The Jurassic Park in Jaisalmer

This is the city of the golden fort. A city which looks like something out of the Arabian Nights when the sun goes down and the lights come on.

Before two centuries it was an outpost on the Silk Route hosting caravans of camels laden with silks and gold, then the world discovered the sea route and the rest is modern history.

I found the ancient history even more fascinating.

A billion years ago, this land was under the sea. It was raised by the Indian tectonic plate colliding with the Asian plate. Then it was a verdant forest with tall trees and carnivorous dinosaurs.

And no-this is not a bed time story I used to tell the kids (actually it was-I fed them lots of history and geography through bed time stories before they started suspecting what I was doing); but this is a story borne out by scientific evidence: footprints in the sand-literally and a treasure trove of fossils.

Or rather, what once a treasure trove of fossils.

Now it is a sad story of neglect, of our disdain for history.

“Yahan koi fossil park hai?”

The travel desk guy at our hotel was surprised as I insisted that is where we wanted to go.

"Maybe, it’s closed down." Kid 1 quipped hopefully.

“Oh-Akal park. Wahan koi nahin jaata. Aap Sam dekh ke aayee na..” The guard tried to help.

No, we wanted to go the fossil park. Didn’t he understand how unique it was to walk through the evidence of a billion-year-old forest in the middle of the Thar desert?

He was unimpressed and advised us to take an auto-because it was close to the hotel.

The auto driver tried to talk us into a guided ‘city-tour’ instead.

My kids and husband looked at me with the unspoken “Where are we going?” look, especially after directions for 'Child Beer.'

On reaching, we realized why everyone was giving us those puzzled looks when we mentioned the fossil park.

Despite the battered board of grand intentions, it was just one desolate ruin.

When I had visited the place as a college student-we had felt like geologists on a treasure hunt.

Unfortunately, so had all others who visited after us and picked up the priceless evidence the way people cram their pockets with shells on a beach, to sell them as trinkets to tourists, or just leave it in the hotel trash bin once the novelty wears off.

A pair of disheveled, disgruntled Emus who greeted us where the closest to the T-rex we got.

Some pieces of crumbling fossilized logs were caged-too little done and too late to save them. 

They would have been safe from burglars anyway; exposed to the extreme elements of nature, they too wouldn’t be around much longer.

The kids made up their own stories and clicked pictures to help me get over my sheer disappointment.

On a trip to Europe, I had walked through glossily marketed palaces displaying ceramics and lace turning up my nose in disdain. Back home we had more history in every street!

Now I was awed by how much effort and care they had put in to preserve even the cutlery and linen. Here, we let the vandals just walk away with something over a billion years old!

Getting lost in Turtuk

My family goes mad every time I lose things. Especially my purse-wallet-keys which always go wandering and hiding in the strangest of places. Now that the girls keep taking me in charge they find it all the more frustrating.

It is probably sheer coincidence-or the fact that we have mirror personalities, the my elder one has to face more of these situations. I lose, and she was to bear with me.

And then she got lost with me-in Turtuk. A dot in the map of Ladakh. A breath-taking dot no doubt-but one at the remotest end of the country. One squeezed in between the world’s most formidable mountain (K2), the highest conflict zone in the world (Siachen) and the Shyok river (literal meaning-river of death).

Anyone would stop noticing the beauty and start panicking. Did I forget to mention that only some mobile networks work here (airtel and bsnl postpaids-we had neither) and they work only at some times?

How it happened:

When we entered the village, we were full of excitement.

After walking a long way through the mesmerizing views, I was done. I was anyway not at my best at this altitude with my asthma issues, and then the chill in the air and the long walk sapped me completely.

Most villagers we spoke to, said the best way to go back was using the same way we had hiked in.

No way, I would not do it. There had to be a shorter way!

A farmer pointed the opposite way-near the end of the slope. There are stairs there. They’ll take you straight down to the highway.

But our car and driver were where we had left them-near the bridge to the village. I insisted that my husband could go and get them till the highway, and I would take the shortcut and meet them there.

He tried to convince me to go back the known way-I insisted on using the new one. So he and the younger kid went back the long way. The elder one stayed behind to keep me safe and we walked towards the short-cut.

It was a straight, vertical walk down the rubble!

There was no way I could have walked down in my city shoes, I couldn’t even slide down and take the risk of ending up in Shyok. And of course, I couldn’t take my kid that way-even if she is a much better hiker than me.

So, we walked back-almost ran-to catch up with the other half of the family.

We couldn’t make it in time!

So now it was two of us at one end wondering where the car would be; and two in the car just finding out that there were multiple stairs leading down the mountain, and there was no way of predicting which one we would be using.

The kid was ballistic ( I know how it feels): This one time you don’t have a phone to lose- so you go and lose me instead!

There were no phones, but there were lots of helpful travelers. 

I requested each of them to inform the white Innova with number XXXX where we were waiting.

The last resort would have been to keep walking down the highway, hoping that somewhere, sometime, we'll spot our family.

It took another twenty minutes for the car to reach us. 

For some time we were all silent with the simmering tension, and then immensely thankful. 

It was quite a few hours before we could laugh about it.

Turtuk Village

This post is not about Rajasthan.

It is about the most remote and the most picturesque village I have been to.

Turtuk at the northern most tip of our country. 

The valley which was once a part of the silk route, lies in the shadow of the mighty K2 and the formidable Siachen. 

It is flanked on one side by the jeweled waters of the River Shyok, which originates in China, crosses India and flows into Pakistan.

The pristine beauty

The stairway to this unique village.

The cafe which offers the traditional with the continental has this helpful map for visitors.

This is a family trying to preserve their heritage by turning their home into a museum.

This village is known for its unique natural freezers- Tiny basement closets dug into barren earth and sealed with stones-used to preserve food for a long time. 

And no, this part of the valley is not as cold as some other parts of Ladakh where you can freeze naturally, just standing in the open.

And then there are kids like all other kids, indifferent to the amazing views, sulking after their mom yelled at them.

It is blessed by nature-and cursed by its geography too.

It was occupied by Pakistan in 1947 and claimed by India in 1971.

Both times, families were split forever. Parents on one side and children and grandchildren on both sides. 

I heard the poignant story of a girl who had come to her parent’s house for giving birth to her first child. Her husband was in the Pakistani Army. They never met again. For years they tried keeping in touch through letters and then she got her divorce in a letter. Even now, Internet and mobile signals are a luxury (even before the lockdown) so those who were lost, have given up hope of meeting.

The army takes over after a point. But a young boy who had hitched a ride with us claimed he and his friend had once managed to sneak in closer to the border-Wahan se Pakistan ka gaon dikhta hai. Hamare gaon jaise he lagta hai.

There are things like this school which continues with the same intentions that give us hope for the future.

While the kids are just glad school is over for the day.

Bullet Baba's Mandir

Got the chance to sift through a few old photos. Here is one of the hundreds of interesting spots that dot the dusty, vibrant highways of Rajasthan.

There were four of us college friends in a cab, travelling from Jaipur, to meet another classmate in Jodhpur. The conversation inevitably kept turning to our old memories of travelling on the same route and all the fun and adventures we had.

I was travelling on this route after around twenty years. Yeah, that’s almost a lifetime (and it gives away my age ☹). The double-laned highways had become six-laned and now zoomed over village crossings where earlier we had to wait for herds of buffaloes or marriage processions to pass.

But if you looked closely enough, nothing much had changed. Everyone now carried mobile phones, but they traveled pretty much the same way.

The ‘gorbandh’ used to decorate (and probably differentiate) cattle and camels were still sold at every pitstop for travellers-they just tie them to their bikes and tractors now.

There was one place where we had to stop and let the crowd go.

“What happened, is there some mela here?”

“This is Bullet Baba’s mandir. It is always crowded.” 
The driver was not a very talkative guy and probably irritated listening to us talking all the way.

“What’s that?”

“You don’t know?” He was aghast at us behaving like firangs. “You can read it up on google.”

I did.

This is a temple where they worship a Bullet Motor Cycle!

If we could worship stones and animals for centuries, then why not bikes in this age?

According to the legend a person called Om Banna, riding his Enfield Bullet crashed into a tree here and died. The police registered a case and kept his bike in the local ‘thana’, but the bike went missing and came back to this spot, probably looking for its rider.

This happened repeatedly, even when the bike was chained and emptied of petrol.

When such things happen, the police backs off and the folklore takes over.

The travelers, not sure of who exactly to pray to, decided to hedge their bets and started worshiping both the bike and the tree for their own safety (thus creating another traffic nightmare on a national highway).

Our driver touched his forehead fervently and prayed for his own safety in the company of the women chattering non-stop, and picked his way out of the crowd carefully.

Mandore-Another trip to the past

I have been feeling low since yesterday in spite of keeping extremely busy and doing and saying everything to stay positive.

I even thought of not writing and just staying with my thoughts.

My thoughts took me to another time I was sad about missing Sankrant in Jaipur-the first year of college, and since there were many of us missing home, we decided to do something about it and the day-scholar friends decided to take us out to celebrate, Jodhpur style.

They procured the kites and spools the Charkhis and we drove to Mandore for the open spaces.

Mandore is the old city. It was abandoned after multiple attacks convinced Rao Jodha to build Mehrangarh and the city of Jodhpur at a more strategic location.

Mandore is mainly known for its well-preserved palace gardens, a picnic spot for locals and a place to click pictures of beautifully sculpted cenotaphs/chatris for the tourists.

It was once more famous as Mandodri’s maika, her parental home and Ravana’s sasural. Jodhpur to Sri Lanka must have been quite a distance in that age. Ravana had a private plane so commuting might have been still ok, but I wonder how they coped with the cultural differences.

Ravana probably spent quite some time here (before he got embroiled in the Ayodhya controversaries) because this place still echoes with the music of the instrument he invented-the Ravanhatha. 

The war would have destroyed everything in his Golden Lanka, but the strings of the Ravanhatha continue to make their music.

That was pretty commonplace for us.

We preferred listening to Shah Rukh Khan singing on blasting car stereos and of course flying kites in that vast open space.

Once we were ready to go back, one of the local guys insisted that we could not go without tasting the ‘chunti ki chakki’. Nobody would have noticed the badly-lit shop set in the crevices of the thick stone walls of the fort, where you had to stoop to enter. A girl had to go and make the purchase. The owner was probably as old as the crumbling fort. “He doesn’t sell his sweets to tourists and boys.” He was nice to me even though I was not a local and added a few extra grams.

Years later, I went back with my husband and kids. Not to fly kites but to buy the ‘chakki’. I wondered if that uncleji would be there or if even the shop was still standing.

It wasn’t difficult to find it this time. It was bigger, had tube lights and a proper door. No signboard still, but everyone knew of it. There was a different shopkeeper-polite, courteous, and who let anyone buy his sweets. The chakki tasted the same, but I didn’t have the heart to ask about uncleji.

Thankfully, there wasn’t much else that had changed in the ten years. The chatris were well preserved and the gardens were not so crowded. This time, I stopped to listen to the guys in matted white kurtas and colourful turbans playing the Ravanhatha.

Going back does that to you.

(all pics from Wikipedia, I don't have my photos from college days)

A Sky full of Kites

If you have a friend who grew up in Jaipur, you would have probably heard these stories for many years.

It is the day we miss home.

The kite-flying day.

It is the day we miss our sun-soaked terraces and the nip of winter breeze that lifted the kites as high as the aeroplanes (that was the target anyway). The day we miss the open spaces and the camaraderie of a thousand bits of paper intermingling in the skies, falling down, being chased like trophies, and carefully restored with homemade glue to fly again.

This is was the day in the sun. Thousands of kids (and much, much older kids) stayed up the previous night, tying the ‘tan’-the thread tied in a triangle to ensure the best flying angle for the kites. We lived on the terrace all day, eating pakoras in the deafening noise from a hundred loudspeakers and yet too focussed on that tiny coloured rhombus in the sky to hear anything. And when the sun went down, and the kite could no longer be seen, we flew them with candles.

We came down only when the chill of the evening reminded us that it was still January (or moms made us come down threatening us with all sorts of dire consequences). And then we fell asleep with aching limbs, leaping in our dreams to catch the falling kites.

There was so much science behind mending a kite, shredding non-repairable ones to fix others, tying the ‘tan’, the calculation behind the proportion of the different strings the maanja and sadda to be used, the dynamics of pulling the string at the right speed to cut through another and of course trying to run faster than the wind while estimating where the fallen kite will fall and to catch it before the others.

There was so much passion. The kites had names depending on the patterns and the colours. You would starve, stay parched, and not go to the loo for hours, for the thrill of feeling the kite tug the string through your fingers.  You could be clobbered for letting a favourite kite get sniped. And catching a falling kite was worth bruises and knocks and at times even broken bones.

You think that’s crazy for a flimsy bit of coloured paper? Spend 14^th January on a terrace in Jaipur!

The Ghost VIllage

Why would I want to restart travel stories with a haunted village?

Because it is one of the most unique places I have visited.

Built of the same golden sandstone as the city of Jaisalmer, the abandoned village of Kuldhara is only a few hours drive away. I wish Ray had visited this hamlet too-he might have found a more interesting story than he found in the Shonar Kella.

The Place:
It doesn’t look like a village from present times-more like a planned township. The houses are not very different from those in many small towns or ‘villas’ of current metros, apart from the golden sandstone.

Straight, parallel and perpendicular streets, plots of almost equal sizes, could not see any evidence of streetlights or parking (or posts to tie animals), but there were drains. The temples are the most well preserved, except that there is no deity inside and bells never ring.

The houses had 2-3 rooms on the ground floor, kitchens with stone shelves and notches for utensils and stairs leading up to the terrace. A few had broken town 2^nd storeys but mostly they had a flat terrace with boundary walls. The kind where families dry the laundry, spread out the fruit before pickling, and stretch out on charpoys under the winter sun or fly kites.

The only difference is there is nobody here.

The entire town was abandoned overnight three hundred years ago, and nobody wanted to live here again.

The History:

The town is full of stone inscriptions. (No risk of hard drives crashing and google threatening your online storage). 

This area has the Mughal practice of building ‘chatris’ (cenotaphs) and along with the inscriptions they tell the stories of the village-the people were like those in any other Indian village of those times. Mostly farmers, some traders, musicians and craftsmen.

According to the inscriptions-Brahmin families from Pali migrated here in the early 1300s.  They wore clothes similar to those worn in other villages of Rajasthan even today. They carried daggers with them.

They scrimped and scavenged for water. They built stepwells and mudbanks, but the water just wasn’t enough. They started dwindling in number and then they vanished.

The Legend:

Even though crops were suffering their taxes kept rising. (Sounds familiar?)

Then Salim Singh (helpfully pronounced Zalim Singh by the local storytellers), the minister of Jaisalmer claimed a girl from the village.

Her family begged him to wait for one night. By morning, 1500 people had disappeared leaving behind no clue, just a curse that none will be able to survive in the homes they were leaving behind.

In a country, where everything from palaces and pavements are encroached upon, nobody lives in these houses even now.

The government has built roads and is trying to build cottages to entice tourists with the novelty of spending a night with the ghosts. The villagers add more spice to the stories to keep the travellers coming.

As to the people who disappeared; historians point to dying water resources and probably an earthquake. But no one can say for sure.

The village where I come from

How can we say for sure where a person has come from? And no, I am not talking of the last 70 years. That’s a tiny span of time since humans started immigrating.

DNA mapping and the study of languages show that humans have been immigrating right from the time they existed on this planet. There are some very interesting maps and timelines to show how we spread all over the globe from one tiny speck on the map. And of course, then there are the stories and legends and history and interpretations.

This is what I have re-constructed from what I read and heard about the valley my mom’s, dad’s side of family came from. After Africa, one early branch of humans reached what is known the Indian subcontinent (they came without documentation, but there were no countries back then so we can’t call their immigration illegal). They took a coastal route but manage to cover the country and reach the now Assam-Bangladesh region. Then there were some who moved northwards first, reached the Steppes and then walked eastwards, crossed the North-Indian planes and reached the same area. 

There was no religion back then, but I am assuming they started by worshiping nature and were later Hindus by default. Then came the kings and this land was a part of multiple kingdoms at different points of time. From the known history of the region, we know it was first ruled by Hindu and Buddhist rulers, and then by the Delhi Sultanate, followed by the Bengal Sultanate and then petty rulers of Afghan descent. Islam came here through rulers and Pirs. Masses changed their Gods and their names, but their lives continued to revolve around farming and fishing. 

During one of the phases when the Hindu ruler of Tripura conquered this area, he imported Brahmins from Bengal to change the religious matrix. I guess they would be considered legal migrants by the rulers. Don’t know how the local population felt because the history was written mostly by the rulers.

Now I don’t know which branch of migrants my ancestors belonged to.

What I know is that their homes were a part of East Bengal when the British sliced up the Bengal based on religion. Then they were a part of Assam when the British transferred the district to balance revenues of provinces. Then the district was transferred to East Pakistan in 1947, which later became Bangladesh in 1971, because of religion (and because Assam wasn’t too keen on retaining a slice of Bengal). But a tiny sliver of the valley remained in Assam because of the geographical boundary.

Thousands, who had no role to play in this game of power, were forced to move from one side of the river to another based on their religion. They left behind their homes, their lands and their history and became immigrants once again.

Andaman Travel Notes

When you grow up on the fringes of a desert, water all around seems to be a fascinating phenomenon. Visiting Andamans was thus on the bucket list for a long time. Finally made it, but it was a very short trip to do justice to all the information I had gathered. Sharing the pointers so that they can be used again and again.

Since it is an archipelago of tiny, unique islands, you need to decide which islands you want to visit, then check out ferry timings and plan accordingly.

Package vs DIY Holiday-Book a package with local transport if you are travelling with babies or senior citizens. Autos are easy to find and quite reasonable in Port Blair (much easier than Delhi or Bangalore). Most hotels can be booked online and there are quite a lot of guest houses and homestays.

Data connectivity was almost non-existent and even hotel internet connectivity is mostly unreliable. Download all important information and do online bookings before you leave. You may end up paying cash at times because even card payments get stuck due to Internet. Fortunately, there are enough ATMs in Port Blair and Havelock.

Places

Port Blair-needs to covered because it is the entry point.

Must do: Visits to the Cellular Jail, once before 5 pm to see the structure and then after sunset for the Sound and Light show (tickets available online at https://www.andamantourism.gov.in/etourist/)

Note: The Hindi show is better than the English one.

Nice to do: Walk down the Marina Park, Watch the sunset from Marina Park or Chidiya Tapu

If you have more time:

Ross Island (Colonial era building and churches) and Jolly Bouy islands (Coral reefs seen through glass bottom boats. You need a permit for this island and hence advance planning will help); There are lots of local travel agents in the city who book ferry tickets and help with permits. Out hotel travel desk was dysfunctional, so we wasted a lot of time. Check if your hotel/guest house/travel agent before you start -it will save a lot of time and hassle while on your holiday.

Note: All museums, Marine Parks, Entry to Jolly Bouy etc are closed on Mondays

·      Havelock (It’s now Shaheed Island): Pristine beaches with silver sands and a gentle aquamarine sea. Options for diving, snorkeling, sea-walk among corals, long bike rides winding through lush forests, trekking through mangroves or just sitting in a quiet cove and watching the sun paint the sky and the sea with streaks of pink and gold.

Note: Stay at Barefoot @Radha Nagar beach if you want a serene, picturesque holiday; @Dive India or others near Govind Nagar if you want a more activity filled one. Radha Nagar beach is more scenic but also quiet and isolated.

These were the places we missed, but hopefully will cover another time:

Neil Island: Ideal for bike rides, trekking up the natural rock bridge, snorkeling and scuba diving. Connected by Ferry from Port Blair and Havelock.

Baratung: Limestone caves and a drive to the near-extinct volcano-can be covered from Port Blair.

Inter-Island Transport is the key factor you need to plan your holiday around

There are only a few ferries between the islands so it’s best to book these in advance and plan the rest of the activities around them. (Just don’t have a heavy meal just before boarding one.)

Government Ferry: It’s slow, but efficient and cost-effective; causes minimum sea-sickness and you meet more people. Flip-side: tickets need to be booked physically at the ‘STARS' counters located at Phoenix Bay Jetty, managed by the Directorate of Shipping Services, 3-4 days in advance and are often pre-booked in bulk by local travel agents.

Makruzz: A high speed catamaran ride. Pros: Fastest option, managed efficiently, comfortable, spacious seating in air-conditioned decks. Can be booked online (http://www.makruzz.com/site/) Cons: It can be a choppy ride, especially on a windy day. Saw too many people puking around us.

Green Ocean: I guess this is the in-between option. Fast yet comfortable, one of the boats has an option of letting you come on the deck for a breather and of course the experience. Online bookings are possible (http://greenoceanseaways.com/)

There were some more private ferries which our auto-wallah insisted were faster and cheaper but we weren’t adventures enough to explore them.

Clothing-It was hot in January, the sun-burn blisters kind of hot so arm yourself with long-sleeved clothes, hats and sunscreen for all day. And long-pants to wars off the mosquitos after sundown.

Language-A combination of English and Hindi is sufficient. If you know Bengali and Tamil you can converse with practically every islander. (The Jarawas and the Sentilese will probably not talk to you anyway).

Shopping-Didn’t find anything unique which I wouldn’t find on mainland so didn’t explore beyond a cursory look at a few souvenir shops.

Our Itinerary:

Day 1: Port Blair

 8.30 am flight from Bangalore. Reached Port Blair around 11.00 am. Checked in and had lunch. We stayed at Megapode Nest-has a great location and views, but that wasn’t of much use since we were out most of the time. Bad service, hence won’t recommend.

2.00-4.00 pm: Explored Port Blair in an auto-visited the Jetty’s, booked ferry tickets and walked though Aberdeen Bazaar

4.00-5.00 pm: Cellular Jail

5.00-7.00 pm: Watched the sunset from Marina Park, generally lounged around

7.00-8.00 pm: Sound and light show @Cellular Jail

Dinner @Ananda-supposed to be on of the better restaurants. Found it ok-ok; Back to hotel.

Day 2: Port Blair to Havelock

Left for Haddo Jetty to catch ferry after a lazy breakfast at the hotel. Our ferry was at 12.30 and they told us to report and hour earlier and we listened to them ☹. I guess reaching 20-30 min earlier would have been sufficient. Ferry was slightly delayed as they waited for other boats to clear the Jetty. Reached Havelock at 3.45 pm. Had lunch at the Barefoot shack right at the jetty and then took an auto to the hotel. Reached by 5.30 pm but missed the sunset @Radhanagar beach-it sets much earlier here. Hung around the beach still but retired to our room early as there isn’t much to do here after dark.

Day 3: Havelock Beach Hopping

We rented a scooty (two-wheeler rental shops are everywhere) and drove to the harbor. Took a boat to Elephant beach-not possible to drive to it because of mangroves. The other option to reach there is a guided trek but we didn’t have that much time. Elephant beach is tiny but buzzing with activity. Besides the usual water-scooters and banana boats it is snorkeling and sea-walk through corals are the main attractions.

Our boat had to return early because of bad weather-seems to be a usual occurrence.

We drove around Govind Nagar area-most of the hotels and resorts are in this area. Had a good lunch @The Full Moon Café. Saw Kala Pathar beach and came back to Radhanagar.

Day 4: Havelock to Bangalore

12 hours of travel using all means of transport:

Taxi to harbor->Ferry to Port Blair->Auto to Anthropological museum and Brewberry’s Café->Walk to the Airport->Flight to Bangalore-> Airport Bus to home

(Excuse the choppy writing-working on too many ERP implementation courses at the moment)

Suggestions:

Add one or two more days to Havelock and explore Neil Island.

Add one more day to Port Blair on the return journey-explore Baratung caves or just chill before you come back to the mainland.

I wanted to add pictures to the post but that may take some weeks, so posting it right away.

Wayanad-Day 2

(Continued after a long gap from previous the post) 

The Plan: We had decided to go to the hotel first because we were closer to Kuruvadweep, check out the interesting places nearby and go for trekking up the Edakkal caves the next day.

Reality Check 1: Since I belong to the generation which still believes in verifying googled information by asking people-we checked with the hotel manager about our proposed route. He discouraged us strongly from taking the shorter route so we ended up taking the more popular but longer route-through Sultan Bathery.

Reality Check 2: I am a map freak. GPS notwithstanding I had downloaded and customized a route map beforehand and got really upset to know it was left behind at home. 

My elder daughter took over immediately-she is sometimes the wisest one in the family-“Mom, that map is in Bangalore; we’ll manage without it. Tell me what you want” -searched online and drew the one I needed, at the breakfast table:

The first part of the drive was lovely-an empty road meandering through shrubbery which became denser as we drove into it, merging into the Muthunga section of the Bandipur reserve. 

A few hundred miles out of the concrete city and it is another world. Once you get used to the quiet you hear a noise of a different kind-monkeys chattering across the bushes, the dry grass crackling under their legs, a constant hum of the cicadas which almost reaches as a crescendo as you stand still.  There weren’t any tigers to spot-never seen one in the entire Bandipur-Nagarhole region but yes monkeys and deer and a few elephants braving the summer heat to hunt for fodder. 




A giant Malabar squirrel dashed across the road as the forest thinned out and we drove right into a Kerala police check-post! 

Thanks to friends who traveled the road before, we had the PUC ready. But  the bigger issue was alcohol. 

Kerala had prohibition when we visited-sale, purchase and transit of any form of alcohol was banned and the police carried out the most rigorous searches I had seen-the group in a car in front of us was asked to alight; all their bags were searched and the police were trying to check under the seats and probably under the mats too. 

They didn’t have sniffer dogs-so we were not searched that thoroughly-my husband was just ‘warned’-“Any liquor Sir, and you will have to go to JAIL”

BTW: The longest queue we saw in Wayanad, around 50+ people standing in a drizzle was outside a toddy shop –but I guess that’s another story.

PS: Prohibition has been withdrawn since then, probably because drinking stats actually went up while the state lost the taxes. It still makes sense to check rather than go to jail!