A taste of Mallorca

As the plane floats gently downwards through the blanket of mist that is covering the island on this chilly spring morning I feel a rush of excitement at the prospect of finally getting to explore Mallorca. My parents had honeymooned here, my wife had worked here on and off for years, most of my friends had holidayed here and yet this was my first time.
               Landing at Palma, we headed into town passing the distinctively colourful windmills that dot the island’s landscape, some appearing brand new others seemingly about to fall apart with the next significant gust of wind. The fog has already lifted revealing a sunny but cold morning. Palma is still sleeping as we creep into our hotel, an old 16^th century palace located right in the heart of the city.
               Nearby we find a small cafe and settle for breakfast.  The place is decorated with huge oil paintings set on walls painted a deep red. Smartly dressed waiters move briskly from table to table and we sink into the extremely comfortable chairs of the cafe.
              Living in Barcelona we are familiar with ensaïmadas but those that we find here are truly something else.  The pastry of this quintessentially Mallorcan food is so light and moist that disappears as soon as you take a bite. It is delicious and sets us up perfectly for the day.   
                  Leaving the city we drive up to the island’s rugged coastline. Here cliffs plummet dramatically into the crystal blue waters of the Mediterranean and the roads wind slowly from village to village, usually congested with tourist buses packed with visitors from Germany and the UK. We stop off at Deia and scramble up to the tiny church located at the top of the hill there. It is a peaceful spot, the only noise the gentle clinking of the bells from the goats in the fields below. Enjoying the tranquillity, we spot the final resting place of Robert Graves, the famous English author who made this tiny Mallorcan village his home.  
           Lunch is taken at Fornalutx in a restaurant overlooking the mountains. Here we opt for the suckling pig and frito mallorquin – a rich but tasty mix of fried liver, kidneys, potatoes and pepper.
              We then descend back to the island’s central plain. The drive takes us past village after village of whitewashed walls and the green shuttered windows so typical of the landscape here. The houses picturesquely framed by the bright hues of pink and violet bougainvilleas.
               We stop off at the small town of Petra in the centre of the island and dine at a cavernous restaurant located in an old cellar. The place is full of local families all enjoying a relaxing meal and there is not a single tourist in sight. Again the food is remarkably good.  I choose tumbet which is made up of aubergines, peppers, potatoes and tomatoes fried with garlic and parsley. As with most food here it is extremely rich, but equally tasty.
   
We decide to head for the East coast to finish the day with a relaxing stroll around the beautiful Cala Figueres.  Calas are narrow inlets where the sea’s turquoise waters can reach far into land and this one has to be one of Mallorca best. It is delightful to amble around, listening to the fishermen chat whilst repairing their nets and the water laps up around the brightly coloured boats.  

Heading back to Palma, we discuss what else this many-faceted island could have in store for us tomorrow.

               

Cooking up a treat in magical Udaipur

Early morning at the Sunrise

The lassies were fine, the chapattis were great but it was the pakora that really convinced us. A scrumptious blend of sweet onions, red chillies, courgettes and potatoes, delicately fried in a batter of gram flour.  During our stay in Udaipur, breakfast at the Sunshine rooftop restaurant was a regular treat, setting us up to explore the narrow, winding streets of this enchanting lakeside town, deep in the heart of the blindingly colourful Indian state of Rajasthan.

The restaurant was no five star affair – plastic chairs, with fake marble table tops, propped up on concrete slabs, hastily whitewashed walls, all topped off with a potentially leaky, corrugated iron roof. They couldn’t even offer a view of the lake with its dazzling centrepiece, the beautiful Lake Palace hotel, perched on the Jagat Niwas Island but appearing to float in the midst of the lake’s shimmering waters. No, here it was clearly all about the food.

Yet how did they create such delights in such a rudimentary setting? My wife and I were determined to find out by enrolling on a cooking class with Shashi, the Sunshine’s charming and resourceful cook, who lives directly below the restaurant.  One sunny October afternoon we entered through faded yellow curtains into her living room, following her to an incredibly tiny kitchen where all the restaurants meals were prepared.

The class begins

“Welcome to the engine room!” she exclaimed with a bright smile that illuminated her worn but strikingly expressive face. Then she set off on a real master class in the arts of Indian cooking. A whirl of activity, she was soon producing ingredients from all corners of the cramped space around us. We tried to follow as she instructed us in the tasks of rolling the chapattis, mixing the spices and blending the sauces. As the sweat began to roll down our faces the kitchen slowly filled with unforgettably aromatic smells. Shashi watched and guided our every move, expertly demonstrating the use of a dizzying variety of steel utensils, laughing and joking as she encouraged us to meet her exacting standards.

A couple of hours of toil later and all was complete. We were amazed to have created a meal fit for a Raj. Vegetable pakoras with mint sauce, chapattis filled with tomato and cottage cheese, and all manner of spicy curries were eagerly transported to the dining room and set up on a low wooden table, ready for the feast.

With Shashi, mid-way through the feast

Shashi joined us as did her two sons, and we all tucked into an authentic North Indian  meal as good as any we had ever had, and incredibly, it was all created by Susanna and I, with a little help of course!  Over dinner Shashi told us many stories of her life in Udaipur, explaining how she had managed to establish the regular cooking classes that had become such a big hit with the streams of tourists that pass through town.

The meal over, we exchanged gifts. Shashi was delighted with her colourful Spanish bag while we received a spice tray and a sturdy pestle and mortar. Reluctantly departing, we stepped out into the chaotic streets of Udaipur, reflecting on the warmth of Indian hospitality and looking forward to another unbeatable Sunshine breakfast in the morning!

 

A day out in Old Dhaka

In a city of 16 million people it can be a hard commute into town from the suburbs. On our first day in Dhaka, my wife and I left our lodgings early in the morning only to be informed at the local station that the next available train would leave at 3pm! “Trains too busy”, the cashier informed us pointing to a passing locomotive packed with passengers clinging to the open doorways and crammed onto the roofs of the crumbling wagons. 

“We’ll have to get the bus then!”  I exclaim, looking at my wife in some relief at having avoided the overcrowded trains. Any feeling of contentment quickly subsides though as the equally packed bus stop comes into view. The buses are also full to bursting and without any timetables or destinations indicated outside we have to enlist the help of locals to find a connection to Old Dhaka.

1 hour of waiting later, our fellow commuters indicate the arrival of our bus. In Dhaka however, the buses don’t so much stop, but slow a little, meaning we both have to run and leap into the moving vehicle. Luckily there is a little space on board and we are amazed to even find a couple of seats at the back. We sit and watch the traffic sweep past outside the grimy windows. Buses here seem particularly unsafe, they are so dented and scratched that they have lost all shape and appear to be made more from papier-mâché than metal.

Finally things seem to be looking up soon we are almost in Old Dhaka. Suddenly though we hear an immense crash and both slide forwards into the seat in front. Another bus has slammed into the back of us and the journey will stop here. Other passengers seem unsurprised by the turn of events and calmly file out of the bus and start the long wait for a replacement. We decide to walk the rest of the way.

Another hour later and we manage to reach the labyrinthine streets of Old Dhaka. Seemingly free of western tourists the city is a fascinating mix of old bakeries selling exquisite pastries, tiny workshops making traditional clay pots and chaotic marketplaces selling everything from live chickens to intricately decorated gravestones. Weaving their way through all this are the colourfully painted cycle – rickshaws of which there are over 400,000 in Dhaka.

While in the city we take in the Ashan Manjil or the “Pink Palace” as it is more popularly known. Its shady gardens offer some respite from the heat and noise of the city. And from the airy, oak-panelled rooms of the palace we can enjoy some fabulous views of the much abused Buriganga River, covered by boats of all descriptions and sizes.

 

As the shadows behind the passing rickshaws begin to lengthen we decide the time has come to make our way home. Finding a bus stop however we find out that a “hartal” has been called. These general strikes are all too common here in Bangladesh and we will have to find an alternative way back. As night falls in the city we notice how ineffective the street lighting is, leaving many corners dangerously hidden in the gloom. Our pace quickens to try to find an available taxi, but all seem to be taken and the few that are free refuse to take journeys so far into the suburbs with the streets so jammed with traffic.  Suddenly we feel very isolated in these big crowds of people, desperate to get home. We clutch our bags tighter and search the streets for green vacant lights. Hours pass and then by some miracle a blue taxi pulls up nearby. We offer him a few rupees more than usual and he is only too happy to accept the fare. Much to our relief we jump in and slowly make our way through the crowds of traffic back to our hotel.

 

 

Tomb of tranquility

Delhi is not, generally speaking, a peaceful place. Zooming around the city cramped in the back of a beaten up green and yellow tuk-tuk is a truly hair-raising experience, like taking part in a metropolis-sized dodgem ride but without the bumpers for safety. Everything goes on the streets. Taking over inside or outside, u-turns where you please and traffic lights more for advice than for instruction. For the westerner pitched into this cauldron for the first time and used to, well, rules, it takes a while to adapt.

Thankfully though, Delhi rewards the persistent with enough hidden corners of peace and quiet to more or less maintain a traveler’s sanity during their trip. One of these, and for me the most memorable, is located inauspiciously a stone’s throw from the utter bedlam of Nizamuddin Station – Humayun’s tomb.

 

We visited late in the afternoon of our first full day in Asia, having been shaken by the culture shock of our arrival. Earlier we had been forced to duck into a packed MacDonalds restaurant to avoid the attentions of a team of touts who had followed us more or less directly after we had stepped out of our lodgings. Sensing our naivety, they stuck to us like glue until the fast food restaurant offered a chance of escape.

 

The Persian style gardens surrounding the tomb presented us with an immediate air of calm however. The sinking sun glowed off the red sandstone and pale marble of the tomb’s walls and gave the symmetrical gardens a beguiling atmosphere of shadowy silence. And where were the tourists? The place was empty but for prowling black cats and the birds that fluttered to and fro off the tomb’s perfectly proportioned dome.

 

In the midst of this tranquility my wife and I wandered down the sandy, ochre coloured path leading to the building. The only sound was the shuffling of our feet and the twinkle of water falling rhythmically into the fountain that ran the length of the path. Climbing the steps to the monument we could see the sun sink below the imposing entrance gate at the west of the site.

 

The monument, built in 1562, is the final resting place of the second Mughal Emperor of India, Humayun, a man famed for spending the great majority of his reign on the run from his foes. Inside we find various plain, marble tombs and beautifully decorated screens. Everything feels fresh and new, as if the mughals had just had to vacate the building the day before our visit.

 

As darkness enshrouds the gardens we manage to catch a glimpse behind the structure which backs on to a railway line and the Yamuna River. An old blue and yellow trains clanks past as we watch, full of commuters, some of which cling nonchalantly to the open doorways.

 

We leave the tomb satisfied at witnessing a true marvel of Delhi, an experience we would carry with us throughout our many Asian adventures to come.  

 

U Bein’s Bridge, Mandalay, Burma

We turn the corner of the final bend heading towards heading towards Taungthaman, the village at the side of the water. My wife and I shoo away the usual gathering of eager faces trying to persuade us to buy a whistle, bracelet or a colourful straw bag, we pay the driver and leave the tuk-tuk behind us.

 

 

 

 

The lake at first seems like any other in this part of Burma, but then we notice a difference. Stretching across the water is a bridge that seems to be floating above the surface of the lake.

Walking up the steps onto the first wooden slats of the bridge the heat of the day seems to melt away as a cool breeze greets us from across the water. A few steps further and we are greeted by smiling children who line the bridge in their distinctive green and white school uniforms. Some are fishing, others are reading battered looking textbooks and some just enjoying a good gossip in the peace of the late afternoon.

 

From the shore, the bridge seems fragile, as if a sudden gust of wind would blow it all up in the air like a pile of matchsticks. Up close however, the planks seem strong and permanent. The bleached teak, taken by mayor U-Bein from a disassembled palace 150 years ago, is almost white in colour and seems like stone. Here and there it is scribbled with curious graffiti, some phrases seeming ancient, others more modern.

 

As we walk further across the bridge a glowing red sun begins to sink below the hills in the distance beyond. The tops of old emaciated, leafless trees poke out from under the shallow waters of the lake and are silhouetted by the evening light. The waters here mostly disappear during the dry season leaving exposed the verdant green fields below and allowing the farmers to take profit of the rich soil beneath.

We catch sight of a small boast passing below, a blue and brown face painted awkwardly onto its bow. It is packed with monks and locals on their way to the monastery located at the far side of the bridge.  Some smile and wave as they pass, others idly dip their hands into the cool waters of the lake.

U Bein’s bridge is the longest of its kind in the world and we tire as we reach a small covered shelter. We sit for a while on the hard wooden beams and watch the people pass us by. The women are all brightly dressed wearing flower printed sarongs of the most striking colours, gold, deep blue, violet. Their faces are all daubed with thanaka, a yellowish paste made of ground bark, the make-up of choice for Burmese ladies. Some balance delicately on their heads baskets full of carefully wrapped bread or pastries.

We amble along the final stretch towards the island at the far end of the walkway and feel a sense of disappointment to be leaving this peaceful water world. With U-Bein’s Bridge the pleasure is all in the journey. We quickly turn round to enjoy another stroll.

There are two types of express coach to the Cameron Highlands

 

This can’t be right. The bus driver has his foot down on the accelerator, is wiping the sweat away from his forehead, yet traffic is passing us with ease. We appear to be almost going backwards! Wasn’t this supposed to be the luxury express bus from Kuala Lumpur to The Cameron Highlands? My wife looks across at me with a face of deep suspicion and the feeling grows that we have made one of those all too easily made travelling mishaps.

Sure the bus was a little ramshackle and rough around the edges but then again we had grown accustomed to transport like this during many summers of travel in Asia. Then there was also the lack of tourists onboard, just one sunburnt couple at the back, who were also bearing similar expressions of confusion mixed with a healthy dose of dread. The other passengers appeared to be almost all Malaysian workers, contentedly fast asleep in the faded pale green, slightly decaying ‘luxury’ seats.

A huge motorway sign saying ‘North’ confirms to us that at least we are going in the right direction. Clearly there is little we can do apart from sit back and enjoy the view as a continual procession of banana plantations slowly passes us by outside the coaches murky windows.

 Suddenly though, my wife leaps back in her seat.

“I saw something move!” She gasps.

I can’t see anything but she is scared stiff.

“There it goes again!”

I still can’t see anything. Then, I get a glimpse of a black blur racing across the top of one of the workmen’s identical dark grey hold-alls. I try to reassure her but to no avail.

As I turn my gaze back towards the window I notice 2 black eyes and a set of twirling antenna staring at me in the face. A big, rather curious looking cockroach is looking down at me from on top of the seat in front. We watch in distress as the bug races across the seat in front of us we ponder our limited options. The coach is full so we can’t move to another seat. Killing it would not be easy without inflicting damage on a fellow passenger. If we brush it away it would land on another passenger!

Luckily a sleeping Malaysian is woken by our alarm and, in order to be able to continue his snooze, calmly gets up, grabs a kleenex and squashes the offending insect in one swipe. Without so much as a satisfied grin he slumps back to sleep in his chair.

Our relief is short lived however as from under my chair emerge two more of the brutes. This time my wife digs into her bag for a last resort remedy. The expensive and deadly insect spray “Bloom” bought from our local supermarket.

“This will show them!” She exclaims as she sprays them both full blast with a potent hiss of spray.

Much to our despair though, this merely encourages them. Now we have a whole cockroach family gathered beneath us scurrying around with joy. 6 hours to our destination and we just have to hold on and hope for the best. 

Hours of continual bug vigilance later, we finally begin to climb the hills and begin our ascent to the Highlands. Darkness begins to surround the coach, more passengers board and we begin to rock dangerously around the steep precipices of mountainous central Malaysia. Having not seen a roach for some while we trust that they have become bored and decided to sneak back into the chassis of the coach. It gets darker and to our further astonishment we realise that there are no functioning lights inside the coach. All is pitch black, the only glimmer is that provided by passing cars.

Then, silhouetted against the windscreen, I see the now familiar form of a big bug stealthily making its way up the window towards the ragged curtains hitched up next to the seat in front. I clutch my wife closer and try to make out the time on my watch. Surely we have to arrive soon.

Having climbed for some time we gradually begin our descent through the isolated settlements close to Tana Rata, our final destination.  The bus slows, the doors open and we scramble for the exits. Hmmm, there must be another way to get to the Cameron Highlands!