The Lost Horizon!

A view of Xinaliq- amidst the Caucasus

 Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan is an all-embracing city. It’s an everyday thing. It’s in the shrug the Azeri grocer gives you, the casual colloquialisms at the Turkish restaurants, the joking comment made by the Georgian guy at the chai khana (tea shop). For someone who grew up in a Bengali household, fitting in Baku could be easy and joyful experience. I could identify myself in the air, in the streets and in the fabric of the city.

Oil Industry was booming between 2003-2006. Numerous workers from every corner of the world made Baku their home, and each contributed something indelible to its landscape. I used to drive a Hyundai Galloper at that time. Mahinder, Aslam, Arnab and I had been to a lot of places, where an average tourist shouldn’t be and many others that an average tourist would not know that they even existed. We had become a part of the world where it was commonplace to sleep in abandoned Soviet relics, village community halls, rather than hotels or the regular bed and breakfasts.

Lunch break

During this time, I had met and later on befriended the then Indian ambassador, His Excellency Mr. Jyoti Pande who introduced me to his friend – Mr Benjamin Paine, a corporate lawyer. One summer evening, they were sitting at a bar, drinking glasses of red wine with a posture that indicated that they would be more comfortable discussing Marx and Adam Smith rather than crawling through catacombs or scaling medieval stonework. It turned out that I was wrong. No daredevil adventurers really look the part. Benjamin was turning the pages of “Lonely Planet” and they were planning to drive to Xinaliq. Arnab and I followed the discussion and we were in. We agreed to head out to see where the adventure trail would lead us to, the following weekend. 

Xinaliq is an isolated village located in the middle of Caucasus Mountains that divide Russia and South Caucasus. Xinaliq survived many invasions due to its location on high grounds which created a natural defense.

After an incredible off road drive through the vales with Arnab and our 1 year old daughter, rock hopping over river crossings, we stopped for a quick water break and admired the elegant mountain scenery and crisp clean air.  We had driven a fair way down, but there were hundreds of feet to descend before we climbed again.

The surface of the road gradually disappeared and the path narrowed to half its width. Time and again spring-fed rivulets crossed our way. The road was uneven and my jeep bounced like a seismographic needle, agitating the engine of the car. Hands tight on the steering wheel, suddenly I noticed steam coming through my bonnet. The car engine was overheated and we had to stop. After a while when I removed the radiator cap, the water was still boiling in the radiator. Was I nervous about it? Yes, I was!

The bee under the bonnet

We broke for lunch and hung around for some more time before the final ascent to Xinaliq. It was a beautiful afternoon. We were stoked once we realized that we were the only ones there amidst the wilderness. In the anvil the car had cooled down. The rough road went on for over an hour. I couldn’t steady myself even to read my watch. I turned to see a rock face torn wide open, and the ground falling away. The valley was vast and the view was spectacular. Squeezed on a narrow ledge chiseled into a featureless expanse of rock, the jeeps crept along.

The gas gauge arrow on dashboard was shifting to red and there were no gas stations around. We were not smart enough to carry a fuel jerry can! After a while, the road widened slightly and I stepped on the brake, turned off the engine. We stood delivered into the midst of frozen silence. Below us a slender ribbon of silver river wound its way through the valley. Across the valley broke waves of low and high hills and a flatland with wall to wall houses nested in between. Thin columns of smoke rose from this remote village. A breath-taking panorama!

Streets of Xinaliq

We encountered no problems for rest of the way. The roads flattened out and the mountains lost their sharp ridges. Gradually we arrived amongst a tranquil highland habitat- Xinaliq; a 5000 years old ancient village. The cobbled stone made houses shared their courtyards. The Kettids still call their village Ketsh and follow their ancient traditions. Legends say the colour of Henna of the surrounding rocks or the name of the Hun tribe lead to change of the name of the village to Xinaliq.

As I stood in the middle of the plateau surrounded by mountains that resembled cut-outs, I asked myself- Is Utopia a blessed past never to be recovered?

Our group of explorers

Come from Yon!

                                                               Come from Yon

Most times we travel to find ourselves, but last December 2016, it was different. Sreeja and I travelled to Trinidad Tobago for a vacation. Tobago claims to have had inspired Daniel Defoe to write his epic novel – Robinson Crusoe. I had always dreamt of this desert island, where one could be alone with nature.

Last year, one evening I logged into Face book and discovered that one of my cousins from India had moved to Port of Spain with her 15-year-old, for an International teaching assignment at the University of Port of Spain. My cousin sister who had been gifted both in academics and music, was on my side of the world!! I knew I had to see her!

I recalled that my uncle, aunt and the cousins used to visit us over the summer vacations in Durgapur, an industrial city in eastern India where I was brought up. Both cousins were around my age; we had a great time together, albeit it was always only for couple of days. Over the past two decades there was hardly any interaction between us, but there are some bonds that stay forever. So, this trip in December was a bit of both nature gazing and family reunion. It was a week of nonstop talking, eating, selfies, catching up until we felt asleep.

As we flew over the Caribbean archipelago, I was trying to visualize the islands as emerging summits of a range of drowned volcanoes, a submarine like continuation of Andes. It is almost impossible to make an agile summary of the origin of the inhabitants of these islands - The dead Arawak’s, dying Caribs, the Spaniards, Dutch, English, French, Danes, Americans; the Jews, Hindus, Muslims, Azorean, Syrian, Chinese and the Negro population from the kingdoms on the sea and hinterland of West Africa.

Soon we were about to land in Port of Spain. My mind was overflowing with thoughts of anchored Galleons, caskets of gold coins, girls dressed in silken fabric, spurs and the sound of guitars. After few sultry hours spent for completing immigration protocol, my dreams were all but blown to ribbons in the air. My sister had been waiting for four hours at the airport. She had booked a taxi and was concerned that we may not be able to get another driver during the festive season. Thus, she decided to wait at the terminal until we met.

A Calypso band dressed in traditional pomp and grandeur were playing strident breathless tunes with words and Creole beats just outside the terminal. It was an exciting first impression on the musical island, swinging to African tribal beats blended with French and Spanish music! Our taxi slowly cruised through the airport traffic and then through the Savannah of the cosmopolitan city of Port of Spain. The green trees along the road side were very soothing, especially after numbing months of cold grey winter in Canada. The weather in the island alternated between rain and debilitating heat.  There were tall commercial buildings housing the oil companies and commercial banks, Victorian red brick buildings, churches, temples, mosques, and scattered worker flats. Overall it was an intriguing tapestry.

The Chinese shopkeeper with the red flag decoration on the walls, the Lebanese and Syrian grocers bargaining with the customers, the milk bars, drug stores, Indian stores and restaurants playing Bollywood music, Shopping plazas made up  a startlingly busy city. The drive to Fort George and the view from the top overlooking the Gulf of Paria, gave us an idea of the enormous expanse of Savannah. It was compassed by race track, cricket patches, football grounds and a giant cemetery. The fort George is another British legacy. It was built in 1802 as a major defensive position with all cannons and dungeons, but never witnessed any military action. A perfect example of – “Most plans are just inaccurate predictions”

Maracas Beach Trinidad

We were driving up north to the Maracas beach, the lamp posts and the markets were looming through the downpour and I started having second thoughts wondering if the weather would hold up! Surprise! Surprise! As we neared the bay, the sky cleared up, the low clouds floated on the forest covered mountains, the waves hammered the yellow sand beach, a perfect spot for body surfers. While the kids continued playing and swimming, I drank a bottle of Carib-local beer and watched the flamboyance of Trinidadian sunset and listened to my didi’s (elder sister’s) melody. After a relaxed afternoon, we devoured the fish sandwiches slathered with exotic sauces and salad from a local restaurant “Bake and Shark”, a very popular meal by the bay!

Scarlet Ibis dotting the higher branches and white Egrets below

The Northern ranges of Trinidad is a home to the birder’s Mecca. We took a boat ride on the Caroni river, through the mangrove forest on either side and some of them were inflated with huge termite nests. As the boat cruised through the maze-like waterways, we spotted some amazing reptiles and birds in their natural habitat. The green lizards gazed from the branches; a kingfisher perched on top of a tree, an owl rolling its eyes in the backwoods, couple of snakes wrapped around low branches, egrets, blue herons and the biggest draw - The Scarlet Ibis. The boat stopped in the middle of the river just before the sunset. The Scarlet Ibis haunt the meanderings of the Caroni river. They return to roost at dusk in the wonderful green labyrinth. Their red colour feather looks brilliant in the gathering dusk. The myriad of bright red birds on the green leafage presented us with a breathtaking vista of the tropical Christmas tree.

Gulf of Paria

A few days later on December 23^rd, we boarded the ferry to Tobago. The three hours ride got pretty rough, especially for Sreeja and my cousin. The boat sailed through the Gulf of Paria. The gulf is only 15 kilometers wide with Venezuela on one side and Trinidad on the other. There were scattered offshore oil platforms on the horizon. We arrived in Scarborough (capital of Tobago) around noon time. Scarborough was a busy city compared to the rest of the island with taxis, spaghetti like traffic, vendors with piles of exotic fruits and vegetables. We checked into the Mt. Irvine Bay Resort located on the Irvine beach.

Splash party at Buccoo Reef

After lunching on Callaloo, a national dish which is a thick soup of Okra, chilli, peppers, coconut milk, garlic onion, crabs served with macaroni and beans, we boarded the glass bottomed boat and watched the Buccoo coral reef passing by beneath us. The boat anchored for an hour on an offshore sandbank, to the south of the reef. This was a perfect refreshing treat- a splash party. The water was warm and the boats were playing music. It was an amazing experience, to dance in the waist deep turquoise water in the middle of the sea, away from the shore. On our way back we stopped at the Pigeon point, host to one of the most beautiful beaches in Tobago. The palm trees hung over the deep blue waves lapping on the fringes of the yellow beach.

How do I forget the sumptuous traditional Bengali dinners at the residences of Mr Chakraborty and Mr Gayen? Gayenda, Kiritida, Chakrabortyda (da is short for dada which means elder brother) and other expatriate families embraced us with rare warmth and candour, treated us home cooked delicacies like Luchi, Macher Jhol, Magsho, Chutney and Payesh. The Bengali adda (intellectual exchanges) following the dinner at Gayenda’s house was ultimate home away from home experience!  We discussed world politics, feminism, Tagore quotes and finally songs - my favourite “Aguner Paroshmoni” amongst others. What a lovely evening over the setting sun!  

 I looked out through the window to trace the places mentioned in Naipaul’s Magnum Opus – ¨A House for Mr Biswas”.

“Certain emotions bridge the years and link unlikely places”- V.S. Naipaul.

Our boat gliding through the swamp

Mangrove at the Caroni Swamp Bird Sanctuary

Blue Herons, Egrets and Scarlet Ibis

Scarlet Ibis flying to roost

Pigeon Point Tobago

Fort George Trinidad

Irvine beach Tobago

"Not all those who wander are lost"

                                                  “Not all those who wander are lost”

Milford Sound

                                                    
                                                         

What has roots as nobody sees,

Is taller than trees,

Up, up it goes,

And yet never Grows??

“Easy” said Bilbo, “Mountain I suppose”

We followed the small footsteps of Bilbo Baggins- the Hobbit and set out for our camping trip to the Fiord Land National Park, to visit the famed picture perfect Milford Sound located in the southern island of New Zealand.  As per the Lord of the Rings Trilogy – Middle Earth found much of it’s home around this fiord region.  Our multigenerational group of eight had two five year olds and my father in law pushing seventy was the senior most.

The pivot of the National park was the town of Te Anau, on the bank of Eponymous lake. The 117-km drive from there to the National park, hedged in by sea and mountains was an Alpine driving nirvana. The subtropical rain forests growing at the feet of glistening glaciers was nature’s wonder. We filled our tank as there were no gas stations on the way. This drive of a life time turned our fantasy into reality. We got lost along a roller coaster road on the South Island of New Zealand. Every turn brought fresh rewards, constantly changing vistas, rolling meadows, water falls spilling down rock faces, tantalizing forest tracks and remote settlements where life moves to its own rhythm.

We would soon be at the sound but it was quite impossible to predict who- knows-what weather would greet us upon arrival. Despite the complicated logistics, things seemed to be going well for Dad. Although he rarely bothered to record his moods (aside from an occasional announcement that he needed to use the restroom), he appeared to be a man well pleased with the world.

Road sheer- Rock wall near Homer tunnel

Everywhere we paused we stared in disbelief. Finally, we arrived the Road sheer- Rock wall near Homer tunnel, surrounded by towering mountains and vertical rocks. The rain produced several long streams of water, most of which spilled over the edges of rock face in a free fall. Some flows were heavy enough to reach the valley floor as a steady torrent, while others of less volume, turned into mist and vapour.

I had kept a studious silence about the approaching rain and cloud that we would inevitably encounter. On arriving at the camp site, we downed our backpacks and pouches and pitched the tents. The heavy sky soon sent down a constant drizzle which later turned into a torrential downpour. The wind picked up and we found ourselves amidst a tempest of sorts.

Our tents collapsed when the pegs blew off and we were out running around late evening in our pyjamas trying to re-stake and prop them up. While Dad, Subha and I held them down from inside, Arnab and Balaji placed our bags at the corners of the tents to prevent them from blowing away. It was quite a task to stake down the tents in such high winds. The children were a confused lot; much too surprised to make a fuss.

We were well soaked and quite miserable. Even the umpteen shots of vodka had failed to brighten our spirits. Rain continued to fall as we zipped our jackets and huddled together for warmth. What’s the alternative? What does that solve? This is Dad- ex principal of a hill school Darjeeling. He makes all value judgements and argues for outcome. The restaurant in the camp was closed, kids were starving and all we had were a few small packs of snacks. At this moment, Dad produced as if by magic a large pack of Moori (puffed rice), an Indian savoury snack. It is still a mystery as to how he had managed to smuggle that pack of Moori into New Zealand right under the noses of the rather sullen looking customs officials. Be that as it may, that bag of puffed rice was a savior as at least the kids had something to munch.

As the sun came shouting over the hills, the troubled night when “all Nature seemed to frown” was soon forgotten. The weather report read “A very fine day”. Our spirits regained a bit of warmth after being dampened by the wind and showers of the previous evening. The sun rose over the beautiful green valley. It was warm enough that I only wore a shirt and sweater. After having breakfast of cereals, yogurt and exotic fruits, we headed out for the boat cruise.

We were sailing on a lake created by a glacier that pushed the ground several feet deep before melting away.  The water in the lake was so clear that I could tell where the air ended and the water began.  As the mist disappeared, we sailed across the lake. The trees on both sides were overgrown with moss and, creeping vegetation and lianas like those in the tropical forest

Cold stinging meltwater from old snowfield plummets over a cliff, scouring clean whatever lies beneath. Deep inside the Sound, the Mitre peak stands as a sentinel to the lake. Soaked in the spray of waterfall, we enjoyed the ethereal view of the Mitre peak. String of waterfall cocooned inside rain forest. Most of these waterfalls had no names. Many of these falls appear suddenly, as the ponds higher up the mountain slopes overflow with meltwater or sudden rain and spill over the cliffs edges. I nearly disappeared as I stood next to the peaks.

I caught the play of the sunlight and shadow on the broad blue lake, as I walked along the deck taking photos, each new composition inspired by the last. It had been pleasantly hard work for over an hour and was adjusting the focus for one last brilliant shot of the fall, when I heard footsteps. At some stage, it was too loud to ignore, I turned and saw a group of seals basking on the huge rock in the fjord. How they climbed that big rock is still a mystery to me.

When I had read about middle earth of J.R.Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, I was not aware of the basic laws of science and had accepted the written word for truth, thus there was still room for imagination. I felt that I had entered the book when I came upon this unearthly scene at the sound. I could hear the dull roar of distant waterfalls through the surrounding haze. Suddenly a very vocal flock of birds flying low, flew piercing the fog with confidence. Moments like these set the pace for the day and made the trip worthwhile and memorable.

A 2-hour ride on the ferry brought us back to the head of the lake.  The sea was unusually tranquil. Moments like these are sometimes bittersweet. I wanted to linger but deep down knew that I had to continue my journey.

The owner of the restaurant opened a bottle of local Obsidian red and we drank it on the deck. Shortly after, he emerged regally from the kitchen to report on his work in progress and served a plate of chicken fingers to tide us over. Halfway through the meal, ten-year-old Rishab leant over to me and whispered with trepidation, “Are we again sleeping in a tent tonight”?

It was time to enjoy the luxury of just lazing about and enjoying the feeling of being there, amidst the slowly setting sun playing hide and seek with the clouds, changing their colours. The planet Venus appeared and so did the stars, details on the hills were getting hazy, and the horizon had giant sleeping shapes.

Milford Sound- the eighth wonder of the world!

Mitre peak

Idle on an Idyllic Island

Prince Edward Island

                                                         

                                                                 Idle on an Idyllic Island

Most humans are entranced by islands and we are no different; the notion of being cut off somehow appeals to the child in all of us. Thus a vacation to Prince Edward Island (PEI), the smallest province of Canada, also known as “The garden of the gulf” appeared to be the best pick. The island is also known as the story book world of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s novel- Anne of Green Gables. Sreeja and I had enjoyed feeling Anne Shirley’s vivid imagination and it filled us with her delights of anticipation – The Idle wild! The Lake of shining water! The Lover’s lane! And the ice cream

After a rather uneventful 24 hour train ride from Toronto through Montreal, we got off at Moncton , New Brunswick, rented a car, turned on the GPS and were all set to leave the mainland for “that land over there”-  PEI.

The Confederation bridge

Soon we were on the 12.9 km confederation bridge that stretches from Cape Jourimain New Brunswick, across the Northumberland Strait to Carleton in PEI. We drove with the glistening blue harbor below us. A large fishing boat dwarfed by the confederation bridge, made its way between the large piers of the bridge, on its way to the wharf. As the bridge came to an end, the island revealed its soul through the gentleness of the land rolling down to the sea under the maritime light. The two lane highway circumnavigating the region with rich farmland laid out on the red earth on one side and the sea and sapphire blue sky on the other. There were farms with potatoes planted in perfectly straight rows, vibrant yellow corn fields speckled with strawberry plantations; round hay bales dotted the fields. The aesthetic blend of meandering brooks, mill ponds, well maintained frame houses, backyard garden, and white church steeples all combined to create a breath taking canvas.

Malpeque oysters

On our way to the Rustico resort which was to be our home for the next three days, we saw the fishing boats lined up along the dock in the harbor, mussel buoys bobbing up and down with the gentle blue tide, lush green fields rolling down the water’s edge while the red clay banks painted a border around the edge of the shoreline. A visit to the Charlottetown followed later in the afternoon. It’s a small city with shaded streets and squares, stately Victorian houses and monumental churches. In 1864 it became the birthplace of Canada when delegates from Britain North American colonies convened in the province island and signed the articles that led to the Canadian Federation.

We devoured on tastiest Malpeque oysters, shellfish, and finfish, local wine and then watched the legendary Anne of Green Gables show at the Confederation centre.

Round hay bales dotted the field

The sculpted green and fairness of the golf course inspired us to tee off in the morning at the Rustico golf course. The golden light pouring through the treetops bathed the fairways, the blue sky and the lapis blue water of St Lawrence was a perfect backdrop for some great golf swings. After playing 18 holes and a sumptuous brunch, we were on our way to Avonlea village located in the heart of the play town Cavendish. The Green Gable heritage site is located in the same house that Lucy Maud Montgomery had used as main setting for her famous novel - Anne of Green Gable. We walked down the Lover’s lane, Lake of shining water and suddenly I realized, we had landed in the Idlewild ! This classic story was indeed inspired by Montgomery’s deep attachment to natural beauty.

Anne of Green Gables House

No part of the island is more than few hours walk from salt and water. We had turned off the GPS, got out the map and took a note of all little roads feathering off the main coastal roads. It was a great spot to idly meander-to hurry is not a PEI thing. The lobster traps and colorful buoys were stacked neatly on the wharf. The sun sculpted long shadow through the sand dunes at the Brackley beach, showcasing the finest coastal scenery. Arnab is not a big sun lover, so he dropped us at the beach and drove back to the resort for an afternoon snooze. Sreeja and I enjoyed the afternoon sun, built sand castles, swam in the warmish sea water and waited for the Piping plover to show up on the marshes. Brackley marsh is a stopover for migrating birds. Brackley was indeed a stunning spectacle as red sands set in a turquoise sea.

For the longest time the islanders could not own land. In 1767 the British Crown parceled out the island in 67 lots to about 100 British Noblemen, merchants and army officers in a lottery. It took over a century of appeals and arguments and even a bit of rebellion for the island to get recognized as a province of Canada and own a piece of land.

The history of the island evoked the nostalgia in me. In between the sea and the plains of Bengal, in the eastern part of India, lies this vast tract of red soil land, part of which has lasted through recorded history, while a part just washed into being. The river Mayurakshi flows wide amidst spreads of green countryside and the red soil interwoven with dreams of many poets. I was born on this riparian land. It was here Robert Clive defeated Sirajudaulah, the Nawab of Bengal in the famed battle of Palasi in 1757 which led to complete control over all trade activities in India and the British ruled India for the next 200 years.

Food is like a religion in Prince Edward Island. No-frills lobster supper is a classic dining experience. We had dinner at restaurant overlooking the Charlottetown marina and yacht club. The blossoming crab apple trees framed the view of the picturesque harbor. The lobsters were served with sides of accomplishments like chowder, mussels, PEI’s famed potatoes. A trip to PEI would be incomplete without tasting the fabled Cows creamery ice cream. It’s locally produced and definitely fit for the Gods. We tried the “Freckle Frenzy” a takeoff of Anne Shirley and Sreeja, our toy town girl was super excited when papa bought her a Cows T shirt.

Next day we drove through a web of side trails and quiet back roads to the ferry from Wood Island. After an hour of driving through the Acadian forest of Spruce, Pine, Birch, Oak, Fir, Elm and Maple, the sight of the light house and the red sanded cliffs of Wood Island carrying out their centuries old vigil of the sea lifted our moods. Soon we queued up the ram to board the Northumberland ferry to Caribou Nova Scotia. 

PEI affectionately known as Canada’s “million acre” farm is very different from the rest of Canada. It gives rise to a sort of geographic identity which is quite different from social identity experienced on the island. PEI- has no physical contact with the mainland which in its own way allows life to go on its course by itself, to develop separate patterns and foster uncommon relationships amongst humans and nature.

There is an island way of surviving!

 

 Red sand dunes

 

Lobster traps

Green Gables heritage place

Wood Island

Charlottetown -by the wharf - Cows Ice-cream store

Rustico Golf course

On our way to wood Island

NB:: Special thanks to Martha Van Hee for sharing her pictures