsunami of 2004 wrecked this coast and scarred monuments and humans alike.

Life in the village goes on

On that wet weekend in October, we were amongst the few tourists left in Tharangambadi. A young couple from Bangalore gave us company during mealtimes, and a few families dropped in to see the fort or play on the beach. “There are so few people here because of the rains,” rued the guard at the fort. We didn’t mind the rains though, and we enjoyed walking barefoot on the beach, revelling in the experience of having it all to ourselves.

The next morning, our last in Tharangambadi, we woke up early and walked down to an estuary where the river Manjaar merged with the Bay of Bengal. The shore was strewn with shells and we struggled to decide which ones to take back home with us. A fish, washed ashore by a wave, caught my son’s eye. Picking up one of the huge shells lying on the sand, he scooped up the fish and threw it back into the river. Never had I felt prouder!

As the sun rose, the crab fishermen arrived and began digging holes in the sand, deftly pulling the crabs that hid underneath. Then the fishermen came, returning with their day’s catch. The crows and kites followed the men closely, flying against the strong gusts of wind, and trying to grab any fish that escaped from he nets.

It was a simple moment, one that happened in every fishing village. Yet, it made me wonder, “Was it like this, before this town became a trading port? Before great powers caught the sight of this land?” The land and its people have been through so much, experiencing nature’s fury as well as bounty. They have known times that were joyous as well as tumultuous. Whether the tourists come to see the church’s spire towering high, or the temple with its steps leading into the waters, there is one thing for sure—humanity endures, and there is always hope!

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The beautiful city of Srinagar

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Five years ago, coming down to Kashmir from the barren slopes of Ladakh was like stumbling upon Paradise. The green tall trees soothed my eyes after the stark high slopes of hard rock. The sound of rushing water and the humming of bees, as they swung lazily over the masses of flowers, was sweet music indeed.

The land of infinite charm was calling me again

Srinagar was busy and quietly occupied with the business of loading the rich and juicy fruits that had been fetched from the many orchards around the countryside into trucks that would carry them away to the rest of the country. And though we briefly saw the Dal Lake only after nightfall, its presence was tangible and alive at the edge of the road that the traffic moved upon.

We stayed at a friend’s friend’s house, at the edge of the old city. And I found long walks in the grasslands close by, which skirted humble huts and makeshift shops, a great way to spend my evenings. I would return in time for a warm meal and to layer myself in a warmer sweater, as the cold descended from the nearby mountains and hung with the mist till the morning.

The memories stayed. And despite the news of bandhs and curfews, firings and all the rest of the turmoil that only humans can cause, I could only think of Srinagar as a land of infinite charm and beauty.

Which is why, when a friend asked me to accompany her to Srinagar while she went to check on her new house still being built, I agreed with alacrity. Making the most of not being on the nine-to-five treadmill, I packed my bags and bid goodbye to my own home for the next fortnight.

Srinagar or Mumbai?

The first disappointment came when we reached the house. I had been warned that we would be staying in what was practically an outhouse, as the big house was yet to be completed; but I was more than game. The disappointment was in the fact that the house was nowhere near Dal Lake, but in one of the new developed areas, close to the airport. We were thus situated on the high end of a slope, surrounded by new chalet-like homes that dotted the winding road down to the arterial road. But that meant there was nowhere to walk. No stretching wilderness, no green, flower-decked fields.

However, far away, the snow gleamed on the mountains and there was a stretch of tall poplars and willows waving in the breeze, and I comforted myself with the sight. Every city, I told myself, has to stretch itself to accommodate new areas of development. Why should Srinagar be an exception?

Every city, I told myself, has to stretch itself to accommodate new areas of development. Why should Srinagar be an exception?

But on my first trip to the centre of town, I realised just how much the city had changed: traffic jams, as two-lane traffic was funnelled into a half lane, which was cordoned off to complete flyover work; flyovers bent over roads that were once tree-lined, but now stood bare and dusty in the afternoon sun; dust coated, the sides of the roads and the houses that stood alongside looked sad and neglected, crying out for care and a lick of fresh paint. I could see none of the cheerful joyousness that symbolised a fresh green valley was in evidence. By evening, a splatter of rain did its worst. Like any other city, where roads have been paved to block the natural seepage of water into the soil, Srinagar’s roads were quickly flooded. Traffic came to a standstill, tempers flared, words flew across car windows, and I wondered why I had travelled so far to revisit a bad evening drive, like back home in Mumbai.

Splendid serendipity

The days were still very warm, and we would venture out only by dusk, when it turned decidedly cooler. One evening, as a sweet autumnal nip stole into the air, we honked our way ‘downtown’, determined to visit one of the famed gardens of the city. As the car drove in a series of starts and stops through the knot that funnels traffic into the Dal Lake area, I wondered what other disappointments were in store for me. The Dal Lake, like the Ganga, had fallen prey in recent times to the thoughtlessness of man, and had more than once been declared to be dying. As for the gardens, I hoped they had not been ceded to the greed of builders who had started constructing high-rise apartments on the generous stretches of once-fertile land.

I need not have worried, not about this at least. The lake stretched alongside the road, looking dazzling in the setting sun, the line of shikaras with exotic names adding the picture perfect touch. The mood suddenly turned magical. When, as if on cue, the car radio burst into ‘Taareef karoon kya uski’ from the film Kashmir Ki Kali; it was serendipity indeed!

Time and again, we would evidence honesty in those who served to maintain or guard public spaces

Integrity intact

There is no parking allowed by the lakeside promenade, so we scuttled across the road when the car dropped us off in front of the Nishat Bagh gate. As we tried to enter, we were stopped and the demand for an entry ticket presented itself. We were then told the ticket window was around the corner at the end of the gate wall. Loathe to descend the steps and walk down the crowded road, we grumbled to ourselves only to have the watchman tell us we could give him the money… he would get the tickets for us. 20 rupees changed hands and we were ready to set off on our explorations. But the watchman stopped us, telling us to please wait. In five minutes, a boy came running up to hand us the tickets. Ashamed at the thought we had harboured that the watchman would pocket the ticket money, we finally set off. Time and again, we would evidence such honesty in those who served to maintain or guard public spaces.

The Nishat and Shalimar Gardens of Srinagar date back to the Mughal times. And even today, despite the strife that brings the city to a frequent standstill, flowers bloom in these spaces in abundance, the fountains spray sweet water, and the old natural water-flow from one level of the garden to the next and the next, through the six levels, is maintained in quite its original glory.

Kashmiris as well as tourists find respite and pleasure in the green lawns and flower decked walkways, the magnolia blooms secretly overhead, and the chinar trees stand majestically like sentinels guarding the place. A bunch of school boys come rushing in and, stripping their uniforms, jump into the pools to gambol. It is as innocent and natural a sport as any that time has witnessed. It is impossible to imagine this in cities and towns elsewhere, except perhaps during the rains.

Development destroys

Verily, much of Srinagar is caught in a time warp. If you stop to listen, it is possible to hear the gentle cadences of poetic Urdu politeness, experience a hospitality that went out with the western concept of entertaining only invited guests on pre-ordained occasions, and feel the shaping hand of nature in the ways your days and nights are spent.

But even as I write this, my heart quails when I remember the ride back. I recall returning from the peace of the gardens, only to spy the first real mall that stands at the edge of the main road, a forerunner of the others that will perhaps soon follow. I think of the tourists who will return in summer, with loud, boisterous voices, and haggle with the shopkeepers over the price of the exquisitely embroidered garments and awe inspiring papier mache bric-a-brac, and upturn the way of life that prevails here. And I find myself wondering how the flyovers and the paved roadsides—malaises that come with prosperity and development—will change the quiet charm of this city irrevocably.

A week after I leave behind the Valley, the rains wash through it, wrecking havoc through the populated areas, laying waste to saffron fields and fruit orchards. It is as I feared. Development, I tell myself, needs to keep nature in mind and be shaped to suit each place differently. One size does not fit all! Srinagar proved it all over again, as Uttarakhand had a year ago. Why aren’t we listening?

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Melbourne

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The license plates brightly announced: Victoria—The place to be. Was it propagation, reassurance or a testimonial? I needed none. Not now anyway. Freshly disembarked, the smell of disinfectant from the flight hadn’t even washed off my body. This slogan—which seemed more like a conclusion than a first impression—needed to be obliterated from my mind, if I were to form any sort of opinion. I had just reached the land down under—Melbourne to be precise.

First impressions

Although, in the age of Internet it would be untrue if I claim I didn’t have the slightest notion of how the city fared in the global mindset. Last year, Melbourne was named the world’s most liveable city by The Economist for the fourth consecutive year. As I watched immigration officers at Tullamarine airport welcome travellers with warm smiles, saying “How are you t’day?” and engaging in friendly chitchat, I considered moving here right away.

There are bigger factors that contribute to Melbourne’s liveability, but this geniality seemed to exude from every Melbournian I met—be it the African taxi driver, the Chinese sales person at the souvenir shop, the Greek ‘hotel concierge’ lady or the English cashier who warned me of impending bad weather and urged me to take shelter. Each one of them made Melbourne more likeable.

Going back in time

Wondering if the city’s cultural diversity and cosmopolitan heart are responsible for its openness and practised ease with foreigners, I entered the Immigration Museum on Finders Street. Turns out, the first immigration to Australia happened in 1788 with convict transportation from Britain. By 1850s penal transportation ceased and in 1851, the newly formed state of Victoria discovered gold beneath its surface, leading to the Victorian gold rush! Melbourne—Victoria’s capital, which served as a major port, experienced rapid growth and soon became the economic centre of Australian colonies. The gold boom brought a large amount of immigrants from England, Ireland, Wales, America, China and Germany.

Although people across the world were willing to migrate to this vast unknown landmass in the southern hemisphere for better prospects, the British were still the favoured kind. Early 20^th century saw the imminent ‘White Australia Policy’ meant to eliminate non-European migration.

Not for long though! Australia’s vulnerability after WWII led to calls for Australians to ‘populate or perish’. The British were still preferred, but immigrants from other countries were admitted to push population growth. Immigration policies no longer mentioned race. By the 1980s, family reunions became the most common criteria for migrating to Australia!

I spent nearly half a day reading through the fascinating ‘immigration timeline’, that stated by 1990s—nearly one in four Australians was born overseas. There are people from over 100 countries that are now Australian citizens. It was indeed symbolic that the immigration museum is located inside the beautifully restored Customs House, which was used to control immigration in the 19^th century and recorded every arrival at its doors. Exiting the building, I walked towards the iconic Flinders Station. On the way when I heard random gabble in all kinds of languages and find eateries selling pho, dumplings, souvlaki, doughnuts, and pasta in adjoining streets, it all made sense.

Roaming through the heart of Melbourne

Being wonderfully cosmopolitan is one of the many aspects of Melbourne that appealed to me. I am also a sucker for history. The trappings of the 21^st century hold abundant allure no doubt, but I’m equally fond of tracing elements of the past in a city’s present landscape. Little did I know that my day spent ambling in Melbourne’s CBD [Central Business District] and around would take me past many buildings featuring ancient architecture from the gold rush times, and juxtapose it with glimpses of the city’s modern, edgy style.

I settled by St. Paul’s Cathedral to watch hundreds of people crisscrossing each other at the traffic lights. Some were swallowed by the arched gate of Flinders Station, some glided into the swanky Federation Square and others cheered their way to Melbourne Cricket Ground [MCG] for the famous Boxing Day test match.

This area seemed to be the city’s default nucleus with emanating arteries carrying restless feet, zooming cars and rattling trams. No one seemed to stop. Everybody was heading somewhere.

So I followed suit and headed into Melbourne’s favourite hangout spots—her laneways. What started out during the gold rush era as dingy rear access to properties has tasted repurposed success today. As I walked along I realised that here, grunge is hip. Fancy boutiques, bookstores, cafes, pizzerias, soup and wrap joints are housed in narrow lanes with exposed wires, pipes, air-conditioning vents, graffiti and poster-covered walls.

The bustle of life is spilled right on the city’s cobbled street, with its tiny chairs and stools. I hunched over a ‘flat white’ [yes, this city has its own coffee style] on Degraves Street and watched tanned and toned Melbournians zip past. Suddenly, I was painfully conscious of the calories piling with every bite of my crepes with vanilla ice cream that I gorged on at Café Andiamo. With such scrumptious ‘MasterChef’ quality food available especially on the streets, I wondered how anybody could stay in shape.

Discovering the diversity of the people

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how Melbournians stay fit. The fact is that Melbournians love any kind of heart-pumping activity. This isn’t just manifested in establishments like MCG and Rod Laver Arena, which host prestigious championships, but also from watching every other person walking, running, cycling, rowing or  hiking somewhere in the city. And if that’s not enough, I’ve watched many people shop, run errands and even dine in spandex and sneakers, as if it’s some kind of code for ‘I’m always on the go’.

However, the more I wandered, the more convinced I became that these denizens of fast life are, in fact, multifaceted. Like their city, they’re a heady mix of Victorian refinement and contemporary ‘cool’. On one instance I saw them drinking cups of ‘Snow White’ tea at Hopetoun Tea Rooms inside the 19th century Block Arcade, dressed in brocade, silk scarves and pearls. At other times I found them in baggy overalls, spray cans in hand, making edgy art on the graffiti-covered walls of Hosier Lane. On yet other occasions they were decked up in Goth necklaces and skull-printed stockings queuing outside the Moorish Forum Theatre.

Peace in the midst of the bustle

Realising that I needed to recuperate, I decided to visit the Royal Botanical Gardens. Painting by the ornamental lake in this vast park still remains a fond memory of mine. While the tranquillity repaired my mind’s restlessness from an active day of sightseeing, my eyes feasted on the variegated foliage, mixed and matched to form the most pleasing landscape reflected in the water. Sulphur-crested cockatoos screeched in the branches and a lone duck waddled in search of food. I could have lounged here for hours.

Where Melbourne rates in my liveability index

Given the experience in Melbourne, it was hard to not get ahead of myself and indulge in harmless daydreaming. What if I moved here and wanted a place to stay? Well, I’ve my heart set on idyllic East Melbourne. I’d probably settle somewhere on George Street, Hotham Street or Gipps Street. This area has rows of 19th century Victorian era houses with elaborate iron lacework that could make anybody weak in the knees. I’d pick a quaint house here and ditch the flashy condos I see in construction everywhere else.

As I roamed the streets aimlessly, an avuncular resident watching me stopped to check if I needed assistance. “Are you looking for something?” he asked with the same warmth and concern I’d encountered many times before. I smiled at him. It was my last evening in Melbourne. “Not today,” I replied. But maybe someday, who knows!

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Lisa Cox

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I had a modest, suburban upbringing in Australia. My mum, dad, sister, brother and I lived together until I graduated from university and moved away to work. I loved my new corporate job but desperately missed my old life with family and friends.

10 years ago, some really bad luck changed everything. I was 24 when a rare virus attacked my body and caused a brain haemorrhage. I spent the next year in hospital having over a dozen operations including the amputation of my left leg, all of my remaining toes and nine fingertips. In the coming years, I returned for more operations including a total hip replacement and open heart surgery.

Sure, I have lost a lot but I’ve never lost the love and support of my amazing family. Some of my former friends stopped coming by because they couldn’t handle what happened to me then and my subsequent disabilities. But the friendships I have now are stronger and genuine.

An accident that changed everything

For about two months, my family camped in the hospital while I was in a coma, on life support. Every cell in my body died; my family were told that they might have to turn off my life support.

It was traumatic for my family but they supported each other. As each new day dawned, they were grateful for the beeping sounds that came from the machines keeping me alive.

After coming out of the coma, I couldn’t do anything for myself. It was overwhelmingly frustrating, especially considering I had been so independent in the past. However, having my family and friends there made it easier. Their commitment to my wellbeing was unwavering and for that I am forever grateful. Here are just a few examples of the things they did to help me heal.

As each new day dawned, they were grateful for the beeping sounds that came from the machines keeping me alive

Re-training myself

I was fed through a tube for the first six months but eventually I learnt to eat ‘normal’ food again. However, it was many more months before I could use my hands, so my family would take turns feeding me, like an infant, until I could handle cutlery.

Their support didn’t end at meal times. During the day, dad would read books to me and take me outside in my wheelchair to see the sunshine.

After a full day at her demanding job, my sister would come up to the hospital in the evenings and sit with me while we watched one of my favourite shows.

It was approximately one year before I could pull my hair back in a ponytail after my fingertips were amputated, so my sister always did that for me too.

It’s the little things in life

The examples I’ve mentioned above may seem ‘small’ but that’s just the point I want to emphasise. If you’re helping someone through a difficult time (regardless of whether or not they are in hospital), you needn’t feel compelled to make overtly grandiose gestures of support. For me, it was all the little things that had the biggest impact (like Mum’s home cooking!). I had countless hours of physical rehabilitation with medical professionals. However, my mental wellbeing was well looked after by my loved ones.

Connection with family and friends is an integral part of wellbeing. You needn’t have a ‘perfect’ family unit [nobody does!] to reap the benefits of love and support that family and friends provide.

During the day, dad would read books to me and take me outside in my wheelchair to see the sunshine

If you’re helping someone through a tough time, here are some other things to consider.

• Be their cheerleader! My family always encouraged me to push myself and challenge the bleak outlook of medical professionals. Together, we celebrated the smallest accomplishments, like brushing my own teeth for the first time.
• Help them see the positives in a bad situation. In the hospital, I frequently received bad news about my health. My family helped me smile and see the lighter side of serious times.
• Walk the talk. If you want your loved one to be positive, you need to set the tone and do that yourself. My family and friends did their best to be positive around me and it helped lift my spirits, keeping me optimistic.

My life today

A couple of years ago, I married my best friend. It was a small ceremony attended by our closest family and friends.

Because I can take a few steps with assistance, I was determined to walk down the aisle. With my mum and dad each holding my arms for support, I shuffled and stumbled down the aisle towards my handsome groom. It was such a special and symbolic moment for me to share with my parents as they had supported me through so much in the past.

Since then my family has grown to include my husband’s relatives, some of who are Indian. Each year we all come together for Diwali and celebrate our blessings with family and friends.

There are many things that I was told I’d never do again; writing was one of them. But the continued support of my loved ones has helped me climb many a metaphorical mountain and pursue my passion for writing, including two books and now this article!

Indeed, the marvels of modern medicine kept my body alive while my family and friends kept my spirit alive—and still do today.

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Kalimpong

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There’s something about Kalimpong that sets it apart from other hill-stations. It lacks the typicality that smaller hill towns frequented by weekend tourists acquire; mall roads lined with shops selling hand-knit sweaters, cotton candy or bhutta at every bend and noisy video game parlours tucked between shops promising imported goods. Kalimpong is different. It sits demurely like a Queen on a ridge overlooking the Teesta River in West Bengal.

It was the April of 2010 when a sprightly cabbie drove us into Kalimpong at God’s own speed. My eyes were tightly shut but my ears did not miss noticing how, unlike most taxi drivers, he wasn’t rattling off sites we could see over the next two days of our stay. He kept saying the word “relax” throughout the drive and then “historic!” when he waved us and our two backpacks goodbye outside Morgan House. The import of both words, twined together, came rushing to me when I beheld my lodge, sitting like a grand old man on the outskirts of the town.

It was but evident that Kalimpong was going to make us relax in the lap of History!

The first excursion

Most mountain roads offer two choices—one which makes you ascend and another which makes you descend. After a night spent in a huge room with a fire place and a bathroom overlooking an impeccable golf course, we climbed down a creaking wooden staircase and decided to walk up the road early next morning. High on caffeine and thankful for the pleasant weather, many smiles were exchanged with men in fatigues of the Indian Army’s 27 Mountain Division. Till we came to the end of the road which read Zang Dhok Palri Phodang monastery.

The football match at the monastery

Once upon a time, many Buddhist monks fled Tibet and established monasteries in Kalimpong. Here was the biggest one in front of us, housing rare Buddhist manuscripts, yet seeming as humble and without fanfare as would be expected of a faith purely propagating peace. We walked around its desolate corridors, whispering to each other lest we disturb the syrupy calmness of the place, till we met a friend, the pigeon. There he was, sitting patiently, waiting for the football match to begin as if, while a stone’s throw away, the monks were busy with their early morning sport already!

Ah! Does not Kalimpong translated in Lepcha mean “the ridge where we play”? We must have stood there long enough to become the official spectators of the friendly match which made no sense and yet, in a strange way, spoke volumes about the co-existence of the Nepalis, Lepchas and other ethnic and non-native migrants living in Kalimpong. As if to reinstate the idea of friendship, on our way down from the monastery we bumped into four boys who seemed to have bunked school only to loiter around curvaceous roads, enjoying their companionship and posing happily with it too. A turn away we wondered why they would want to play truant when their school looked just out of a story book. But in a place where even ruins of a past long gone were serving as a cricket scoreboard, it wasn’t hard to guess what exciting alternatives existed to sitting in a classroom!

We got back after the morning sojourn to Morgan House, to a hearty meal justly followed with the flourish of snoozing in our armchairs in the sunny lawns.

Walking through the town

We decided to hit the town the next day, a couple of kilometres of an easy walk in balmy weather, on a narrow road lined with colourful houses on both sides and very clean streets. A lot of these tiny residences had made room for wayward walkers, clearing a settee in a corner of their low-roofed living room and serving instant noodles and hot beverages, all made in their own kitchens. It was a pleasant surprise for us city-dwellers to notice how none of them charged over the marked price, and certainly nothing for the oodles of warm smiles they added to every serving. How many places offer that?

We reached the town-centre in what seemed like a hop-skip-jump. At Thana Dara we stood to catch in a breath, the whole heart of the town. McFarlane Memorial Church waved from another hill-top as we took in the hustle, the bustle and then gradually the unmistakable signs of a different kind of play this time—the play of politics. Hand-written public notices asking for support for the “cause of Gorkhaland” dotted the street corners in all conspicuousness. Some shops included Gorkhaland in their addresses! A movement, which began some decades back, had been revived in the recent past, and through “bandhs” and agitations aimed to write a new chapter in the history books.

As the smell of fresh pastries drew us into the famous 3Cs Bakery on the Main Road, we sat discussing how what seemed so peaceful a day before now showed signs of latent disturbance. The hill-town was in flux, and probably at a point in time which would cleave it along ethnic lines. A Punjab Lodge smiled at us from a distance, as if wondering about its future too, like we were wondering about Kalimpong’s over confectionary and fresh brews. It was over a sumptuous meal at a friend’s place that we learnt more about it all, and how the locals aspired for better infrastructure and development for their dear town, and nothing else.

Cacti galore

Usually, two days of complete relaxation would not involve a steep climb ending in a collection of cacti! But Kalimpong’s Cactus Nursery, with its exhaustive collection of exotic cacti, was worth the time. We thought we had seen enough cacti in our New Delhi terrace gardens but Kalimpong’s array put that notion to shame. What shapes, what sizes; like monsters from another planet which would wrap their prickly arms around our necks, or chase us away down the hill for staring so rudely at them, even if in admiration of their long thorns. It took one panoramic view of Kalimpong from the Pine View Nursery to bring our breaths back, only to be stolen yet again.

Next door to the thorny beauties on Atisha Road was Chitrabhanu, the house where Rabindranath Tagore penned some of his poems. An earthquake had damaged it, and with no repair it reeked of neglect; historic once, forgotten now. Just like the echo of Tagore’s first Live Radio Broadcast from Kalimpong had vanished into the past, never to be heard again. It does good to stand at such doorways, to see in the mind’s eye what transpired behind the wrought-iron gate and in the house which is no longer a part of even memories now.

Time to leave

We were to leave for New Delhi the next day, and the last evening was spent filling up all extra space in our backpacks with Tibetan artifacts and world famous cheeses and lollipops. At the popular Larks on SDBG Road [which was in less agitated times, Rishi Road] we got cheeses and chutneys to make our mundane city lives delicious, creamy and tangy. As if putting all our misgivings about disturbing divisiveness to rest, a “We Love Peaceful Kalimpong” banner confidently hung from near the ceiling. We looked at each other and smiled. It seemed as if the people of Kalimpong were revealing their one and only dream to us before bidding us goodbye. Perhaps ensuring that we would come back to visit their Kalimpong again.

We do plan to go back, but we also wonder if we will see the same Kalimpong or a different one when we go next. Will the old make way for the new, completely? Or will we still see the old and the new co-existing, sometimes on a football field and other times on a chowk lined with summons to revolutions?

Time is playing out its acts on this “ridge where we play”, and people, as usual, are playthings in the hands of those who write history. Watching all this like a queen sits Kalimpong, in rich shades of green, certain of its magnificent Himalayan beauty yet not at all eager to please. Except, that it does, and something tells us it always will!

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Notes from a travel sketcher

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Two years ago on a trip to Japan, I packed a sketchbook, couple of pens and a watercolour tin in my backpack. The plan was to document my journey slightly differently—the way travellers and world explorers did of their escapades on paper and canvas, before the camera was invented.

In the age of selfie sticks and Go Pro, seeking something that doesn’t offer instant gratification sounded ridiculously archaic to many. “Why bother sketching, when you can click and move on?” they said. I imagined myself sitting for prolonged periods on foreign terrain in inclement weather with people watching [and perhaps judging] me while I scratched lines on paper. What was I getting into?

My debut travel sketch

The voices of detractors and self-doubt were drowned out the moment I cracked open the first page of my travel journal in Tokyo’s Shinjuku Gyoen to sketch the sublime cherry blossom. Few hanami revelers picnicking in the garden came over to watch. I was mixing a fragile baby pink to colour the foliage when they peered over my shoulder and showed gracious thumbs up.

Encouraged by their gesture I sketched the lanterns hanging from the trees when they lit up after sundown, the family of four opening their bento boxes and sake bottles, and a white duck waddling out of the pond. And while I did my line work and carefully painted every scene, I was there, encapsulated in the moment, oblivious of time and space. I was observing and creating. Nothing else mattered.

Unbeknownst to me, I had connected with my environment in a primal sort of way. These sketches seem rudimentary today, my drawing skills having improved and all, but when I browse through them I can smell the wind, hear the leaves rustling and feel the blossoms falling at my feet.

It is such an exercise in mindfulness. And when mindful, every sense in the body is so receptive that you feel awake and aware, as if a mist has been lifted. Ever since I started drawing my journeys, I feel I’ve been to places—lived, breathed in and grown roots in the little time I was there and not just passed through them in a haze.

Unbeknownst to me, I had connected with my environment in a primal sort of way

Toiling labourers etched in time

Once while vacationing in Kolkata, I noticed an empty patch in front of my parent’s house being prepped for construction. From our balcony I watched men, thin as rod, brown as earth, working the plot the entire day and sleeping on the hard ground at night under mosquito nets. What I’d seen has long been replaced with a multi-storied building. What I’m left with is a sketch of those men toiling away and a hasty scribble that reads, “Four labourers towing away mud, bricks and debris in their wicker baskets, cleaning the space for a new construction just in front of our house. A heavy downpour seems to have stopped their work for the time being”.

We are exposed to a million things on our travels and daily lives and we weave through them like maniacs, greedy to experience all, making only a handful of memories, of the most extraordinary events. The rest—the everyday, mundane things—fades away with time. My sketch of those labourers captured an ordinary moment in a day gone by, something I would’ve lost had I not made a visual record.

Apparently on 23^rd April 2013 I went on an impromptu date with my husband. We had coffee and dinner at a nice restaurant from where I quickly sketched the windows of the shophouse opposite us. My entry says, “The restaurant was pricey but the evening was priceless. The joy of reliving the ‘ordinary’ is what I find in the pages of my sketchbooks. A Harvard Business School study found that recording the quotidian stuff give us more pleasure in retrospect than our extraordinary events. My travel sketchbooks are a testament to that.

When I’m on the road, drawing is also an absolute novel way to come in contact with locals. While in Penang, I was trying to sketch Armenian Street’s iconic red tuk-tuk, but couldn’t progress much because none of them would stay parked for long. As I was about to give up, a tuk-tuk driver, upon seeing my predicament, not only parked his vehicle in front of me, but also declined every tourist that approached him for a ride till I finished my drawing. I was moved beyond words. While sketching Mumbai’s CST station, the man whose shop front I was occupying brought me a chair to sit and iced water to beat the heat. Kindness from strangers is rampant when I’m armed with a sketchbook and has opened avenues for many heartfelt conversations.

An HBS study found that recording the quotidian stuff give us more pleasure in retrospect than our extraordinary events

Sue, the owner of a makeshift olive shop at Lyttelton Farmer’s Market near Christchurch told me how she lost her store in the massive 2011 earthquake and had to start all over. She had seen me drawing her table of olives and walked over to chat. The garrulous owner of Indian Palace—an eatery in Singapore shared the struggles and successes of her immigrant life, while I drew her shop. I met Nishiguro at Tokyo’s Tsukiji Fish Market, and without speaking a word of each other’s language we understood one another perfectly. Using wild hand gestures he told me he’d sold five tunas at the early morning auction. The best part, however, was when he clapped excitedly after I copied his shop’s name in Japanese into my sketch.

Sketching opened many doors for me…literally

Sketching is not intrusive. I haven’t met anyone who felt threatened or offended because I was sketching his or her house, vehicle or pet. On the contrary, I’ve been granted access to places that I wouldn’t otherwise be allowed to see. The Long Bar in Royal Selangor Club in Kuala Lumpur denies entry to ladies since the British times. When the old waiter saw me drawing the bar from the threshold, he not only let me in, he showed me around the lovely space and plied me with stories. A Chinese opera group gave me access to their elaborate behind-the-stage make-up session only because I came wielding a sketchbook and pen. Earning people’s trust has been my sketchbook’s greatest gift on my travels.

Recently a friend surprised me with a personal message claiming he likes my travel sketches. I asked him why. After saying, “it’s colourful and fluid in its movements…,” he added something interesting, “…yet leaving space for interpretation.” I love how a drawing can evoke a dialogue between the artist and the viewer. While sketching a destination, I interpret the elements that inspire me and leave the rest. I tell the story of a place a certain way. Another artist drawing the same location may offer a different perspective and the viewer, in turn, may experience something else.

In Hong Kong, the overcrowded cheek by jowl buildings with cables sticking out, washing lines, neon signs and an incredible number of air-conditioning machines fitted on the building facades jumped out at me and my sketchbook is filled with drawings that show this urban chaos. My impressions of Singapore show its rapidly changing streetscape, a potpourri of pre-WW2 shophouses, Art Deco buildings and 21st century high-rises.

British reportage illustrator George Butler said in a TED talk that drawings encapsulate the passage of time. “The 2 – 3 hours on the street observing, watching, witnessing is so important. It’s not just the snap of a shutter and walking away,” he says and I echo his sentiment. Travel sketching, after all, is not an end, but a means to an end. Perhaps this was the gratification I was really after.

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Cappadocia - the Valley of Imagination

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Swirling against the cloudless blue sky is a group of dervishes, captured amidst a frenzied performance. But their music cannot be heard and their movement cannot be seen. It seems like a witch cast a spell upon them while they were performing, and turned them into stone. I look at them again and it feels like everything around me is a mirage. But that is what the valley of Cappadocia offers.

Nestled in the heart of Goreme, Cappadocia is a land of rocky cones and giant pillars chiselled into various shapes by erosions and volcanic eruptions. These creations of nature are called fairy chimneys or hoodoos. My guide directs my attention to what he calls a ‘sculpture zoo’. It’s up to you to decide what you want to make out… hidden in these rocks. I see a dragon waiting to breathe fire into the landscape, while a camel looks lazily at me. A lizard, a snake, an alligator—all seem to sprout out of nowhere. But only if you have an eye for them; otherwise they are just mute rocks. No wonder it is called the ‘Valley of Imagination’.

One hoodoo looks like a crocodile to me… my companion argues that it resembles a snake. A few hoodoos rise up like mushrooms that appear to be kissing each other. Amidst all the wildlife mimicking rocks stands one hoodoo that looks like the Virgin Mary cradling infant Jesus.

Dwellings beneath the ground

People built underground cities, homes and churches in these rock spires at a height of 40 feet or more. Their cave homes are set in a tableau of yawning valleys and some of these earthen pillars scale 100 feet! Cappadocia has over 35 underground cities explored so far. I visit one of the largest underground city in Goreme, called Kaymakli.

Amidst all the wildlife mimicking rocks stands one hoodoo that looks like the Virgin Mary cradling infant Jesus

A narrow tunnel takes me below the surface of the earth. As I get used to the dim light, I see rooms hollowed out of rocks with spaces for kitchens, beds and storage. I pause by chambers, churches and cellars as I crouch and crawl around. I can’t help but wonder how the Christian settlers of the 7^th century would have lived here. For them it was an attempt at escaping the Arab invaders. Right now, we are barely 10 of us in here but this underground settlement built across eight floors once supported 3500 people. Living in fear and desperation can bring out the ingenuity in people. These cities are now covered in a veil of darkness but they are architectural marvels that were hidden for years.

Roaming around the fairy chimneys

In Cappadocia, fear not only drove men to live underground but also atop, including in the 50-feet tall fairy chimneys. Mushroom-headed hoodoos surround me in Pasabag, better known as the Monks Valley, which is situated a kilometre away from Goreme. It is located amidst a vineyard and hence the name Pacha’s vineyard. As I crane my neck to look higher, I see small homes carved at the pinnacle of the cones as it splits into multiple cones where hermits once hid. One of these fairy chimneys was home to St Simeon in the 5^th century. When news of his miracles started reaching people, he distanced himself from them by carving a home at a height of 50 feet. He needed privacy and his ‘high rise’ home provided him with that. He came down to ground only for food and water.

Art flourished here during troubled times as well. The Open-air museum in Goreme is a proof of that. Now declared a World UNESCO site, this is located at the centre of Cappadocia. It is a vast monastic complex with 11 churches, carved into the rocks and showcases some of the most beautiful frescos of the Byzantine period. Dated between the 10^th – 12^th centuries, these cave chapels were places of refuge for monks who had settled here.

Churches of a bygone era

The names of these churches are as queer as their shapes. There is the Apple Church, the Snake Church, the Sandals Church and the Dark Church among others. The most spectacular of all the churches I’ve visited is the Dark Church. There are paintings everywhere, depicting scenes from the New Testament, Nativity, Last Supper, Betrayal of Judas and Crucifixion among others. My guide tells me that after the Turks invaded the region, it became a dwelling place for pigeons and it was restored recently after the pigeon droppings were cleaned out. However, I am a little surprised that the eyes of all the Biblical characters seem to have been scratched out deliberately.

In Cappadocia, fear not only drove men to live underground but also atop, including in the 50-feet tall fairy chimneys

On our way back, we stop at the Tokali or Buckle Church that lies at a short distance from the museum complex and is the largest church in Goreme. It has four chambers—the old church built in 10^th century, the New Church added in the next century, the Paracclesion and the Lower Church. It also has a crypt underneath. Stunning paintings in rich indigo decorate the walls of the four main chambers, depicting in detail the Life of Christ and his 12 apostles. Outside is a nunnery which rises up six storeys high, although tourists are not allowed beyond the second storey.

Cappadocia is full of mysteries and in this dreamy and surreal landscape, I stand and stare for hours until it is time to leave. Travel, they say, expands the mind. My little tryst with Cappadocia leaves me in awe but mostly humbled.

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Voluntourism

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Voluntourism is a combination of volunteering and tourism, where people get to visit a new place and at the same time help those less fortunate than themselves. They can choose to get off the beaten path and visit remote villages, mingle with the locals and understand their lifestyle and culture. As volunteers, they can educate children or help build an infrastructure for those who do not have even the basic amenities that we take for granted. Overseas it is a growing trend, but there are also a lot of opportunities for voluntourism within our country.

The dream!

Back in 2013, I wanted to take a month-long vacation. My parents were supportive and advised me to find a purpose for my trip rather than just spend my vacation lazing. Owing to its mesmerising mountains and peaceful spirituality, I was instantly drawn to McLeod Ganj, a suburb of Dharamsala in Himachal Pradesh. I imagined walking through the quaint streets and visiting the monasteries; I could even hear the sound of the gongs of the Dalai Lama temple as they echoed through the valleys.

Overseas it is a growing trend, but there are also a lot of opportunities for voluntourism within our country

My vision takes shape

When I first announced my decision of volunteering while on a trip, everyone around me concluded that it was a bizarre idea. Honestly, I was scared to go to an unknown place and manage a solo trip for that long with no familiar locals to lean on. But even though I was afraid, I was also eager to help this compassionate Tibetans-in-exile community. I surfed the internet and applied for the role of a volunteer teacher at the LHA Charitable Trust, a non-profit organisation and one of the largest Tibetan social work institutes based in Dharamsala. A couple of days later I was accepted for the position, and soon my bags were packed and I was ready to leave.

I find purpose

When I arrived in McLeod Ganj, I was received by a representative of LHA, who helped me find accommodation for the next month. At noon, I was inside the LHA office, a small green building with ordinary classrooms, a few little office spaces and a simple homely charm. I was welcomed by the volunteer coordinator, who then introduced me to all the other volunteers. They had come from different parts of the world, for the same purpose—“to teach the ones who needed it the most”. Later that afternoon, I met my student, a fair and beautiful Tibetan nun with twinkling eyes and a pure smile. Her first words to me were, “Tashi Delek, my teacher.” The phrase “Tashi Delek” can be roughly translated as “blessings and good luck” and it is a greeting that is characteristic of the rich Tibetan culture.

The decision that changed my life

The decision to stay locally was a turning point in my trip—and my life. I made new friends and learnt a lot from them, in turn sharing what I knew. My stay had a definitive purpose now; I taught my student basic English and chatted with her for hours to improve her grammar. In return, she taught me a set of new Tibetan words on a daily basis and gave me an insight into Tibet, its culture and a Tibetan’s journey across countries.

I made new friends and learnt a lot from them, in turn sharing what I knew

The days were still long enough to leave me plenty of time to go on treks with the other volunteers, explore neighbouring towns on weekends, visit the cafes and enjoy countless yoga and meditation sessions. We shared music, movies, books, anecdotes and stories from our respective hometowns, turning the experience into the most enriching cultural exchange of our lives.

A novel experience

What I had just done was new to me as an Indian traveller. Our strict working schedules and suspicious mindset about safety issues concerning new places hold us back from trying out new experiences of this kind. But, with a little research and following my own experience, I realised that volunteer-travelling or voluntourism is a common practice for foreigners around the world. It’s easy to find a number of accredited volunteering organisations in offbeat areas of developing cities and countries or in remote and tribal settlements. India, Nepal, Cambodia, Iceland, Guatemala, Brazil and South Africa are among the top destinations with such opportunities, not only to teach different languages, but also to help in ecological research, conservation efforts, restoration, business development, marketing local businesses, or provide assistance in therapy, childcare and so on.

Voluntourism may not change the world overnight, but the smallest efforts can, at times, make a big difference

Tips for voluntourism

Voluntourism may not change the world overnight, but the smallest efforts can, at times, make a big difference. While I sincerely hope that more travellers will be inspired to volunteer while travelling, here are a few tips to make your experience memorable and problem-free:

• Do your research and find an organisation that you trust, value and respect.
• Opt for cheap and affordable local homestays, when looking for accommodations for a longer period of time.
• Plan your stay for a minimum of 10 days or more, to make the most of your experience, and to be able to really contribute to the cause for which you volunteer.
• Be open to the culture around you, and learn as much as you can from the locals. Relinquish your modern luxuries, and eat, sleep and live like they do.
• Don’t be a tourist, be an explorer or adventurer, ready to discover and always appreciative of new cultures and places.
• Last but not the least, remember that travel can also contribute to a greater cause.

This was first published in the February 2016 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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