Asia Travel - Part 20

India: Kashmir’s Martand Sun Temple

Intriguing Ruins of a Lost Dynasty

by Priya Florence Shah

In early November 2011, I was fortunate to go on a 10-day trip to Kashmir, a state at the very north of India, that has since been overrun by terrorism and violence.

During our visit, our Kashmiri guide, Parvaiz bhai, took us way off the usual tourist route to see some gems of Kashmiri architecture that very few people get to see. One of these was the Martand Sun Temple that lies 8 kilometers (5 miles) from Anantnag.

Martand is another Sanskrit name for the Hindu Sun-god, Surya. It was built during the 8th century A.D. by the third ruler of the Karkota Dynasty, Lalitaditya Muktapida, and destroyed by Sultan Sikandar Butshikan in the early 15th century.

Now only the ruins remain to tell the story of this excellent specimen of Kashmiri architecture, blended into the Gandharan, Gupta, Chinese, Roman, Syrian-Byzantine and Greek forms of architecture.

Situated on top of a plateau, one can view whole of the Kashmir Valley from this temple. The courtyard has a primary shrine in its center and is surrounded by 84 smaller shrines, incorporating a smaller temple that was previously built.

According to Wikipedia, the primary shrine is located in a centralized structure (the temple proper) that is thought to have had a pyramidal top – a common feature of the temples in Kashmir.

A number of wall carvings in the antechamber of the temple proper depict other gods, such as Vishnu, and river goddesses, such as Ganga and Yamuna, in addition to the sun god Surya.

Myriad other carvings, like this one depicting a lone musician playing the flute, can be found among them.

In a straight line from the central shrine, was a carving of what looked like a flower, but is more likely the sun.

Strangely, this feature is no longer visible in any of the later images of the Martand Sun temple online. Was it destroyed or stolen by vandals? I would really love to know what happened to it.

Another carving that I have not seen anywhere else online is a Shivling (Shiva Lingam depicting Lord ShivaТs male organ) with a reddish, barely visible Sanskrit symbol of СOmТ painted on it long ago, that lies forlornly in the lawns of the ruins. Shivlings are worshipped all over India as a sacred Hindu symbol of creation.

There are some more fascinating relics of the ancient civilization that built the temple, like this motif displaying the ancient Śāradā script.

Although the Martand Sun Temple is a site of national importance and appears in the list of centrally protected monuments as Martanda (Sun Temple), these relics of a lost dynasty are lying in ruin today and there seems to be no motivation to restore them.

The last time the Martand Sun temple was in the news was as the backdrop for the song Bismil from the Bollywood movie, Haider, in which it was controversially shown as a place of evil.

As a lover of ancient ruins and architecture, I considered myself lucky to get an unblemished view of this striking example of Kashmiri architecture at a time when the valley was still relatively peaceful and tourism was flourishing.

If You Go:

India Kashmir Trip Planner

About the author:
Priya Florence Shah is a former journalist and publisher of Naaree.com , one of the top 100 womenТs blogs in the world. Her travel blog, AhoyMatey.blog, showcases her love for the planet and its wildlife through responsible and eco-friendly travel.

All photographs are copyright (c) Priya Florence Shah

Primary Shrine of Martand Sun Temple Kashmir
Greek style pillars line the smaller shrines surrounding the courtyard
Hindu god and goddess carved into the walls
Carving of sun in the floor of the temple

Vietnam: Mission Accomplished in Hanoi

by John Thomson

I landed in Hanoi with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. I’m a history buff; I knew the settlement was prehistoric and I wanted to learn about Hanoi’s transition from a fiefdom to a communist state and lately, to a rudimentary form of capitalism. But I was also nervous. It was 40 years after the end of the Vietnam War, or what the Vietnamese call the American War, and I must confess I was worried about any residual resentment the Vietnamese might harbour towards the West. We Canadians are similar to Americans. We look the same, eat the same foods and share a common language. In the eyes of the world, we are virtually indistinguishable from each other and as a North American, I felt conspicuous dropping into a capital city that had once been bombed.

Noi Bai International Airport was not particularly welcoming. My wife and I were whisked into a cold, grey, concrete outbuilding where we presented our passports to dour, unflinching officials and then to another counter where we paid 25 U.S. dollars each to get our visas stamped. I wanted to question the surtax but we pressed on.

A 45-minute taxi ride from the airport took us to the Ba Dinh district, one of several prescribed tourist districts in the city and dropped us off at our hotel, the Hong Ngoc Cochinchine, an older but well-maintained establishment in a neighborhood loaded with English speaking merchants, lots of ATMs and a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet. It was close to the prescribed sights, the Opera House, Bach Ma Temple and of course the Old Quarter. The friendly matron at the front desk greeted us in English but she could also converse in French. In fact we heard a lot of French during our stay.

Dinner time was particularly cacophonous. The tables were close together and I overheard a gaggle of French tourists discussing their day. No surprise there. But German? I struck up a conversation with the nearby table. Peter Wolff was from Berlin and his daughter Natalie was from Wellington, New Zealand. They had agreed to meet halfway between the two in Hanoi but Peter had another reason for visiting Vietnam’s capital city. “My Dad remembers collecting bottles for Vietnam,” said Natalie referring to the decade after Vietnam’s reunification in 1975 when Berlin was in East Germany and Vietnam had an economic relationship with the Soviet bloc. Peter wanted to see Hanoi for himself. His impressions? “Vietnam doesn’t think of itself as a third world country,” he said, impressed with its positive, let’s get on with it attitude.

Truong Tran, the English-speaking manager of a nearby restaurant, Hanoi Fusion, elaborated as we dined sumptuously on stuffed squid and eggplant. Tran was finishing his commerce degree while running the family business. He told us his countrymen were very proud of what they had accomplished since the War ended in 1975. “When they see an opportunity, they take advantage of it,” he said. “The Vietnamese nature is to be happy, cheerful and upbeat,” he continued. “Content but not complacent.”

Hanoi is a city of contrasts. On one hand, we saw leafy boulevards and opulent mansions. Hoan Kiem Lake is literally a sea of tranquility smack dab in the city core. A pagoda, Ngoc Son Temple, sits on an island in the middle of the lake. It’s a peaceful refuge. Turning a corner reveals another side of the metropolis, dense Hanoi with tall, skinny structures fighting for space while thousands of scooters and motorbikes buzz about town.

Walking revealed another facet of Hanoi life; whether it’s conducting business, entertaining friends or eating meals, everything happens on the sidewalk. Hanoi is an outdoor society. It’s also been called “a plastic chair society” because the locals sit on small plastic chairs – the kind you get in toy stores – accompanied by stubby, truncated tables. We passed families cooking the evening meal on curbside braziers while Hanoi youth congregated in the many outdoor cafes, hunched over their smart phones, addicted to western music and fashion.

That entrepreneurial, let’s get on with it attitude came to the fore in the Old Quarter. Sandwiched between Hoan Kiem Lake and the Red River, the Old Quarter is Hanoi’s historic shopping district. Originally it was a maze of 36 streets, each one named after the good or service being offered. The jewellery street sold jewellery; the silk street sold silks. Today the area has expanded to more than 50 streets but Hang Dau, the Street of Shoes, still stands out. “Oh my God,” gushed the teenaged street vendor as my wife and I walked along the Street of Shoes. “It’s embarrassing,” he said as he pointed to my wife’s well-worn sandals. True, the sole looked like it was going to come off and the vendor, who had followed us for half a block with his toolkit in hand, was more than willing to do the repair. Now. At this very moment. And then as suddenly as it began the encounter was over. He flitted away, spying another tourist no doubt, waving us a fond adieu. “Have a nice day” he shouted as he vanished from sight as quickly as he appeared.

We tackled the Military History Museum next. This was the exhibit I was nervous about because I expected a jingoistic diatribe against the United States. The outdoor concourse was filled with captured American warplanes. The centrepiece was an obelisk fashioned out of the wreckage of a B-52 bomber. Was this setting the tone? Suddenly a column of schoolchildren filed past us on their way to an interior gallery. “Hello” they chanted in unison, anxious to practice their English, Vietnam’s second language after the fall of Vietnam’s economic partner, the Soviet Union, in 1991. “Xin chào” we replied in Vietnamese. Inside, homemade weaponry and dioramas showcased Vietnam’s conflict with both France and America. Thankfully, the propaganda was toned down. Instead much was made about homegrown ingenuity and persistence, the point being Vietnam had endured centuries of conflict and it always would.

By week’s end, we had acclimatized to the humidity, the congestion and yes, the people. Leaving the hotel at dawn one day to take advantage of the cool morning air we stumbled into a residential enclave bordering Truc Bach Lake. The community was just getting up. Families were eating their breakfasts on the sidewalk at those ubiquitous stubby tables and plastic chairs. “Hello,” children yelled to us as we passed by. “Xin chào” we replied. We passed a group of men doing morning exercises in the communal park. One man was pulling himself up on parallel bars and I asked him if I could take his picture. He flexed his bicep and gave me a huge smile. Surprisingly, the camera seemed to draw people to us rather than scare them away. A young mother squatting on the stoop of her apartment wanted me to take a picture of her child. Her child, no more than four, formed the peace sign with her fingers. An older child, playing by herself on the sidewalk, followed her example by flashing us the peace sign too.

Hanoi is a young city, half the population is under the age of 35 and as our Vietnamese friend Truong Tran, the manager of the nearby eatery, pointed out his millennial friends are too young to remember the American War. Or to care. The young made us feel welcome. They were open and friendly and curious.

Make no mistake; Vietnam is a one-party state. Dissent is not encouraged. It is not an ideal situation. There’s poverty, pollution and a ramshackle infrastructure but there’s also optimism, enterprise and an easy going give-and-take vibe that, for me, can be illustrated in the simple act of crossing the street. Since there are few controlled crosswalks in Hanoi and the locals don’t stop for pedestrians, getting to the other side required good timing and a stiff resolve. The trick was to look for a break in the traffic and walk slowly and confidently into the stream while looking the driver straight in the eye. It worked. Nobody cared if we were Canadian, American or whatever. Scooters and motorbikes gracefully swerved around us. We had miraculously melded into the rhythm of the street. Mission accomplished; my curiosity had been satisfied and my trepidation squelched.

If You Go:

There are no direct flights from Vancouver to Hanoi. BC travelers must connect through Europe, China, Australia or Indonesia. We travelled from Vancouver to Hong Kong via Cathay Pacific with a connecting flight to Hanoi via Dragonair.

Hanoi is awash in over 500 hotels, from the opulent to the perfunctory. The Hong Ngoc Cochinchine at CDN$55.00 a night came with free Internet and air conditioning. The legendary Sofitel Legend Metropole Hanoi can be yours for Cdn$400.00; the nearby Hilton Hanoi Opera costs CDN$200.00 a night.

The local currency is expressed in dong. For rapid calculations we reckoned on 20,000 dong to the Canadian dollar. Large 50,000, 500,000 and 1 million dong notes are commonplace.

Vietnamese food is phenomenal, a mixture of French, Thai and Chinese influences tempered with their own unique blend of herbs and spices. A simple, rice noodle soup called pho (pronounced fah) is the staple.

About the author:
John Thomson was trained in television news and current affairs and although his work took him around Canada and the United States, he never made it to Vietnam. It was too far away, too dangerous or too expensive. Now that the country is once again part of the global community he felt it was time to see Vietnam for himself. Mr. Thomson’s current stories, other places and other issues, can be seen on his Woodfall Media page.

Photo credits:

Hanoi street food market by Daderot under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.

All other photos by John Thomson:

Central Hanoi, Hoan Kiem District
Ba Dinh Street Vendor
Ba Dinh Street Cooks
Old Quarter Street of Shoes
War Museum Concourse
Lunchtime in Hanoi

China: The Alleys of Old Beijing

by Leslie Hebert

The young rickshaw driver in the bright blue jacket bore down on the pedals of his bike to get us moving. My husband and I, definitely not small people, were squeezed tightly into the seat of a small carriage behind the bike. Bundled in a threadbare black and red plaid blanket, we squirmed uncomfortably in our narrow conveyance. I calculated the burden of our combined weight, thinking that perhaps our driver was not going to be strong enough to move us, but he made one final push and we began to roll forward.

Push, groan, squeak.

The ancient bike creaked and moaned as its driver huffed and puffed, his breath making dragon-like clouds of steam in the cold November air. The icy wind whistled down the narrow street, I buried my hands in the blanket for warmth, and we followed a long line of red-canopied rickshaws through the narrow alleys of the Hutong District in old Beijing.

Local residents smiled in amusement and waved at the parade of foreigners passing by as the rickshaw convoy picked up a surprising amount of speed. We sped through the alleys, narrowly missing scooters and taxis coming from the opposite direction. Above my head, completely out of context, I was astonished to see a shipping container hanging in the air. Being from the port city of Vancouver, I am used to seeing containers sitting on barges, at the dockside, or behind trucks on the highway, but I had never seen one on top of a residential building. Yet here, in this overcrowded district of one of the world’s largest, most populous cities, one had been creatively converted into a second floor apartment.

The rickshaws brought us to our lunch destination, a noodle house in the home of a local resident. The tour group, all 30 of us, filed through a tiny kitchen, where freshly cut vegetables lay ready for stir frying, and crowded into a small living room to squat on low stools, elbow to elbow, ten to a table. There was little warmth in the house, but the combined heat of thirty crammed bodies and the heat of the green tea our hostess served were a comforting relief from the cold outside.

Plates of food arrived and we happily shared noodles, bean sprouts, summer squash, chicken legs and delicious fried peanuts. I relaxed. Warmth flowed through my body and down into my fingers, and I leaned comfortably back against the flaking, whitewashed wall behind me to savour more hot tea. Then just as I got comfortably warm the guide abruptly announced it was time to go, and I was reminded that we were on a tight tour schedule

As I headed back out into the chill November air the hostess and cook, who were standing in the kitchen to see us off, grabbed me and started laughingly swatting whitewash from the back of my black coat. Smiling and nodding, I extricated myself as politely as possible and caught up with the group making its way back to the rickshaws.

Our next stop was a traditional courtyard house, built to accommodate the many members of a traditional extended family. This was a large sprawling house, a maze which seemed to contain at least three courtyards each surrounded by long, low buildings containing various storage, sleeping and common rooms.

The owner of the house was a piece of living history, a genial, round-faced 99 year-old who stood in the open doorway of one of the rooms waving us in. I smiled and greeted him with a polite “ni hao” but, being completely deaf, he smiled and nodded vacantly and beckoned to the next person. I walked out across the chill of the courtyard and escaped from the freezing wind once more by squishing into the main living room with the rest of the group. I sank down into the warm embrace of a low, soft couch placed against the wall. Someone perched on the arm of the couch, people sat on rows of rickety folding chairs lined up in front of the couch, and others crowded into the doorway.

Against a red wooden fretwork on the far wall hung a giant fan. To my left was a floor to ceiling bookcase stuffed with musty old books, and in the centre of the room stood a dark wooden coffee table covered with piles of photo albums and a miscellany of old black and white photographs.

The guide passed some of the photos around and told us that the old man who now lived in the house with his son and grandson had made his fortune in the 1930s, midway between the fall of the Ching dynasty and the rise of Chairman Mao. With his new-found wealth he had bought the house we were sitting in for three one-kilogram bricks of gold.

One of the faded photo passed around showed two young girls and two small boys standing in front of the house. They were dressed in traditional Chinese clothing. The girls had long braids, and wore quilted jackets with pretty floral patterns. Each of the four children stood in a different pose, as if caught in an instant between bouts of energetic play. In the second photo, four older children stood sternly at attention, all sporting identical short haircuts and identically dressed in peaked caps and thin denim “Mao suits”, the uniform of the Cultural Revolution.

Chairman Mao began the Cultural Revolution in the 1960s by removing all his political opposition. In 1966 he shut down the schools and many of the now idle students joined units of the Red Guard, a paramilitary organization that persecuted the elderly and intellectuals, and battled for power with other Guard units. By the fall of 1967 anarchy loomed in many cities and the economy was failing. After lengthy power struggles between various factions, China achieved stability once more, but the economic and human cost of the Cultural Revolution had been high. Millions were imprisoned, many were tortured or had their property seized, and 1.5 million were killed.

“Look at these children,” said the guide. “They are smiling and mischievous. They are normal, happy human beings. Now look at these same children a few years later, how sad and serious they are. Before, they were individuals. They all dressed differently and wore bright colours. Now they are soldiers of Mao. They are all dressed the same. See how sad they look!”

“Life under Mao,” he added, “was 28 years of hell.”

Members of the tour group began to fire questions at him.

“So why is Mao still honoured?”

“Why is his picture displayed?”

“Why is he still portrayed on the money?”

“Isn’t China still Communist?”

He explained that the People’s Republic had evolved into a mixed economy, part socialist, part capitalist, but that Mao was still honoured as the founder of the current system and because the current administration was part of his legacy.

Yes, indeed. In the new China I had seen clear evidence of capitalist activity such as private banks, luxury hotels and fast food franchises like KFC and Starbucks. But I also sensed a tense undercurrent. I had seen security everywhere, sometimes unobtrusive videocam surveillance and sometimes more obvious groups of police officers, and there were unbelievably thorough security checks at every national monument.

According to the guide, the house we were sitting in was worth 40 million dollars in the new capitalist economy, a tidy profit on a long ago investment of 3 kilos of gold, and a nice legacy to be shared or perhaps fought over by the owner’s six sons. Sadly, the guide informed us, this old house would probably be torn down and replaced by an apartment block or office tower.

Leaving the cosiness of the living room for the chill air outside, I crossed the uneven surface of the courtyard past bare fruit trees and the remains of the summer vegetable garden. Two gourds clung to life on the branches of a dying vine and a string of artificial chili peppers made from shiny red and gold fabric hung from a bare branch like an enormous yet bizarre Christmas decoration.

Out in the alley the rickshaws with their gold fringed red canopies and cramped seats were lined up waiting to return us to the warm spacious luxury of the tour coach taking to the airport.

As we sped back through the Hutong District, I sat rubbing warmth back into my chilled fingers, anticipating the short flight south, and looking forward to the milder climate of Shanghai.

If You Go:

I recommend going to Beijing in the spring or early fall. It was surprisingly cold in November and can also be unbearably hot in summer.

Although the Hutong tour was part of our tour itinerary, independent travellers can book a similar tour through their hotel. Rickshaw, group and private walking tours are available. They vary in length from 4 to 8 hours and prices range from $US 49 to $US 69. You can read more information at www.tour-beijing.com/hutong/#.Wh9eODD_q1s

About the author:
Lesley Hebert is a graduate of Simon Fraser University. Now retired from teaching English as a second language in the classroom, she teaches ESL to international students via Skype. She also writes on-line articles which reflect a lively, inquiring mind and a love of travel, language, history and culture. Read more of Lesley’s articles.

Photos by Lesley Hebert

India: New Delhi, a Shopper’s Paradise

by Susmita Sengupta

Is shopping a true facet of tourism? Or is it merely a whirl into the materialistic world? This question has often popped up into my mind on our vacations and trips to various countries around the world. More often than not we relegate shopping to an afterthought, a gathering of trinkets as a memento of our journeys. Happily, it becomes a part of my life on my annual extended visits to New Delhi, India.

This teeming, bustling capital of India that effortlessly straddles the old and the new world is a shopper’s paradise. Over the years of visiting New Delhi, I have had the opportunity to go to a vast array of markets, malls, stores and bazaars. While this may not sound as the best way to spend vacation time, shopping in Delhi is an experience unlike any other.

I begin by visiting the neighborhood marketplaces which have a charm of their own as each market has its own unique personality. These are the places that cater to the residents of the locality for all their daily needs. Stop by these markets if you want to try the local cuisine or buy local items at the fraction of the prices charged at more popular places. Most of these markets are laid out in a courtyard fashion with shops all around a central built in plaza or in case of larger available space, the shops will be arranged around the central neighborhood park. On a cold, winter evening during a recent visit, I was tempted by the aromas wafting from the momo cart that was surrounded by people oblivious to the wintry chill enjoying these stuffed dumplings originally from Nepal and Tibet. Instead we opted to be in the relative warmth of the eatery inside the market where the chhole bhature, the Punjabi dish consisting of deep fried bread accompanied by spicy chickpeas was equally delicious and mouthwatering.

The real tour of Delhi shopping areas should start at the chaotic, crowded bazaars of Chandni Chowk in Old Delhi. Situated opposite Red Fort, the Mughal era fortification and palace complex that was built by Emperor Shah Jahan in 1638, Chandni Chowk or Moonlight Square has a storied history. The market begins at the Lahori Gate, the main entrance of Red Fort and still has shops that can trace their roots to the Mughal era. It was established in 1650 by Jahanara Begum, the favorite daughter of Shah Jahan. The original plan had a pool and a canal running through the center where the moon would be reflected on full moon nights, thus giving the bazaar its name. That does not exist today and the market is a warren of streets full of shops selling everything from books, textiles, food, jewelry, spices, and even medicines, chemicals, electrical goods and more. Each commodity has its own defined streets and areas and certainly visiting these zones is an adventure unto itself.

Chandni chowk is also home to the representations of the different religions in India. The imposing and gorgeous Mughal era Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India looms over the hustle and bustle of the market while the Fatehpuri Masjid, another Mughal mosque is on the other end. Nearby are the Gurudwara Sis Ganj, the Sikh temple established in 1783, the 16th century Digambara Jain temple and the Gauri Shankar Hindu temple which is dedicated to Lord Shiva.

Less than three miles from Chandni Chowk is Connaught Place, which is named after the 1st Duke of Connaught. It is the heart of Delhi and is a shopping, business, recreational and entertainment center built during the British rule of India. Located in New Delhi, CP as it is known by Delhiites, was constructed in the late 1920s and early 30s in the Georgian architectural style by Robert Tor Russell, an associate of Sir Edwin Lutyens, the architect of New Delhi. Connaught Place is easily recognizable on the map of Delhi as a wheel shape that has two concentric circles in the middle around a central park with roads emanating from the center in a radial fashion. The buildings that form a part of the Inner Circle and Outer Circle are two storied white colonnaded structures with arched walkways. On any given day the place teems with locals and tourists, all there to enjoy the various retail establishments and eat at some of the finest and most famous and historical restaurants of Delhi.

A visit to Delhi is incomplete without once making a trip to Janpath, and its namesake market along the road that starts out from Connaught Place. Janpath meaning People’s Path was also known as Queen’s Way in the British era and for years this market has been the go to destination for bargain hunters from both India and abroad on the lookout for ethnic style clothes, shoes and fabulous traditional jewelry. Also present are the women from the states of Rajasthan and Gujarat who travel to Delhi so they can sell their handmade miniature paintings and colorful, heavily mirrored and embroidered cushion covers and bags at a higher price than in their home states.

Close to Janpath market is another stalwart of Delhi, the Central Cottage Industries Emporium which was established by the government in 1952 as an outlet to showcase the rich heritage of handicrafts in India. With a department store like setting, this place is a haven for anyone who wants to experience the entire art and craft legacy of India but simply doesn’t have the time to visit the entire country. There are textiles, tea, spices, jewelry, furniture, carpets, paintings, pottery, sculptures and more representing all twenty nine states and seven union territories. One can also visit the individual state emporiums if time is not a constraining factor. These places are geared towards selling the handmade highlights of that state. For example at the Rajasthan Emporium you will find pichwai paintings and sculptures, jeweled glass and lac bangles, and traditional outfits while at Kashmir emporium, it would be carpets and embroidered woolen shawls and garments that would draw you in.

While it’s true that a mall visit can really have no redeeming purpose, we do make it a point to go to at least one to catch up on the new world of modern Delhi. The idea of shopping malls arrived in India in the 1990s as the country opened to the global economy. Delhi got its first mall in 1999 and since then shopping malls have proliferated all through the city. The DLF Promenade Mall in South Delhi is a shopping destination full of high-end international stores along with top-notch Indian brands. We particularly enjoy the various food kiosks in the food court that sell everything ranging from burgers, Indian style Chinese food, foods from Punjabi cuisine, South Indian delicacies such as dosas and idlis and Mughlai dishes of kababs and curries.

Of all the variety of shops and markets that I have visited during my annual sojourns to Delhi, the ones that have given me the most joy are the weekly vegetable markets that spring up in a neighborhood during certain days of the week.

Also known as “haat”, similar to the western farmers’ markets, these are stalls that are set up on a road blocked to traffic for a few hours in the early evening. The sellers bring vegetables grown in the farms that are situated on the Delhi outskirts. There are carts full of fruits which are bought by the vendors from the fruit wholesale markets, thus making them fresher than the ones found in the local markets and stores. Along with the customary mounds of potatoes and onions, eggplants, tomatoes and green beans and peas, there were the vegetables of my childhood that I had not seen in years. Green papayas, large spiky green jackfruits, “mocha”, the purplish maroon flowers of the banana plant and the inner white cores of the banana plant stem known as “thor”, long green drumsticks and more. Nearby a cart overflowed with pomegranates, the vendor having displayed a few cut ones on top like an open flower with little pink jewels.

So whether you are an inveterate shopper or just enjoy window shopping, Delhi provides an almost endless list of various shopping hubs to suit different styles and budgets. It provides an inimitable insight into the sights, sounds and smells of this city and an expansive look into the whole country.

Delhi Evening Food Walk Tour of old and New Delhi – $32.00
from: Viator

If You Go:

The Delhi Tourism Shopping page provides a comprehensive list of all the shopping destinations in the city.

Central Cottage Industries Emporium is located at Jawahar Vyapar Bhavan, Janpath.

Individual State Emporiums are located in State Emporia Complex at Baba Kharak Singh Marg.

Chandni Chowk can be reached by yellow Line of Delhi Metro.

Vasant Kunj Malls is a complex of three malls and is located at Nelson Mandela Road.

Connaught Place and Janpath Market are near each other and are easily accessible by any mode of transportation.

For neighborhood markets and haats, it is best to ask the inhabitants of that area as they will provide the desired information.

About the author:
Susmita Sengupta is a freelance writer who loves to travel. She and her family have traveled to various parts of the USA, Canada, Europe, the Caribbean, Middle East, Southeast Asia and India. She resides in New York City with her family.

All photos by Susmita Sengupta.

A view of Christmas decorations at an upscale mall
A plate of Chhole Bhature with a side of pickles, onions and green chili
Stalls selling art and crafts, clothes and jewelry in the early evening at a neighborhood market
The Georgian colonnaded architecture of Connaught Place
Ganesh statue for sale at Central Cottage Industries Emporium

Malaysia: Snakes, Ladders and Leeches in Borneo’s Gunung Mulu National Park

Park Ranger and guide in Borneo, Malaysia — Park Ranger (left) and guide, Sham

by Martin Kafer

“Oh no! we are stuck!” Esther cries in dismay. The Land Rover, driven by a quiet native man, is mired down deeply. We are on the way to the trailhead for a mountain trek to view the Mulu Pinnacles and now we are stopped in a huge muddy section of the narrow, tree lined jungle track that follows the shore of the Menilau River. The driver tries to pull his way out forward and backward without any luck and, in desperation, finally commands with a shout: “Everybody out and walk along the track!”

Everybody means our local guide Sham and the two of us, my wife and myself. With the vehicle emptied of passengers he is able to get the mud-spattered car onto solid ground, hurray! We can get back in again and then are bumped for about another hour’s slow ride closer to today’s final destination, camp #5 in Gunung Mulu Park. But then suddenly the driver stops again just before we hit a second, larger and impassable looking mucky bit. We are shooed out of the car, there is no choice now, and we have to continue on foot. Sham shoulders his large bundle and we both put on our daypacks, grab our hiking poles, and I strap on my camera bag last.

Our young, good looking native guide, Sham, whose services we had arranged two days earlier at a travel office in the town of Miri on Borneo’s Northwest coast, has joined us at the Royal Mulu Resort. This luxury lodge has two larger service buildings and quite a few smaller guest bungalows, all built from local wood and set on an elevated, snake-proofed platform. For guests the access is by small plane from Miri to the nearby gravel airstrip carved out of the forest along the Menilau River, it is the only way for tourists to get to this remote, fantasy vacation place.

The whole complex was developed by a Japanese hotel chain in the verdant jungle about a hundred km Southeast of Miri. During our first full day at Royal Mulu we joined a small group for a fascinating excursion to one of the nearby karst limestone caves festooned with myriads of glistening stalactites and stalagmites. The quiet beauty of the cave was alive with swarms of (free-tailed) bats, many flying in and out the entrance and others hanging quietly on the walls. Later in the afternoon back at the resort we enjoyed some soothing swims in the lavish, Jacuzzi equipped swimming pool.

On the morning of the trek Sham came to the door of our bungalow and immediately offered an effusive greeting in his stilted English and right after he added with a smile: “This is only my second guiding trip, I hope you are both happy at the end!” On our three-day wilderness hiking trip he will have to carry the heavy stuff, including food and cooking gear, all in a large woven bamboo basket with ridiculous shoulder straps made from string. When we pitied him he laughed: “No sweat, I am used to it!”

A short twenty-minute walk along the muddy track from where we were so unceremoniously dropped off, Sham stops suddenly. He points at the unfriendly looking, fast flowing and oily green Menilau river and says: “Here is the place where we have to cross!”

There is only one option to get to the other shore, we have to wade with boots off and pants rolled way up. Esther ties the bootlaces and hangs the boots from her neck and puts rubber sandals on, Sham and I do the same to our boots and the two of us go barefoot. The bottom is sandy, the water is quite warm, the current is very strong and the waves reach part way up my thighs. By walking side by side with Sham in the middle and all three of us holding onto our hiking poles as a steadying brace, we manage to reach the far side without stumbling or getting too wet.

Safely back on solid ground on the other shore we begin the hike in the big trees of the park, a wonderful contrast to the road side of the river outside of the park, which has been extensively logged. We follow a flat trail with lots of shade – even the hot humid air feels good. We hear lots of birds sing and some frogs, but are unable to spot anything moving in the dense forest as we are trekking along slowly through heavy underbrush, still wet from the previous days rain. Further along the rough trail we easily cross two small fast running side creeks on stepping stones. After about three hours of steady hiking we arrive at camp #5: a shabby looking duo of wooden huts huddled in the narrow Menilau river canyon under the steep limestone cliffs of Gunung Mulu. There is just enough daylight left so the two of us can have a quick swim in a calm pool adjoining the river while Sham is brewing tea at the hut. We just make it back safely by about six when darkness falls like a curtain and a tropical downpour starts with a thunderous drumming on the sheet metal roof.

To our and Sham’s dismay the sleeping mats and blankets, supposedly always stored in the huts, as we had been assured by him, are nowhere to be found. The two long nights we spend on the bare wooden boards with pack sacks as pillows and some spare clothes as mattresses turn out to be ordeals – bruised hips, mostly sleepless nights with only short naps to relieve the misery. This is especially ironic since we spent the previous two nights in the lap of luxury at the five star Royal Mulu Resort.

To make life at hut #5 even more difficult, the battery for the lights, fed by solar panels, is low due to many days of cloudy weather. The kitchen area alone is lit off and on, yet Sham cooks and serves us what turns out to be an excellent dinner, which we enjoy inside followed by tea on the front steps. The rain has stopped for a while and we can watch the fireflies flitting around. The no-see-ums fortunately stopped their stinging activities when it got dark.

Morning cannot come too soon for us, luckily the sun is out, as Sham had predicted in the evening. After a quick breakfast, we set off in the early heat of the new day with Sham leading the way. The fourth member of the party is a park ranger, who has somehow appeared out of nowhere and volunteers to come with us. The trail soon steepens with roots, limestone boulders, long steps in slippery dirt and often thorny tree branches in the way.

We stop a few times for a rest, a drink of water and some dried fruit. The hike is on a narrow, but well marked trail straight up the steep mountain side, which is festooned with lush vegetation – trees, roots, giant ferns, bushes, rocks, dirt, hat grabbers and eye pokers. The sweat pours off me and I am soaked through. It is a relentless climb until we come to a flatter area, where there are many deep and dark pits in the karst limestone. The smaller ones we have to jump across, but the larger ones have been bridged with slippery planks or metal beams. It is quite a balancing act to cross on one or two narrow girders without railings over the gaping black holes: fortunately, we get a helping hand from our guide and the ranger, one at each edge.

To make the trip more exciting we have to climb aluminium ladders for many steep or vertical rock sections. A total of fifteen ladders, Sham tells us, since he was a member of the trail crew that installed them. This trek turns out to be quite a workout for the old legs and arms. The hiking poles are life savers even if they are sometimes in the way, dangling from our wrists, as we scramble up the many ladders.

I have just reached the top rung of another steep ladder leading to a wide, rocky platform when I come face to face with a snake coiled on a boulder, staring at me. “Watch out! a snake here, it’s a green one!” I shout as a warning to Esther who is climbing on the ladder just below me. “It’s only a small pit viper!” is Sham’s reassuring cry. I am lucky enough to have the camera ready, the little creature must be scared because it stays absolutely motionless while I quickly take a shot.

Finally, after nearly four hours of strenuous ascent we reach our goal, the Pinnacles view spot, congratulations all around, we made it, picture time! The panorama of the many sheer limestone pinnacles we can see across the deep canyon is very impressive, especially with the late morning mists drifting around the top of the steep, pyramid shaped rock towers. It’s a unique and once in a life time experience and to me, worth all the drudge and toil of the climb.

Within less than half an hour the view of the fantastic limestone “forest” is obscured by the lowering clouds. As a consolation, we have a nice lunch and a good rest with leisure to admire the beautiful red throated pitcher plants growing profusely on the inside edge of the platform and nearby a small garden of white Impatiens flowers.

The trek down to camp #5, the second painful night on the boards and the long hike out to the river in heavy tropical rainfall are a bit of a blur, but we certainly remember being pounded by a continuous downpour in the lush forest undergrowth. This day provides us with our first unpleasant and messy encounter with blood sucking leeches which Sham tells us should just be ripped out of the skin, since the bleeding will clean out the “poison”! This procedure was especially painful for Esther who, at the end of the trip, discovered that two leeches had fastened themselves near her private parts!

On the other hand, the heavy rains turn out to be very helpful, since the resort’s boatman can use the swollen Menilau river to navigate his large motorized dugout right to the spot where we had to ford on foot two days ago. We are quite pleased when he arrives with a smile, serves up a nice picnic lunch and then takes us in the boat along the flooding river quickly right back to the Royal Mulu hotel and airstrip, no complaints from us about a shorter, smoother and more comfortable return trip.

That same afternoon we fly back to Miri and on to Kuching for more Borneo adventures.

If You Go:

The most important probably is to make early reservations for the expensive, fly-in (from Miri) accommodation and the obligatory local guide, the jungle hike is quite remote and may-be difficult to arrange. The other three factors for a successful hike are: you have to be physically fit, be prepared for hot and exhausting bush travel and put up with the bugs etc. while enjoying a unique adventure.

Borneo history

Travel Borneo

PBS: Borneo in the Clouds

Mulu National Park

About the author:
Martin, who recently celebrated his 90th birthday with a day’s downhill skiing at BC’s Whistler Mountain, was born in Switzerland, has been a mountaineer and ski enthusiast since he was nine years old and a travel adventure seeker since his early twenties. He has, together with his wife Esther climbed over five hundred mountains, including the Matterhorn on their honeymoon. They did many of their climbs during their extensive travels which has taken them to more than sixty countries on five continents during their more than sixty years of marriage. Writing his book of memoirs has been a more recent, but hopefully also successful endeavour.

All photos by Martin Kafer