JORDAN: The surreal and scrumptious

There were endless tracts of beige. The beige of soft sand. Dotting it sporadically was scrubby green vegetation. At times the odd tree, bereft of any leafy cover, stood sentinel-like. Once in a while a camel came into view, languorously munching the frugal lunch on offer and nudging his Bedouin owner. Nothing changed for miles. Almost always, the only sign of civilization was the strip of spanking black tarmac snaking through the beige. This was a desert and as is its fate, deserted. Yet, even in its aridity it held an emotion, offering a succulent quietness and therapeutic calm. A landscape usually referred to as monotonic, felt intensely meditative.

I'm yet to decode how the heat and dust of Jordan soothed the soul. Was it its towns that reflected an inherent peace rarely found in urban settings? Was it because it's a neutral state in the most hostile region of West Asia? Or was it the vibes from its past, of being a cradle to some men born ordinary who were destined to don prophet robes and show the path to Eternal Light?

Hmmn, maybe it was the effect of the delightfully-coloured mezze platters we were served. Or the fact that Jordanians appreciate India (yes, of course, are passionate about Bollywood) and lovingly refer to it as Hind. Whatever the reason, it accentuated the pleasures of a driving holiday across the palm-sized nation ruled by a handsome monarch. Ah, well, maybe I was merely under a mesmeric spell of the blue-eyed royal.

Surface travel is the only way to get a grip of the country and a feasible option is booking a cab. There’s the choice of hiring a self-drive car too but us Indians can feel tad hampered as Jordan follows the right hand traffic (or left hand drive) system. I was part of a tour group that was happily driven around and as we traversed the land, the bright and bold road signages confidently brought home a pointer: a driver will have to make a conscious effort to lose the way here.

Our drive-off point was Amman; a blend of prehistoric and modern, it's Jordan’s most populous city (over 12 lakh) and expectedly choc-a-bloc. The saving grace is its uniform Arabic architecture — typically sugarcube buildings with harmoniously-fawn sandstone façades. This has been a multi-cultural region abounding with archaeological sights and the two excursions from Amman I found remarkable were to Jerash, considered the best preserved Romanesque city outside Rome, and to Madaba, the capital of mosaic art, where on the floor of the Greek Orthodox Church of St George is the splendid AD 560 Byzantine-era Biblical mosaic map made with over 2 million bits of local stone. Madaba town exudes unfettered cheer, offers a host of adventures and definitely deserves more days.

At Amman, the Citadel was the flag-bearer of its lineage with excavations yielding notable Roman, Byzantine and Islamic relics. The Temple of Hercules (mere pillars stand) is its signature symbol but I thought the museum was the worthiest spot, which, besides housing a collection to relish, provided much-needed relief from the harsh temperatures! Among other sites, Downtown Amman with its buzzing colourful bazaars seemed a fascinating area to explore but our packed itinerary ensured we leave that for another time.

To the religious-minded, Mount Nebo and the Jesus Baptism site will evoke a certain sentiment but the places had me ambling through. Instead, I looked forward to the thought of floating on the Dead Sea, but somehow changed my mind and settled for some nutrient-filled mudpack on my feet and face, enjoying the idea of a natural spa treatment direct from the source—the lowest point on earth. 

Nevertheless, I had fun watching the others wade the viscous waters and was amused by clumsy attempts of champion non-swimmers to stay afloat. The Dead Sea, by the way, is the world's only water that determinedly ensures that you can never drown. It can do other things to you, though, with its liquid power. Sitting on the shore I thought how salty could be the waters others were blaring about and bravely drank a mouthful. No sooner than had it touched my tongue that I spat it out: it was bitterly salty and I felt my mouth had disintegrated. Phew!

The scenic King’s Highway took us to Petra. It was the longer route, as usual deserted, but the dramatic rocky topography the road wound itself around was oh! utterly compelling. The drama in stone staged a new act at Petra, Jordan’s most famous site that's now ranked as a world wonder. This is the ancient kingdom of the Nabateans (an Arab tribe) carved into sheer sandstone rock. It's the overwhelmingly colossal scale of rock formations here that give the dimension of awe to its structures, particularly to the much-photographed poster-edifice, Al Khazneh or The Treasury (see pix). It’s a large landscape that requires time and comfortable walking shoes. The entry ticket to Petra is steep (JD 33, includes a horse ride) and money’s worth requires a complete day be spent here to absorb each nuance and see it in changing daylight. We jogged out in four hours, not having done complete justice to it. We couldn’t do Petra by night, either, which am told, is not to be missed.

Petra’s touted as a wonder, but I found Wadi Rum (Lawrence of Arabia was shot here) more wondrous. A desert with spectacular monolithic rockscapes, it came across as timeless and untouched, totally at peace with itself and exuding tranquility. Almost perfect for life in the slow lane, it is breathtaking at sunrise and sunset. Explorations here are done on camels/jeeps/ 4x4s, tents for stay are available, and engagingly, a slice of life of the Bedouins can be observed. This spot definitely gets my top pick: it felt almost "godlike", as is often said about it.

We barely skimmed through Aqaba, a happy, duty-free zone by the astonishingly-blue Red Sea, before being driven back to the airport. In the aircraft, as I leafed through a pamphlet of Jordan, I realized there is so much the country has to offer. I had barely flavoured the mezze. The main course awaits.

Factfile

Air: Royal Jordanian has daily flights from Delhi and Mumbai

Currency: 1 Jordanian Dinar (JD) = Rs 65 appx

Car rentals: For a self-drive holiday a valid Indian license is sufficient, but keeping an international driving permit is recommended. Car daily rentals are usually JD 30 upwards plus tax and fuel. Operators do give a discount if it’s hired for a few days. Check insurance and car condition before signing up. Payment through credit cards is accepted. Reliable car hire companies include Avis: www.avis.com.jo and Hertz:www.hertzjordan.com. Hiring a private taxi for a fixed tour is considerably the best option. Local cabs run by the meter.

Distance monitor: Amman to Dead Sea (55 km); Dead Sea to Petra (225 km); Petra to Wadi Rum (121 km); Wadi Rum to Aqaba (50 km); Aqaba to Amman (367 km)

Accommodation: There is ample choice in the semi-premium category, where the tariff is upwards JD 120 (Rs 7,500-plus). Some suggested hotels:

Amman: Crowne Plaza (www.amman.crowneplaza.com)

Petra: Beit Zaman (www.jordantourismresorts.com)

Dead Sea: Holiday Inn Resort (www.ichotelsgroup.com)

Aqaba: Marina Plaza (www.marinaplazahotel.com)

Published in The New Indian Express, October 2010

http://www.visitjordan.com/JORDAN_NEW_INDIAN_EXPRESS.pdf

Sinhgad, Maharashtra

{Double click above image to read text}

Published in The New Indian Express, October 2010

Chinese breakfast at Calcutta

Su Mie Fang reminds me of Charlie Trumper. The protagonist of Jeffery Archer’s As the Crow Flies, Trumper rises from the depths to become a millionaire. In his twilight years, though, he slips away for a few hours everyday to go back to where he belongs: to being the Charlie Trumper in soiled overalls, hawking ware to customers from a wheel-barrow, just the way he had begun decades ago with his grandfather on the streets of London.

Like Trumper, it’s all about belonging and the call of roots for 65-year-old Sue Mie Fang. She comes from Vienna each winter, leaving her palatial home, to sell prawn-chips every morning on the grimy lane of Tiretta Bazaar, off Bentinck Street, in the once-upon-a-time bustling Chinatown of (then) Calcutta. For Sue it’s a way of staying connected with a past that had seen a sizeable Chinese population in the city. Theirs was an immigrant community which down the generations stayed true to tradition, leading a Mainland lifestyle infused with Indian flavours. This sparkling mélange of local and foreign has dwindled and diluted, acquiring a new connotation, but its lingering essence can still be felt.

One of the places it’s on view is Tiretta Bazaar, where in a time-honoured routine, fires are stoked every morning and stalls set-up on the sidewalk by the local Chinese who sell straight-off-the-wok breakfast, bursting with home flavours. The lane comes alive by 5 am and all activity winds up by 8 am, for this is a full-fledged commercial district now and the area has to be cleared to accommodate office rush.

But before the corporate crowd descends, for about three early hours of the morning, it’s a page out of the lively street-food tradition seen across the Far East, albeit on a micro scale. This is where Sue takes a spot to sell her typically homemade red-ringed-ready-to-fry prawn chips neatly packed and laid out on a cane basket her mother used. Her attire is typical too: the Mandrain suit, comprising of a peppy floral or polka-dot blouse and pajama. Till a few decades ago the men in this area dressed conventionally too in the deep-blue/grey Mao suit. Though Mao’s sepia-toned photos can still be seen peeping out from within the few disheveled homes, his outfit has beaten the retreat giving way to tees, tracksuits, bermudas and denims.

Most Chinese settlers, who began arriving in AD 1760, belong to the Hakka lineage. “I’m sure you have heard of the famous ‘Hakka chow’ served all over India. The name comes from our community,”

Sue says with pride, adding, “In China, though, they wouldn’t know what you are referring to. The so-called Chinese food served across India at almost every street corner and the menu-card terms are all indigenous,” she winks and smiles, her steel-grey eyes twinkling with a child-like naughtiness.

I let Sue play guide as she takes me around the stalls. This is familiar ground for her and she chats at the speed of light in a Cantonese dialect with the neighbours, fluently switching to Bengali or Hindi when dealing with customers. When I had initially arrived at this unremarkable street, the first aroma to tingle the olfactory was of a soupey kind. “That’s fish-ball soup. A hot seller,” she informs. It’s a thickish soup with two large dumplings of fish and a garnish of assorted greens. I see it being ladled into beige plastic soup bowls quite frequently and there’s a queue at almost every bubbling cauldron. “There was a time when the fare was served in Bone China crockery. That was also when there was no arrowroot in the soups,” know-it-all Sue says surreptitiously.

I’m here on a Sunday morning, a day when crowds are more and there’s a swarm of customers. Most are regulars, the local Chinese and Bengalis accounting for that majority. The others are visitors, of which I see a handful immersed in the area’s flavours, while some merely tick-mark the spot, pinch their noses and push-off (the dense meat smell, scattering of fish mongers and vegetable vendors doesn’t make it a pretty sight for the weak-hearted). There’s also a television crew filming the proceedings.

The sizzling pork sausages have attracted quite a few and it’s the strong aroma that leads me to the wok where they are being generously stir-fried. Served with soy sauce and an optional bun it’s quite a morning meal in itself. I notice a Bengali-British influence in the batter-dipped, crumbs-coated, deep-fried pork/fish/chicken cutlets.

There’s a variety of steamed dumplings too; which were once delectable offerings from the dim sum stable but have now turned into the doughy-textured momos, in what can be called a Tibetan takeover! There are savoury and sweet pancakes, lamb chops served with a tangy sauce, marine fare waiting to be tossed in sauces and various meats I don’t recognise. At 6.30 am, I find it all too tough to taste. “Our first meal of the day, is our best meal,” Chang, a stall owner, tells. “We don’t have a frugal toast-egg-cereal routine. The breakfast comprises of a few courses. We Hakkas have a typical Cantonese dim sum spread that includes gau (assorted steamed dumplings), bau (stuffed baked buns), chicken-vegetable congee (porridge), spring rolls, sweet pastry and of course tea.” Some parts of that elaborate spread is on offer and emphasizes the popularity of this street despite a general decline of standards. Whoever thinks Chinese food is a synonym for noodles definitely needs to come here.

At the adjoining stall strings of sausages are one sale. At another there’s silken tofu, a variety of sauces, rice noodles, soup cubes and mixed dried ingredients looking authentic enough to purchase. I spot a pile of leather purses too with modest price tags. Is there a bargain on, I wonder: purses at a discount with a pound of pork or vice-versa? The initial migrants had set up tanneries in the city and it remains a trade that still occupies quite a number. Even now city’s old timers head to Bentinck Street or New Market to purchase hand-made Chinese shoes, some of their designs being unique to them.

I’ve been here almost two hours. I go back to Sue’s stall. She has sold out and shut ‘shop’. The morning at Tiretta Bazaar has been about street cooking that overpowers the senses. It makes a mess of the surroundings but the passion on display in the process of making fresh food in bare minimum ways is striking. The aromas are strong yet appetising and its best to allow your nose to dictate what to pay for. The engrossing legends of a community, however, come complimentary.

Factfile:

Air: Jet Airways has regular flights from metro cities.

Railways: The major railhead is Howrah which is well-connected on the national grid.

Best time to visit: October to February

Published in JetWings, October 2010

Dear Reader, 

This report was dated 2010. 

In 2012 the situation is far different. What greets you here now is mounds of dirt, sub-standard fare, a dwindling/aged Chinese population and food stalls run by Nepalese/Tibetans who pass off as the originals. Disappointing? Yes, as yet another slice of 'Calcutta culture' gets drowned and eroded in its infamous filth... and decays. 

You can still manage to get a prized photo, a mood shot, but will it do justice to your real experience? That's for you to gauge. 

Best. 

Sept 2012