Asia Travel - Part 29

Variety is the Spice of Chennai and Area Treasures

Tamil Nadu, India

by Irene Butler

A beach is a beach is a beach…or so I thought. Something strikes me as peculiar about the13km of exceptionally wide Marina Beach in Chennai. No bikinis, or horizontal bodies slathered in tanning lotion, or swimmers in the Bay of Bengal. The thousand or so locals out for the evening breezes are fully clothed, and 90% are upright, either walking about or standing and chatting, with the remainder sitting for a picnic supper.

As my husband Rick and I plod through the soft sand, Coney Island comes to mind. Smiling tots bob up and down on carousels and youths shriek from wildly-whirling contraptions, horses gallop by with riders, and kites fill the sky. Most amazing are the girls aged between six and ten performing daring feats on tightropes affixed to crossed bamboo poles lodged in the sand. Snack food is sold out of tents and stalls, some with gaudy plastic stools out front for customers. We agree this is our most exhilarating beach walk to date.

Our days in Chennai (formerly Madras) are spent scouring the sites. Fort St. George, built by the British East India Company in 1653, is now the Secretariat & Legislative Assembly. Within the old fort walls is India’s oldest surviving British church, St. Mary’s, consecrated in 1680. With four-foot-thick outer walls and two-foot-thick roof, it was considered bomb-proof against cannon balls. Behind the altar is a depiction of the last supper, and although not signed, it is believed to be from the Raphaelite school, with the central figures painted by Raphael himself.

St. Thomas (San Thome) Basilica (built in 1504, and rebuilt in 1893) is renowned for its neogothic elegance, and for an underground chapel where I stand riveted at the thought of “doubting Thomas”, one of the twelve Apostles of Christ being buried here. This is one of three churches in the world proclaimed to be built over the tomb of an Apostle (the others being St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, and Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela built over the tomb of St. James in Spain).

St. Thomas is said to have come to this area in 52 AD. We follow his story to Little Mount and St. Thomas Mount, several kilometres from the church. The first is a cave where St. Thomas was believed to have lived in hiding from his persecutors. Further up the hill on St. Thomas Mount is where he was speared to death in 72 AD. In the small church at the top of this mount, to the right of the altar is a painting of Mother Mary and the Christ Child, brought here by St. Thomas and purported to be the work of St. Luke.

We leave Chennai with Dharma, our guide, for the village of Mamallapuram (also called Mahabalipuram), renowned for its ancient rock-carvings, most of which were completed in the 7th century when this was a major port for the ruling Pallava dynasty.

Dharma leads us to the 12m high and 30m wide exquisite bas relief known as Arjuna’s Penance. Dharma points out the key figure saying, “Arjuna is balanced on one leg with arms upraised in ‘penance’, which in the Hindu religion does not mean repentance, but rather a gaining of power over the gods.” Arjuna’s motive was to garner the sword from the towering figure of Shiva beside him, with which to kill his enemies. Our imaginations soar as our eyes scan the 100 sculptured forms surrounding the central figures, depicting lesser gods, humans, flying creatures, and animals, including two life-sized elephants.

A half-hour-walk brought us to the Shore Temple. Its two pagoda-style towers are weathered by wind and sea, yet a remarkable amount of carvings remain, especially inside the shrines for Shiva and Vishnu. A rock wall has been built to protect it from further erosion.

Nearby is the temple complex known as the Five Rathas. Lions and a life-sized elephant are regally poised at the entrance of these monolithic temples resembling chariots. Numerous deities, as well as scenes of everyday life, such as women weaving, young girls primping and pompous dignitaries are sculpted on the stone walls. We are awed by the preservation of these spectacular monuments, which were hidden in sand until excavated by the British 200 years ago.

Over a thousand years later, the tapping of hammer and chisel continues along the dusty streets of this village renowned for its stone carving. We become absorbed watching artisans chip granite blocks into animal forms and gods destined for temples around the world.

Day-trips from Mamallapuram are as fascinating, as they are varied. Our first was to Kanchipuram, the city of 1000 Hindu temples, and once capital of the Pallava, Chola and Pandyan dynasties. The largest and highest, Sri Ekambaranathar temple covers 12 hectares and dates back to the 16th century. The artistry in the sculptures is superb. There is a gathering of women hanging small dolls from the huge mango tree in the courtyard; “to aid fertility,” Dharma explains.

The oldest temple and to us the most beautiful is the Kailasanatha. Constructed in the 8th century, sculptured lions and gods fill the rock walls, and fragments of murals are visible in some of the 58 small shrines, attesting to its former grandeur. Dharma is a wealth of knowledge on each temple’s history, the meaning of the various poses of the gods and associated legends.

Another Kanchipuram stop was to a family silk weaving factory where some of the most astoundingly beautiful wedding saris are made with vividly coloured silk threads, the borders spun with gold and silver strands, and costing up to 50,000 Rupees ($1,190) – expensive for the country’s economy. Eighty percent of the city’s population is involved in the silk industry.

It was next onto Puducherry (a.k.a Pondicherry or Pondy), a former French colony with a seafront promenade, wide boulevards, “rue” for “street” on signage, 18th century French architecture, and enticing French cuisine restaurants – unlike anywhere else in India.

A huge draw to this community is the famed Sri Aurobindo Ashram. Founded in 1926 by a French woman known as “the Mother” and prolific writer Sri Aurobindo, it promotes their philosophies which are a synthesis of spirituality, yoga and modern science. Both are deceased and entombed in the courtyard of the ashram, where we as visitors are among the devotees gathered to pay homage to these spiritual leaders.

Just over the border from Puducherry is Auroville, the brainchild of “the Mother”, whose work has been carried on by her followers. Although there is minimal tourist access of the facility, a visitor centre provides information on the workings of this international community that is spread over 20 sq km, with about 2,000 residents from around 38 nations. It is a place to live in peace and unity – above all creeds, politics, and nationalities. The focal point of Auroville is a gigantic gold-plated globe called the Matrimandir, which contains a crystal that diffuses sunlight into 26 meditation chambers for use by its members.

We leave saturated by the wondrous sites of Chennai and the surrounding centres. Our mixed experiences of landmark churches, ancient temples, ashrams, specialty crafts of various areas, and pocket of French flavour, was made even more incredible with the hospitality of friendly locals and our gracious guide Dharma. Although not our first visit to this amazing country, I concur with Rick’s succinct summation, “India just keeps getting better.”

Private Full-Day Mahabalipuram History Tour from Chennai

If You Go:

Chennai, capital of Tamil Nadu – Population 62.1 million.
Mamallapuram hosts an annual National Dance Festival from Dec 25 to Jan 25.

Distances
Chennai to Mamallapuram – 54 kilometers south
Mamallapuram to Puducherry – 162 km south
(Kanchipuram is inland between Chennai and Mamallapuram)
From Chennai – 75 km SW
From Mamallapuram – 66 km NW

Transportation
Buses and Trains leave regularly between these centres.
Taxis and Rental cars are also options.

Tourism Web Sites

India Tourism: www.incredibleindia.org
Tamil Nadu Tourism: www.tamilnadutourism.org
Puducherry: www.pon.nic.in
Auroville: www.auroville.info
Sri Aurobindo Ashram: www.sriaurobindoashram.org

Suggested Accommodations
The Residency, Chennai www.theresidency.com
Chariot Beach Resort, Mamallapuram www.chariotbeachresorts.com

About the author:
Irene Butler and her husband Rick are a travel journalist/photographer team from Richmond, B.C. They lead a gypsy existence travelling around the world for six months of each year. They have been currently touring the Middle East. www.globaltrekkers.ca. Irene has recently published a travel memoir book, ‘Trekking the Globe With mostly Gentle Footsteps’. Covering twelve countries in twelve months. Order it on-line from www.granvilleislandpublishing.com

Photo credits:
Mahabalipuram beach temples by sreesai from Pixabay
All other photos by Rick Butler.

Through India’s Himalayas to Dharamsala

by Alice Cuninghame

When most people think of images of India, few bring pictures of green mountain meadows and snow-capped peaks to mind. Delhi’s narrow Pahar Ganj, with its rickshaws, dirt, street-sellers and con men is probably much closer to many people’s visual concept of India. I was staying in a windowless room at the end of a busy alleyway off Pahar Ganj, past an open-air urinal, and I was desperate for clear air and wide views.

I booked myself onto an overnight bus, barely sleeping through a cold night on winding roads, waiting for the dawn to break. When it did, I watched us pass through villages and market towns, women hurrying through the morning wrapped in thick shawls, men drinking steaming tea at roadside shops, children bright-faced with cold and smiling, all backed by green slopes and snowy peaks. This India looked very different to the hot plains I knew.

I left the bus at Manali, sloshing through a muddy bus station. This was New Manali – the town’s administrative and transport hub. Beyond it, along a winding, tree-lined road was the village of Old Manali, and I found a guesthouse along the road between the two. As this was off-season, I got a large room with a balcony and hot water for next to nothing. The only other customers I saw were an Indian couple from Bangalore; come up from the south to marvel at this very different landscape, where white peaks come into view around every turn.

According to the Lonely Planet, I could go skiing at Solang Nullah, an hour’s bus ride away from Manali, between January and March. It was late February, but there was no snow on the ground in Manali, so I went to the tourist office to see if I could find out about the state of the slopes.

“Is there snow in Solang?” I asked.

“Oh yes, Madam, there is much snow there” the man working there said, nodding fast.

“So if I go there, I can ski?”

“Oh yes Madam, it would be your duty!”

Encouraged, I got the bus the next morning, its engine choking and shaking through the cold. The road to Solang was lined with shacks renting ski gear – all in one ski suits designed with true 1980s style, and skis that looked as if they’d creak at each turn down the slope. We pulled up at Solang Nullah, and despite the inviting looking white-stuff on the high slopes in the distance, Solang itself had nothing but wet mud and frost. I went back to Manali on the same bus, and booked a bus to Shimla.

The summer capital of the British Raj, Shimla is strung out along a high, green ridge, overlooking deep valleys covered in trees. Its streets are stepped like rice terraces, connected by steep staircases. The buildings are all oddly familiar in Shimla – bay-windowed houses with chimneys and pointed roofs, the Raj’s version of home, tumbling down the mountainside. There are two Shimlas – the Indian town, a steep warren of shops and stalls, and the European town, with broad buildings spread out around a wide boulevard, and into the trees on the edge of town.

Walking out of Shimla, you pass the ghosts of the Raj. Grand houses and large public buildings still used by the government, workers on their break playing cricket in their gardens. The road is plagued with monkeys, who shriek and claw their way across the tarmac and through the trees, made aggressive and bold through too much feeding. I had been trying to find a museum, but lacking any kind of stick to beat them off, I thought it was better to escape the monkeys and turn back towards town.

Having had my fill of Shimla’s ghostliness, I got another bus to Dharamsala, home of the Dalai Lama. Dharamsala itself is a bustling but unremarkable mountain town, but above it is McLeod Ganj, seat of the Tibetan government, and with a population of mostly Tibetan refugees and western tourists. Many of them come to take Buddhist meditation classes, or to hear one of the Dalai Lama’s teachings. I came to eat Tibetan food, try out the hospitality in Tibetan bars, and gaze at the views over the valley, of rocky villages and strings of colourful Buddhist prayer flags.

I spent a happy few days here, doing very little but enjoying the freedom of the mountains. I went for walks, alone, up mountain roads, through tiny villages, and was almost totally ignored. I drank hot tea and cold beer, ate cake and Tibetan flatbread, and stared out of a lot of windows, watching the clear Himalayan light rise and fall. I could have been back in Delhi on one bus ride, but I couldn’t have felt further away from it in Dharamsala.

About the author:
Alice Cuninghame is a freelance copywriter based in Brighton, specializing in travel. She has traveled extensively, particularly in India and South East Asia. She has recently completed an MA in creative writing and is working on her first novel. She also works for diyflights.com, a powerful flight search website to compare flights from over 500 airlines across the world.

All photographs are by Alice Cuninghame.

Field of Bombs

Phonsavan, Laos

by Ian Douglas

The tiny Lao Aviation plane dropped hastily from the sky. Crossing my fingers I cursed my sense of adventure. What on Earth had persuaded me to risk flying to Phonsavan? The reason was, of course, the famous ‘Plain of Jars’. These ancient stone vessels lay scattered across the far-flung Lao province, and according to the travel books, have become something of a tourist magnet. I was looking forward to some hardcore sightseeing.

But Phonsavan has more sinister mysteries lying on its mountains than Neolithic jars. Acres of grassland appeared below, pockmarked with craters like a lunar landscape, the tragic scars of the Vietnam War. These craters, as I was to learn, were the least of our problems.

From the shack-sized, dusty airport, I hopped in a tuk-tuk into Phonsavan, an ugly concrete town surrounded by bleak barren slopes. These I figured, were probably caused by the Agent Orange dropped on Laos during the Vietnam War.

I booked into a cabin at a reasonably clean home-stay and deciding to leave the Jars till the next day, set out to explore the humble streets. Drifting into a cheap café for lunch, I chanced upon a middle-aged Brit we’ll call Basil. He was a handsome older fellow with an air of action about him. Nevertheless poor Basil was desperate for conversation and fell upon me, inviting me to join his table. Weary from a week full of shenanigans in Vientiane I was not overly pleased. However it would have been unspeakably churlish to decline. Over a couple of Beer Laos and a bowl of steamy noodles he told me his story.

Basil was a bomb disposal expert. Oh yes, the stuff of heroes! Following a distinguished career with the British Army, he had taken early retirement. Eager to make the world a better place, he volunteered for the UN bomb disposal project, and they flew him straight to Phonsavan. Basil, who had never been to Asia, now found himself in one of the most inaccessible slices of the continent. Bleak mountains surrounded him to all points of the compass. As there were no safe roads the only way in or out was by plane. There were no other expats to befriend. Basil was suffering massive culture shock, and I did my best to empathize.

He talked about the culture of ‘take it easy’, (or baw pen yan as the Laos say). Never do today what you can put off till tomorrow. Which is not as odd as it sounds in the heat and humidity of South East Asia.

“Some days I turn up for work and my trainees have forgotten to fill the Jeep with petrol! They tell me to take the day off! How can they forget something as crucial as petrol?” he bemoaned.

But it was a lot more serious than that. Basil told me there were enough unexploded bombs left over from the War in this province to keep him busy for another 500 years; pineapples, daisy-cutters, bomblets, the whole deadly assortment. Only the day before, he’d found two live missiles underneath a busy children’s classroom. Later in my tour I would see Hmong habitations that were built from discharged shell casings.

The focus of Basil’s job was to train up local lads to be defusers themselves. They were brave, good-hearted souls, but so gung-ho to get stuck in he feared for their lives.

Suddenly we were interrupted. A man I recognized from the plane strolled in looking for Basil.

“He’s very high up in the government,” my newfound friend whispered in my ear. That would explain the leather jacket, a pricey item in a country that can’t afford roads. Basil, clearly a man of action, was none too happy to see the politician. He invited me to dine with them that evening, to help smooth over any embarrassing silences. Although I was not keen myself to get drawn in, it seemed discourteous to turn down his request…

The dusk reunited the three of us in a cheap noodle shop. Overhead dark peaks were swallowing the sun in an orgy of red and orange. Phonsavan, with its elevation above sea level, was less hot than you’d expect and a chill began to creep down from the mountains. Weary, weather-beaten peasants trudged home, returning from whatever it was they did all day. Nightfall in the tropics has a mysterious and seductive feel. It becomes easy to believe in ghosts. Quietly I slurped up my pork ball noodles, enjoying that seduction, while Basil and the bureaucrat exchanged manly, beery banter.

As it happens, Phonsavan only gets four hours of electricity a day, from 6pm till 10pm. Sure enough, come the hour, the light bulbs dimmed and died, as lanterns lit up throughout the town. No longer able to see their beer, Basil and his superior decided to shoot off to a second venue and Basil pleaded with me to go along as the icebreaker.

So there I was, sat in the Unexploded Bomb Land Rover, speeding out into the dark deserted moors. All around was nothing but black fields and bombs. On we drove, up and down, over hills and through vales. Then abruptly … there it was!

Magically, from nowhere, before my astonished eyes appeared … a disco, ablaze with fairy lights. Had I stumbled into Never- Never Land? A few miles away the country folk of Phonsavan were climbing into their hard paupers’ beds with nothing to light the way but candles. Was the town’s electric supply switched off so that government officials, drug-runners and other nogoodniks could boogie?

The interior was a Spartan, beer-sodden hall. A few depressed-looking waitresses half-heartedly danced the lam yai. Dangerous-looking individuals swigged beer, guns poking from their jackets. Our politician offered me my choice of waitress, but I politely declined. I kept my mouth shut and my eyes firmly on my beer. This joint had all the charm of a Wild West saloon on the brink of a shootout. Not to mention the sea of bombs outside. Walk fifty paces in any direction and …. BOOM!

I must confess to a blend of curiosity and fear. The former because this was such an unlikely place for little old western me to find himself. We were a very, very, very long way off the tourist trail. The latter due to ticking time bomb of tension I sensed in the air. After all, alcohol and guns really don’t mix.

Luckily, both Basil and I kept our heads down and this seemed to avoid trouble. The government officer was obviously hoping for a riotous night of beer and girls, and I guess I must have been a disappointment to him. He spoke scant English, but my overall impression was not one of a man of integrity. Eventually we made our excuses and left, leaving the man from the ministry happily ogling the dancing girls.

So there you are. Even in the mountains of Laos there’s always somewhere to party, if you know the right people.

As we motored back to Phonsavan’s version of civilization, I pondered my companion. It’s true to say that left-wing liberals like me find it difficult to bond with macho army types like Basil. On the other hand, his sacrifice of time and safety to the people of Laos deserved nothing but awe and admiration. I had come to respect him, despite his problems in adjusting to local customs. Usually I can’t stand westerners who come out to Asia and whinge. As a famous Catholic missionary in Bangkok once told me: shut up or ship out. Perhaps my encounter with Basil taught me to be less fussy.

Basil was a definitive action man, a hero dedicated to beer and bombs. I wondered which of the two gave him the most satisfaction out here in this lonely outpost of humanity. Sadly, only the bombs will never run out.

Some time after midnight, Basil dropped me outside my slumbering guesthouse. Above us the stars, unsullied by city lights, shone in great fuzzy sparkles of silver. Basil roared off, no doubt mindful of the coming day, risking life and limb yet again. He left me choking on his dust.

Vientiane City Tour vs Buddha Park and Textile Village including Lunch

If You Go:

The Plain of Jars, a UNESCO World Heritage site, is located close to the provincial town of Phonsavan. This is best reached by air. There are daily flights to Phonsavan from Vientiane and Luang Prabang by Lao Airlines. There are also buses from Vientiane and Luang Prabang, taking at least 10 hours. Tours can be booked at Phonsavan for the Plain of Jars.

About the author:
After a London childhood Ian moved to Nottingham where he worked with children with learning disabilities. He went onto teach in the East Asia for many years. More recently he returned to Nottingham to study a MA in Creative Writing. His first novel is due out in Autumn 2011. Ian has published over 150 articles and visited 36 countries. He and his family visit East Asia regularly. www.iandouglas-writer.co.uk

All photographs are by Ian Douglas.

Standing Room Only in Shibuya

Tokyo, Japan

by Tim Roberts

In Tokyo’s fast paced Shibuya district, Tim Roberts encounters a night culture permanently on the move, where the best local experiences won’t be found sitting down.

‘Sitting or standing?’ Masa asked. Not expecting to make such a decision, I stumbled on standing. ‘Japanese, English, something else?’ This one was easy: when it comes to choosing restaurants, always go local.

I was in Shibuya, a Tokyo district familiar to any moviegoer. It’s all the points of the compass compacted into the city’s busiest road crossing. Pedestrians line up like the start of a marathon and take over the road, leaving Bill Murray hangdog in the middle. His foreignness is clear in his stillness for, in a place that’s constantly moving, the most Japanese of experiences are to be found by standing up.

Masa had arranged to meet me by Hachiko, who turned out to be a dog – a bronze statue of this Tokyo ward’s most venerated citizen. From having sat in the same spot for 75 years Hachiko has become the city’s best known meeting point. His owner was a professor at the local university. Every morning, the two would walk to Shibuya Station, leaving Prof Ueda to catch the train while the dog returned home. In the evening, Hachiko would make the journey alone to meet his master until, in May 1925, the professor passed away at work. Hachiko arrived at the station to greet him, but Prof Ueda didn’t appear. He returned every night for the next ten years, patiently waiting for his best friend until they were finally reunited in death. Dog and master were buried together at Aoyama Cemetery.

With my faith in Masa, the lights finally turned green and we left Shibuya’s neon centre. He guided me through the types of alleys the tourist maps omit to a little shack, almost hidden beneath a tumble of disused cartons. Inside, thick wooden blocks, once used to haul tuna fish at the local market, had been employed as tabletops. Without chairs to choose from, we took a stand in the corner, cracked a couple of beers and enjoyed the preprandial fish roe, the little eggs an untampered smear in the centre of a saucer.

The wall decorations were sheets of Japanese script. This turned out to be the menu. I gave way on the ordering and was rewarded by giant crab’s legs, chunks of purple octopus, fillets of tuna sashimi and seared scallops on the half shell. This was Hokkaido dining, the sum of the sea’s bounty minus any standard aesthetic deviations. No garnish, no fanfare. The soft crab shell kindly cracked beneath my fingers. The octopus felt its way down my gullet, while the scallops simply melted. The sashimi was better – fresher and juicier – than you’d ever find at home.

Two days after standing eating seafood with Masa, friend of a friend Ken also suggested we meet besides Hachiko. He proposed some place where we could ‘appreciate the scenery’. Now you know the ‘scenery’ of Shibuya, so what is there to look at? There’s no time to ‘appreciate the scenery’ when the only thing not moving is a dog cast in bronze. But Ken meant something else; peer at girls, Ken meant. Giggles of girls don Little Bo Peep and bravados of boys wear Arthur Fonzarelli. By keeping moving, they’re seen but not savoured. Like scallops or sashimi, the encounter is intense and just as suddenly absent.

Ken chose a Bond set Italian (cave, lake, wine island) where the food aims to be unremarkable and service has been cheerlessly computerised. After eating, he echoed Masa’s question. ‘Sitting or standing?’ More confident with experience, we patronised a tachinomiya, literally ‘standing bar’, a trend converted from the Japanese salaryman’s desire for a swift one before heading home. Its clientele of young suits, blue collar workers and luckless ladies were popping edamame beans and downing shot glasses of Asahi with the same in out rhythm of Italian espresso bars. Low slung drapes and paper screens separated indoors from out, creating a convivial conspiracy of drinkers, a secret treehouse club.

At the unambitiously named Piss Alley in nearby Shinjuku, the yakitori (grilled chicken) joints offer seats to their bar side patrons but, with stools so high and custom so dense, you might think everyone was standing. The laughter of old men through their uniforms of cigarettes and beer, and the beckoning of matrons, bubbling as raucously as their stews, makes it feel closer here to the street festivities of Vietnam here or memories of Edo era Tokyo. The simple and cheap set up instantly relaxes visitors.

A pabu was Masa’s choice for after dinner drinks. Perhaps the warning was in the name and the sitting only rule. The Hub chain is owned by a Japanese Anglophile and serves Bass and fish ‘n’ chips but this fusion owed more to Kirin than Carling. The fish is chopstickible tempura, not the geisha’s clog of beer battered we’re familiar with, although even tempura is a multi racial offspring. The ubiquitous and supposedly national dish owes its name to Portuguese sailors arriving in Kyushu in the 17th century. Then as now, reverential Catholics practise temperance by denying themselves fried fish on Fridays.

At the pabu the system is regimentally complex. Any attempts to order before leaving the staging area invite disapproving thoughts and suppressed smirks. The Japanese correction is a face saving device that benefits both parties. At a breaded pork restaurant (kuski katou), I knew now to watch my fellow diners carefully to learn correct form. Wipe your hands with a damp towel before eating. Roll and place carefully to one side. Choose skewers of food from the wooden tray presented. Coat each thoroughly in the communal sauce to avoid the dreaded double dip. What I didn’t spot was the need to dispose of the empty sticks in the little vase in front of me. The waitress’s reprimand is an apology. ‘I’m so sorry for our Japanese ways.’ It allows me the same opportunity. ‘No, I’m just a stupid gaijin.’ We can both enjoy our modesty.

A few hours on the bullet train and we’re in Kobe, an undemanding port city famed for its eponymous beef. Kobe cow retails at between £120 and £200 a kilo. As with tuna, the Japanese charge more for the fattier cut, so fillet fans leave a restaurant richer than sirloin supporters.

To sample all sorts, I treated myself to a gift set. The vacuum packed beef was wrapped in tissue, itself enclosed within a smart little box. The box was coated in gold foil paper and a set of instructions were tucked inside. So after the ritualistic unpacking, how did it taste? Nearly as good as the best beef I’ve ever tasted. The best beef I’ve ever tasted was a very old piece of rump, cooked rare at a respected London restaurant. Kobe beef honoured me with a coy flirtation of flavour, seduced with its teppan yaki and soy coat, fitting tenderly the people and place. It was not the bruising, ten gallon T bone, nor the buttery and theatrical Chateaubriand. Any earthiness was indivisible. It was designed to be sampled, not for sustenance.

But what did you expect? When Imperial Japan lifted their protectionist beef ban in 1868, they still called cows ‘mountain whales’. Meanwhile, the West was calling them Daisy and Buttercup. We live among them, milk them, see them every day. Here it’s a delicacy, a sashimi, a foreign invasion neutralised through traditional treatment.

And this is how the Japanese culture protects itself from pizzas, pubs and even pissers. Everyone’s heard about the Japanese toilet, with their cosy warmed seats and disconcertingly enjoyable sprays. They call these futuristic fancies ‘Western toilets’. Any public loo features far fewer of these than the traditional ‘Japanese’ squatters, yet locals will pass open doors to queue for the sit down model. This love hate relationship with the West may make some anxious that Japanese culture is being flushed away, but the most authentic experiences still won’t be found sitting down.

Walking Food Tour of Shibuya at Night

If You Go:

Shibuya station is well served by many subway, Japan Rail and private lines. The Hachiko statue has its own exit and is near the famous ‘scramble’ crossing.

The Kizankan hotel is around $180 a night (113-0033). A much more modest option is Hotel Xebec at $20 25 (110 0003). Both are in Shibuya. The local branch of the Hub pub is found at B1F, 25-9 Udagawacho, Shibuya-ku (3770 4135).

Piss Alley (Shomben Yokocho) is located between the train tracks by the side of the Odakyu department store near Shinjuku station. Follow signs to the west exit.

Direct flights from the US to Tokyo’s Narita airport are plentiful. Some of the best deals are with American Airlines, United and Japan Airlines. The Narita Express train stops at Shibuya station.

About the author:
Tim Roberts is a perpetual traveler, passionate about food and what it says about the people who make and enjoy it. Born near London, England, he has pledged to spend as little time in his home country as possible, and would willingly go anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice.

All photos are by Tim Roberts.

Old Malacca Town: Malaysia’s Historic City

by Chris Millikan

A fugitive Sumatran prince established Malaysia’s first sultanate in Malacca during the 1400’s…and as it turned out, he’d recognized a good thing when he saw it!

Very quickly, his sleepy seaside-fishing village developed into a prosperous cosmopolitan port, changing hands again and again over time. The Portuguese, Dutch and British all took turns battling for control, each colonizing this strategic seaport on Malacca’s Straits. With a group of lively friends, my husband and I explore some extraordinary legacies left behind.

Our day trip into Malaysia’s oldest city starts off with an early morning boat ride along the narrow channel dividing modern Malacca from picturesque old town. From our sunny seats up on the bow, we’re reminded that countless generations have lived in this long-established river settlement.

Dutch-era Heerin House remains near the jetty, low, elongated and parading its original tinted-glass windows. Scarlet and purple bougainvillea splash colour onto timeworn homes; fresh laundry dances in wafting breezes. Fishermen patiently mend tattered nets aboard cluttered traditional boats, women and children wave from weathered verandas; meter-long monitor lizards bask on doorsteps and paddle lazily under crumbling shaded porches; mudskippers flip and skitter in muddy shallows. I can only think that, Sean Connery himself must have appreciated this timeless charm when filming Entrapment along this pretty waterway…

Here and there along the way some derelict houses have been replaced. Renovated buildings have sprung up, sparkling with fresh yellow, pale tangerine or blue paint trimmed in bright white. Within a few years, more heritage-style housing and tidy brick walkway gardens could transform this nostalgic shantytown into a Little Amsterdam.

Not far from the wharf, Dutch Square’s historic streets are perfect for strolling. Some pay a few ringgits to have ‘kings of the road’ pedal them throughout old town in gaily-decorated trishaws blaring pop music! But we opt to stroll and wander…

Across the small square a beautiful Hindu wedding ceremony had just ended. Dressed in magnificent crimson and gold silk, the bride walked toward red-walled Stadhuys-town hall with her handsome white-clad groom for photos out front. Settling cozily into their own special marriage trishaw bedecked with red flowers, the young couple smiled graciously, posing agreeably. As they were pedaled off into a bright future, we call out warm wishes from Canada…

Originally elegant residences for Dutch Governors, the town hall still shows off its immense wooden doors with wrought-iron hinges, louvered windows and startling red walls. Nowadays several museums share the spacious interior, exhibiting cultural artifacts that include fabrics and traditional clothing.

The Dutch Reformed Church dominates this square. Special pink bricks had been originally brought from Holland in1751 and are now plastered over with local red laterite. Single trees provided its eight-foot ceiling beams without joints; the original handmade pews have been used for years. Beautiful glazed tiles portray The Last Supper…and the brass Bible stand dates to 1773. Later transformed into Christ Church Anglican, the British added the bell tower and weathercock but left the decorated Dutch tombstones embedded in the floor.

Climbing atop Saint Paul’s hill just behind the square, we soak up splendid panoramic city-views from the roofless ruin of Saint Paul’s Church, built in 1521 by a Portuguese sea captain. Later a burial ground for Dutch nobility, aged tombstones lean upright against thick walls. Over 400 years ago, a much-visited open grave there had briefly enshrined St. Francis Xavier, a pioneering missionary; today, a commemorative white marble statue gazes perpetually over the renowned Straits instead.

Flowerbeds border pathways winding gently downward to A’Famosa and Porta de Santiago from 1511, remnants of Malacca’s once mighty Portuguese fortress. Nearby, a reconstructed Malay palace representing the earliest Sultanate in 1456 houses Muzium Budaya, a fine cultural museum. Down the block along the river, a replica of a 16th-century Portuguese galleon hosts the Maritime Museum, highlighting a turbulent history from the 14th-century to Malaysian independence in 1957.

Along Heeron Street, fondly called Millionaire’s Row, the Baba-Nyonya Heritage Museum memorializes lives of wealthy Straits-born Chinese. Our young guide delights us with stories illustrating their old ways; slowly whirling ceiling fans cool the late afternoon air…

“The great-great grandchildren of Chen merchants own this 107 year-old-mansion, three lavish townhouses merged together. Adoption of the Malay culture led to distinctive fusions in language, furnishings, foods and clothing, common in Baba-houses like this one,” she explained. “For example, prized silverware blended Chinese and Islamic designs.” She unveils this hybrid lifestyle, pointing out hand-painted silk wall hangings from China, intricately carved fittings finished with gold leaf, elaborate wine-red brocade drapes and lacquered wedding baskets.

Priceless heirlooms dazzle as we trail through wide hallways paneled with polished hardwoods and rooms with secret peepholes for scrutinizing visitors at the door…or even spying on husbands coming home late! We climb up and down wooden stairways constructed without nails and finally into cool, restful tiled courtyards filled with greenery. In the pantry, I whisper, “I especially love these ceramic dishes…they were made in China, exclusively for this family.” The guide smiles, “Blues, yellows, greens and pinks are typical of this blended culture.”

In Chinatown, we wind along Harmony Street and into Blacksmith Street where aged smithies continue their dying trade. A family on Goldsmith Street still custom-makes miniature beaded slippers in beautiful fabrics…specializing in antique ‘bound feet’ shoes, so remarkably tiny. “Now…verrrry expensive collector’s items,” beams the proprietor.

Along nearby Temple Street, three of Malaysia’s oldest religious sites co-exist within two blocks. Elaborate mythical animals and flowers in porcelain ornament the Temple of the Evergreen Clouds; golden lions guard Cheng Hoon Teng, a Chinese temple from 1645. A Muslim mosque built Sumatran-style in1728, Kampung Kling features a pagoda rather than a minaret. And since the 15th-century, the Hindu community has managed Sri Pogyatha Temple. There, an elderly priest in simple regalia, chest bare and face chalked with intricate blue designs invites us to a rare glimpse of an interior altar in the cool, quiet prayer room. We are permitted to photograph a small, spotlighted elephant god backed by blue and red tiles, its ancient arms folded.

In Portuguese Square, we feast on succulent seafood and spicy vegetables prepared from ages-old recipes before making our way to popular night markets along Jonkers Street. Fondly known as second-class gentleman’s street, many shops, galleries, cafes and itinerant hawker stalls have traded here in junk since the Dutch ruled Malacca. Countless items charm the curious: beaded purses with golden chains, bejeweled brooches; odd bits of furniture and painted blue tiles. The narrow, delicately engraved silver belt that I buy for such a good price would please my daughter back home…

All along Jonker’s Walk the warm night buzzes with laughter and friendly bargaining for curios; palm readers chart surprising futures for passersby and in little cafes, elderly karaoke stars belt out local hits for appreciative audiences sipping cups of tea. Yellow and pink lights lend a magical elegance to aging facades adorning timeless shop-houses…

Buying and selling spices, silks, exotic perfumes, teas and tobacco once transformed an early fishing village into this vigorous commercial center. Old Malacca continues actively trading, except nowadays barters her past glories, rich heritage and unique culture to intrigued travelers like us.

Private Tour: Historical Malacca Full-Day Tour from Kuala Lumpur including Lunch

If You Go:

For more travel details visit the Malaysia Travel website

About the author:
A retired Elementary School Principal living in Delta, BC, Chris Millikan enjoys traveling the province and the world with husband Rick. She shares her travel tales with others in local newspapers and magazines. Experiencing zany, off the beaten track, historical and cultural adventures for many years, she looks forward to introducing Willamina, her first grandchild, to the wonders of travel.

Photo credits:
First Malacca Bandar Hilir roundabout photo by Siti Rahmanah Mat Daud on Unsplash
All other photographs by Rick & Chris Millikan.