The Jashn e Gurez Experience

 

THE JASHN-E-GUREZ EXPERIENCE

Ajit Chaudhuri – December 2021

“If there is paradise on Earth, it is here; it is here; it is here!”

Ask the question, ‘which is the most beautiful place in India?’, and most people in the know would say ‘Kashmir’ (and probably repeat the lines Emperor Jehangir used to describe the place, which I have quoted above). But ask the question, ‘which is the most beautiful place in Kashmir?’, and the answers are likely to be more varied. The tourist guides would suggest one of Gulmarg, Sonmarg or Pahalgam, the indolent would point to the further reaches of the Dal or Wullar lakes, and the adventurous would go for the Lolab Valley, the Great Lakes trek, or crossing the Sadhana Pass into Teerthwal. Only the seriously knowledgeable, either old-timers familiar with the Kashmir riyasat of yore or military personnel who have served in its far corners, would say that there is nothing like the Gurez Valley. And then they would qualify the statement by adding, but don’t go there, it is too dangerous.

I visited Gurez this August, about 15 years after first hearing about it – this was for a trek to a high-altitude lake called Patalwan that was organized as part of the Army’s Jashn-e-Gurez festivities in the region celebrating India’s independence.

Gurez is the southwestern part of the old territory of Dardistan, which stretches from Gilgit in the north to Dras (famous as the second-coldest inhabited place on earth) in the east, cutting across two antagonistic countries and multiple geographic zones separated by high mountains but continuing to share culture and language. It lies 130 km from Srinagar along the Gilgit road that heads north out of the city, goes past the eastern edge of the Wullar, the town of Bandipora, and then across the 3,500-meter Razdan Pass where snowfall closes the route for 4 months a year. Continuing on the road past Dawar would take one north across the Line of Control (LOC) and onwards to Gilgit, or else east across the 4,100 m Kaobal Gali Pass and through the Mushkoh Valley into Dras (one of three motorable routes from within India into Ladakh, and open only to military vehicles). All these roads were ancient caravan trails that formed part of the ‘silk route’ connecting India, China and the West.

Administratively, Gurez is a tehseel within Bandipora district in Kashmir. Its defining features are – its inhabitants, who are Dardi (and not Kashmiri), tall, blue-eyed and speaking the Shina language that is still the lingua franca across Dardistan; the Habba Khatoon peak that resembles a pyramid and dominates Dawar town; and the rushing and roaring Kishanganga aka Neelam river that flows through it.

So, first things first, is Gurez beautiful? An unqualified yes, especially so around Dawar where the valley opens out and the river rushes through. We camped on a meadow by the side of the river for two nights, at an altitude of 2,700 meters (see photo 1 below). The trek too was beautiful – the alpine meadows were green (photo 2), undulating and uninhabited except for a few Gujjar families and their herds, there were no other trekking groups in the vicinity and so the campsites did not resemble Dharavi, and the lake that was our destination was large, impressive, and worth all the effort to get there. The trek was also pleasant, except for a day spent traversing rocks brought down by the glaciers along the route (day 4, see the appendix below).

Photo 1: Wife, self and our friend Sumeet – we had done the Kailash Mansarovar Yatra in 2014 together –  at Dawar, with the Kishanganga by our side and the Habba Khatoon in the background.

Photo 2: A view of the trek’s path, with our co-leader Lt. Col (Retd) Romil Barthwal in a yellow T-shirt, an Everester himself, looking on. He and Col. Paddy Bhat were the life and soul of the group.

Second – is Gurez dangerous? The locals themselves are pro-India, and military personnel were able to move freely in and around Dawar without fingers on trigger and quick response teams in tow. The area, however, including the route to Patalwan Lake, is proximate to the LOC and a convenient crossing point for unwelcome visitors from across it. The Army sent a patrol along the route while we were there (they did in two days, with weapons and full haversacks, what we did in five) – tough looking guys in beards and phirans who could have passed for terrorists themselves. This was by design, their officer, a young captain from Mumbai who was indistinguishable from his men, told us – enabling a split-second advantage in case of an encounter due to the enemy not knowing that they were army.

The trek was a series of firsts for me – my first in Kashmir (and my first not-work-related visit there), my first with strangers and through a trekking company (I took my wife, child and two friends along to offset this, only to find that the strangers quickly also became friends; and I enjoyed myself so much that I signed on for the same company’s next trek upon our return), my first in which the group leaders were ex-military men (great guys both), and my first with my elder child (it did not result in a lifelong antipathy to the outdoors, or to his parents for dragging him along).

Gurez is opening up, and tourists are welcome. I recommend checking it out!

Day	Description of the Trek	Altitude
1	Srinagar to Dawar, 130 km across the Razdan Pass (3,500 m)	2,800 m at Dawar
2	Dawar to Dawar Heights – a climb up to an alpine meadow	3,500 m
3	Dawar Heights to Patalwan – up and down along alpine meadows	3,500 m
4	Patalwan to Patalwan Lake and back – a long and tiring day, with significant stretches of moraine en route	3,900 m at Patalwan Lake
5	Patalwan to Dawar Heights
6	Dawar Heights to Dawar – a pleasant walk. In Dawar by mid-day.
7	Dawar to Srinagar
Trekking Company: Boots and Crampons – 9000603444 – bootscrampons.com

 

A Walk in the Clouds

A WALK IN THE CLOUDS

Ajit Chaudhuri – October 2019

‘Life is a mountain; you go up, reach the top, and then go down!’

They say that gigolos don’t have sex for pleasure! And I, I suspect for similar reasons, do not travel for pleasure – I do plenty of it for work, and exotic locations, exciting people, designer hotels and Michelin starred menus hold few fascinations. My ideal holiday is one spent playing football in the early morning (preferably with my usual gang of middle-aged fatsos) with the rest of the day in a night suit in front of the TV or buried in a book, with fresh homemade food at mealtimes, chai and pakodas on demand, a cold beer in the evenings, and no visitors to entertain.

In fact, the only bit of travel I undertake out of choice is an annual trek in the Himalayas – usually between 6 and 8 days from roadhead to roadhead and elevations of about 4,000 meters. And no matter how one describes them post facto, these are not fun – rare is the day on trek that one is not wishing one was home instead, with a roof over, a chair under, and a bed at night. Why does one do them? For me; one – it is a system check on the body, and therefore on whether I can continue with my lifestyle or do I finally do healthy shit like go easy on the booze and fags and eat green stuff; two – phones don’t work, and I am therefore disconnected from day to day life; and three – a little time with the old lady, who usually joins me.

I have been visiting Nepal since April 2015, and these visits have followed a familiar pattern (many visits to Ladakh without seeing a gompa, to Andamans without a swim, to Kashmir without seeing Gulmarg, etc.) – work, work and work. My September 2019 visit was an exception in that I went to the trekking capital of the world to trek. I spent 8 days walking along the ridge lines between the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri mountains (annexure 1 has details) – reached 4,300 meters, didn’t have any difficulty, but also didn’t see any mountains because of the continuous rain and mist in what was a late monsoon across the sub-continent. Trekking in Nepal is a little different from similar stuff in the Indian Himalayas, and this note attempts to describe it for those with an addiction to a few days every year spent walking in cold weather with a bit of weight on one’s back and soft ground under one’s feet.

Trekking in Nepal is far more developed! Most locations have tea houses that provide hot food, rooms with beds, and toilets, precluding the need to carry tents, sleeping bags and provisions. A solid roof over one’s head at night is a huge relief when the weather is inclement (as it was throughout this trek), and as someone who has sat through a Himalayan cloudburst inside a small tent it was a pleasure to know that I would not have to repeat the experience. One’s morning duties can be undertaken in comfort – I had an en suite room on 2 nights, and an English-style potty on 3. I even bathed twice! All the tea houses have electricity, some have a collection of books (I completed three novels en route), and one had a guitar. The routes are, for the most part, marked out and discernible to the untrained eye. Such arrangements make even a high-altitude trek feel like a multi-day teahouse-to-teahouse walk, and not something leaving one aching to return home by day 4.

Another key difference is that of entourage! One is encouraged to have a guide via policies that require trekking permits, route charges and all sorts stuff that keeps bureaucrats busy that these guys interface with, and one is encouraged to have a porter because this is a form of employment in a poor country. While there are claims of some sort of certification for guides, I found that the main difference between them and porters was the ability to speak English. My own porter, by virtue of both of us speaking Hindi, was more of a guide to me than my guide (who in turn was a good trek manager, but not a good guide – he was always rushing off to the next destination, and was usually a few drinks down by the time I reached).

The ability to communicate in Hindi sets one apart from other trekkers – every local understands it, and most speak it well too. It was a pleasure to indulge in light flirtation with the ladies who actually manage the teahouses, who would invariably put in a little extra care into my food, and to hear the old patriarchs recount their exploits in the British or the Indian Armies in this predominantly Gorkha area.

The walking itself was slightly schizophrenic; I spent four days at altitudes of over 3,500 m, where there were no other trekkers (we were also the sole occupants of teahouses), and four days getting there and back that felt like one was in Paharganj or Goa, with continuous groups of trekkers and their retinues moving up and down. The former was pretty much standard for good treks, and having spent time in mountains I did not miss actually seeing either Mt. Dhaulagiri or Mt. Annapurna because of the continuous cloud, mist and rain. And as for the latter, two additional aspects worthy of mention are the large number of steps that one had to negotiate, which were problematic on the knees both going up and down, and the leeches.

A word about the leeches – I had experienced them before and knew that they differed from their human equivalents in two important ways. First, once they get their hooks into you, they are difficult to dislodge (and the residual wounds from dislodging them have a high chance of itching for days and going septic). And second, they drop off and go their own way once they have had their fill of sucking your blood. And therefore, they are best left alone. But here, possibly encouraged by the rain, they were out in numbers and my feet were a bloody mess every time I opened my boots – I would spend time every evening getting the remnant leeches off, and sleep with a nagging doubt that I had not completely succeeded.

Trekking in Nepal is not cheap; the system is used to customers who earn in dollars, and the costs of guides, porters and transport to and from roadheads add up. Stay at teahouses is nominal, but food is not (and one is expected to eat where one stays). It is, however, hassle-free – one just has to walk, and not carry things, cook, put up tents, etc. One does not require a group (I went alone) or too much pre-planning (I had 5 days’ notice). The food is good; I would have one Nepali thali every day (unlimited rice and dal with one vegetable, one crispy spinach and one salad), one light snack (a pasta or something), and a breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs and local bread washed down with coffee. And, last but not least, booze is freely available, both the local hooch (I recommend ‘Gurung Coffee’) and the fancy stuff.

Would I do another? Hell, yes!! But with my regular trekking group, and possibly to the western base camp of Mt. Kanchenjunga, in the eastern part of the country.

Annexure 1: Trek Details

Date	Journey	Distance (km)	Altitude (m)
20th Sep	Kathmandu to Pokhara by bus
21st Sep	Pokhara to Nayapul by car, then trek to Ghandruk	12	1,940
22nd Sep	Ghandruk to Tadapani	8	2,630
23rd Sep	Tadapani to Bayali via Dobayo	10	3,540
24th Sep	Bayali to Khopra Ridge via Dhankarka	12	3,700
25th Sep	Khopra Ridge to Khopra Lake and back	11	4,300
26th Sep	Khopra Ridge to Gorepani via Swata	16	3,400
27th Sep	Ghorepani to Uleri	6	1,960
28th Sep	Uleri, Hile, Nayapul, then vehicle to Pokhara	5
29th Sep	Pokhara to Kathmandu by bus

Milam on my Mind

MILAM ON MY MIND

Ajit Chaudhuri – November 2018

What’s the difference between the ‘beautiful’ and the ‘sublime’? They say that beautiful objects are smooth, polished, and comparatively small, whereas sublime objects are vast, rugged, powerful, magnificent. They are ideas of a different nature; beauty being founded on pleasure, and sublimity being founded on pain. I was reminded of this difference during a recent trek, following the Ghori river to its origins in Milam Glacier. There was nothing beautiful about it – it was tough, unforgiving, cold, long, and a pure and unadulterated test of endurance – none of it a pleasant walk through mountains with a river on one side and forests with snow-clad peaks above them on the other interspersed with nights around a camp fire and a flute and guitar combination in the background (as Internet descriptions implied). There was plenty that was sublime, though, in following a rough and angry Himalayan river through its gorges and its sudden openings into wide windswept valleys right up to its beginnings under the ice in the eastern side of the Nanda Devi, where China, Nepal and Uttarakhand merge.

Let me begin at the very beginning which, as the old song suggests, is a very good place to begin by taking you back to events in April and May 1986. I was teaching at a school in Ajmer which had a tradition of senior boys and teachers spending a part of summer doing some form of adventure activity (this was before such activities were subcontracted out to specialized private agencies, as is the case now). I joined a group of class IXs and two other teachers on a trek to Milam Glacier – the teachers were among my ‘gurus’; Mr. Ramesh Shah, an ex-Ranji cricketer with a reputation for strictness, much loved especially by the alumni who had begun to see the value of his approach to life, and the younger and cooler English teacher Mr. Gene Lee. The trip began with an overnight journey from Delhi to Almora on a bus during which the conductor, an MA in English, tried to convince Mr. Lee that he would be better off as a UP Roadways conductor than as a teacher. The group reached Almora and caught another bus onward to Munsiyari, the taluka town that was the road head for the trek.

The Boys, Mr. Shah (in forefront) and Self (right, shirtless) back in 1986

I still remember that bus journey – all the way down to Thal, and then up and across the Ratapani Pass that brought with it a stunning first view of the Panchul, five snow-capped 20,000-foot plus mountains that overlooked Munsiyari town. The next thing that happened was not so pleasant; the sub-divisional magistrate (SDM) in Munsiyari who was to sign our inner-line permits refused to do so, citing snow and ice (it was still early in the year) and the general unsuitability of the trekking route for children, and we turned around, caught a bus the next day to Bageshwar, and trekked to Pindari Glacier instead. And I swore that I would, one day, return to Munsiyari and do this trek!

Self, Gene Lee and Chandraveer Rathore near Pindari Glacier in 1986

In the 32 years that have passed, I have returned to Munsiyari many times and done many treks, but Milam Glacier has remained on my bucket list. And so, when my trek group’s main enthusiast suggested this one for October/November 2018, I jumped at it.

Milam is not on most trekkers’ must-do list and, now that I am back in the safe confines of my home in Mumbai, I see why. One, it is eight days from road head to road head – a long trek with seven consecutive nights in tents. Two, it is a two-day journey from railhead (Kathgodam) to road head, meaning that if one is from Mumbai one starts the trek only on day 4 of one’s travels and returns on day 13 – a long time to be away. Three, it is not a pretty trek – as mentioned, it is sublime rather than beautiful. The walking itself is from morning to evening with no pleasant resting spots along the way, and the route is tough with lots of ups and downs (the pleasanter route with sections along the river got washed away in the 2013 flash floods). In fact, the only section that felt like a trek and not a forced march was the 13 km from Milam village to the glacier and back. And four, it is seriously cold, especially when one is over 3,000 meters in altitude (which is almost half the trek), more so in end-October when we were there (we were the last group in). Many was the time we questioned what the hell we were doing.

The man himself!

And yet, in retrospect, none of us would have changed the plans. Four of us did it; a retired infantry Colonel who joked that he was a laughing stock among his peers for paying money to do in his old age what he had spent his life being paid to do, walking up and down mountains (he had even commanded a battalion at Siachen), another ex-Army (but not infantry) guy who was on his first trek, and my wife and I who in our mid-50s were the youngest in the group. We became close friends in the process, swearing that we would never do something like this again (all the while knowing that we would, just as we had done for the past three years), that the next one would be with us based in a place with a hotel, beds, a toilet and running hot water, with daily walks to pleasant locations and picnic lunches accompanying us, something we could bring our wives to.

Mrs. and Mr. Chaudhuri on 30th October 2018

We were joined until Milam by a group of Bengalis from the Mountaineering Club of Krishnanagore, untypical in that they were tall, tough, quiet and well behaved, who stayed on to also trek to the eastern base camp of the Nanda Devi. We made particular friends with the tallest, toughest and quietest among them, a primary school teacher called Viking-da (not ‘Biking’, not ‘Hiking’, but ‘Bhiking’, he said in his Bengali accent, after the spacecraft that was in the news when he was born). We were as comfortable as we could possibly be under the circumstances, with a guide (a ‘birder’, and also the owner of the trekking company we had hired), a cook, two assistants, four mules and two mule-wallahs to do our bidding. And the weather held out while we were there – we heard that the snowfall began while on our way down. Yes, we were glad we did it!

Col. Mamgain, Mrs. C and Mr. C on a short break during the trek

And my mind goes back to 1986, to Mr. Shah (now 80 and retired in Ahmedabad), Mr. Lee (moved to the Gulf) and the boys (now in their late 40s and probably dealing with their respective male menopauses), and to what my life would have been like had I stayed on in Ajmer. I also can’t help wondering whether the SDM of Munsiyari who had refused permission for us to proceed to Milam was right to do so, and whether we were unjust in our assessment of him as a typical babu showing power over hapless subjects.

A Winter's Lunch by the Sea of Okhotsk

A WINTER’S LUNCH BY THE SEA OF OKHOTSK

January 2017

The family decided to close 2016 (a truly awful year, by most counts) by visiting the Sea of Okhotsk (hereafter ‘the Sea’). ‘Where and why?’ you would no doubt be asking, and ‘does a bad year have to be seen out via such a drastic step?’ At the outset, this note is not aimed at addressing these questions (though I begin with a cursory attempt at doing so), it is to describe the impressions from the visit.

So, where - the Sea is bounded by Russia’s eastern coast, the Kamchatka peninsula, the Kuril Islands, Sakhalin (all Russia), and the northern part of Hokkaido in Japan. The Kurils, an island chain between Hokkaido and Kamchatka, separate the Sea from the Pacific Ocean. The area is somewhat historic for both Japan and Russia – this is where their respective empires clashed; where they fought wars (1905 and 1945), where they screwed indigenous people (such as the Ainu and Nivkhs) over, and where the sovereign status of some of the areas mentioned above continue to be disputed. The Sea itself is known to be intimidating – it is misty, rough, and has large ice flows (apparently its freezing point is increased by fresh water inflows from the Amur River that serve to reduce its salinity). It was a whaling paradise until the tragedy of the commons played itself out, and it continues to be of strategic importance because of its location – the vessels of the Russian Navy’s Pacific Fleet, headquartered in Vladivostok, have to use it to reach the open ocean.

The Old Man by the Sea (of Okhotsk)

 Why – the only explanation I have is that holiday planning in the family observes no logic or reason, is always done at the last minute, and anyone voicing temperance or caution is treated like a sissy in the playground. The resulting holidays tend to be experiences that end with nobody speaking with anyone else, with a common consensus that we will never do this again (until we do it again), and with all round relief to be back at school, college or work where we can respectively recover.

We chose to see the Sea from the Japanese side; Mumbai-Delhi-Tokyo by air, Tokyo to Sapporo and onward to Wakkanai (at the northern tip of Hokkaido, on the Sea) by train before returning to Sapporo, a flight from Sapporo to Nagoya (where we brought in the new year), a train to Narita, and finally back to Mumbai by air.

Our first inclination that we may in over our heads was at the Japan Rail (JR) ticket counter in Sapporo, when we were making seat reservations. “Why Wakkanai?” was the refrain of the booking clerk, “too cold, too much snow.” (And she lives in a place that has hosted the Winter Olympics). When we said that it was for a holiday and would she recommend it she emphatically shook her head. Our next one was when the train to Wakkanai stopped in the middle of nowhere because of excess snow. Now, there had been heavy snow on the tracks from Sendai (about two hours from Tokyo) onwards without any train going even a minute off schedule – what was happening here? It waited for about 45 minutes, during which the conductor came several times and made long spiels in Japanese (all announcements in JR are in Japanese and English until something unscheduled happens) before moving on again. We were wondering whether to be worried, and make enquiries, and then decided against it given that our co-passengers appeared completely unconcerned.

Wakkanai itself was interesting – a town of 30,000 people of whom nobody was visible during our long walk along the Sea, probably not unreasonable given that there was a blizzard on, it was bitterly cold, and there was a lot of snow on the ground. The Sea itself looked like it would soon be freezing over – grey, rough, and miserable – not a tourist attraction. We did find an open eatery (using the old fashioned technique of peering in through the window), it must have been a take-out because there was just a counter and an old lady chopping something up on it who smiled, waved us in, and then served us our food in her kitchen. We ate a wonderful meal consisting of very fresh fish in various Japanese sauces washed down with rice and hot green tea. We later found a coffee shop run by an old man who spoke a little English – it turned out to be the local geriatrics’ adda, with all of them curious about our origins and reasons for visiting. They assured us over many coffees and cigarettes that, while it was quite a happening place in summer, we were fortunate in being here at a time when we could experience the ‘real Wakkanai’.

Lunch by the Sea of Okhotsk

A word about Air India, on which we had reluctantly and rather fearfully travelled (the first time I had used it for foreign travel beyond the likes of Kathmandu and Kabul) and which has since earned itself the distinction of being rated ‘the world’s third worst airline’. It was the best long flight I have done – Delhi-Tokyo-Delhi was bang on time, the planes were Dreamliners (and the connecting Delhi-Mumbai flight on our return was a Jumbo), the food and service (the first time I have been offered a third beer with a smile) was excellent, and the small things were done with thought (we had to clear immigration and customs in Delhi on our return, and then check in again for Mumbai – the ordinary baggage handlers guided us on where to go, and then advised us to transfer our precious duty-free booze into our check-in bags before clearing security in Delhi). The only suggestion I would make on the basis of this visit is that they point out the flush in their planes’ toilets in Hindi and request its usage.

I have waxed eloquently about the Bullet Trains (or what the Japanese call ‘Shinkansen’) before, and I am going to do so again. The Hokkaido Shinkansen is particularly awesome, both the journey and the train itself, even by Japanese standards. It is a new route that connects Japan’s main island with its northern-most one via the world’s longest undersea tunnel. The long journey northwards from Tokyo crosses several climatic zones, and we had snow from the northern Tohuku region of Honshu onwards. The only downside is that the beautiful landscape is interrupted by frequent tunnels (Bullet Trains need to go straight to maintain their 300 kmph speed and therefore go through rather than around barriers) and this is a bit disconcerting for one’s enjoyment of the scenery. The train is called a ‘Hayabusa’ (the Japanese word for a peregrine falcon), with an engine that has a longer body than other Shinkansen possibly because it has to plough through a lot of snow, and even if you are inured to the sight of a Bullet Train pulling into a station, this one will still make you go ‘wow’. I am not sure how this route makes any money (even though a Tokyo – Hakodate – Sapporo ticket is seriously expensive, about three times the cost of a Tokyo-Sapporo flight) and I suspect that some of the cost is state subsidized because the Hokkaido Shinkansen ensures the presence of a very Japanese symbol on its northern most (and Russia facing) island.

Some scenery between Sapporo and Wakkanai

A momentous occurrence in the family annals happened on the evening of 31^st December, in the city of Nagoya. We had planned to bring in the New Year together, and were a bit sentimental given that the children were growing up and leaving the nest and therefore the occasions in which we were all together were becoming rarer and should be savoured, blah, blah, blah! The afore-mentioned children, however, had other ideas – they managed to procure all-you-can-eat-and-drink passes to a restaurant called Hooters for the evening (if you haven’t heard of this restaurant chain, please look it up) and left us old fogeys at 10.30 pm. Their mother and I spent the rest of the evening questioning our suitability as parents, and wondering how to address questions from our own parental generation (‘Oh, how nice that you were together at New Year’s? What did you do?’ ‘Well, we slept and your grandchildren effed off to Hooters. We don’t know when they returned.’) You know what I mean!

Our last night of the trip was at Narita, the town eponymous with the airport. We were given a resounding send-off at a local Thai eatery, where the old gentleman at the pay-counter decided to give us a ‘50 percent off’ on the already-low prices and we decided to respond by spending double what we had originally planned, mostly on Sapporo Draft (super stuff, and 50 percent off on this too), with the consequence of a decrepit and dishevelled look when we boarded our flight next morning.

“Never again!” we swore, as always, once we returned to the sanctuary of home and hearth, “Let’s go to Goa next time.” But I can already discern some all-too-familiar churning – my elder son has sent me a travel brochure for North Korea and his mother, instead of freaking out, has noticed that we can visit Sakhalin, Vladivostok and possibly Petropavlovsk as well if we take in a few more days. Watch this space!

A Journey Into the Red Sun

A JOURNEY INTO THE RED SUN

A 2-Pager by Ajit Chaudhuri – September 2015

 Introduction: A not-quite-philosophical question from the 1970s went – what is the difference between the happy man and the unhappy man? The answer was – the happy man has a Japanese wife, a Chinese cook, English décor in his home, and an American salary. The unhappy man, on the other hand, has an American wife, an English cook, Japanese décor in his home, and a Chinese salary.

Much has changed from the 1970s! The days of boring English cooking, for example, are long gone – the absorption of dishes from the erstwhile colonies (such as chicken tikka masala) has made a visit to a typical pub a pleasure for the food as well as the booze. And while I have no first-hand experience of either Chinese salaries or American wives, I have not heard adverse impressions about either.

It was the Japanese reference that particularly fascinated me as a kid. Did Japanese women actually lie down on the floor on the man’s side of the bed every morning so that his first step of the day would be on a warm back? Books on medieval Japan, such as ‘Shogun’ (James Clavell, 1975) seemed to indicate so. But how did this fit in with the narrative of sparse décor, where there were no beds in homes?

That I got an opportunity to find out for myself has its root cause in a parenting policy that can best be described as one of ‘benign neglect’. When my elder child picked up a fascination for the manga style of Japanese cartooning at about age 8 and spent all his time watching or drawing them, his mother and I did not tell him to ‘forget this crap and concentrate on studies’. When he evinced an interest at age 13 in becoming a manga-ka or cartoonist, we wearily accepted the possibility of him living in our basement as an adult, siphoning off pocket money from our pensions. We even encouraged him to visit Japan for 5 weeks at age 16, on his own, to explore his avenues – his mother, who is quite strategic on these matters, suggesting to me that this might be the best way to rid him of his obsessions and return to doctor-engineer-dom. She turned out to be right (as she always is), except that the love for manga was replaced by one for Japan – he even wrote a book about his visit, a 16-year-old’s view of Japan, that I found brilliant and would strongly recommend (and whose title I have borrowed for this note) except that the f-word is used 41 times (his mother did a word count). He was subsequently accepted into university in Nagoya this year, and we went with him to do the Bengali-parents thing of dropping him off, settling him down, crying in front of his new peers, etc.

What can I say about Japan from my 10-day visit? For one, it is the first developed country I have visited recently in which the anti-smoking and feminist lobbies have not run riot – you could smoke where you liked, in your room, in bars with your cold beer, in public places, and there were ashtrays everywhere to indicate so. And women dressed so as to walk as candy in men’s arms rather than make their own paths, so to speak, using clothes, make-up and skin to resemble dolls rather than come across as women of substance. For another, it was beautiful – a combination of clean, safe, friendly, visually appealing, orderly, pedestrian-friendly, law-abiding, and with high service standards everywhere – a must visit for those looking for a first-world experience without going to western Europe or North America. For a third, it was large – not India large but still large – 128 million people with very high GDP per capita and living standards, a massive economy, and a long distance from one end to another. And for a fourth, food and booze (though little else) was cheap, and I would also probably have been a millionaire there, albeit in Yen.

This paper is less about our trip and more about what my wife and I, both seasoned and difficult-to-impress travellers, found awesome in Japan.

The Bullet Trains: My first sight of a Bullet Train (or Shinkansen, as they are called in Japan) was of one pulling into Nagoya station – a large engine resembling a bull’s head without horns followed by 16 carriages, all in white, soundlessly entering the station at speed, coming to a halt, and then accelerating out two minutes later. The feeling was one of unadulterated awe, like when, as a 12-year-old seeing ‘Sholay’ for the first time, the camera first focused on Gabbar Singh. We used the Shinkansen extensively during our visit (Nagoya-Tokyo-Nagoya and then Nagoya-Hiroshima-Kyoto-Nagoya), making full use of a weeklong Japan Rail (JR) Pass that allowed us unlimited entry into the trains (which were expensive otherwise – a Nagoya-Tokyo ticket cost the equivalent of Rs. 6,000. The JR Pass cost Rs. 29,000 per person for 7 days, available only to foreigners on limited stay tourist visas, and usable on most trains). The trains are fast (the 552 km journey from Tokyo to Osaka takes 160 minutes, reaching 300 kmph), reliable, punctual to the minute, and very efficient.

Japanese Potties: The typical shitpot has a temperature control for the seating area, forward and backward sprays with a control that enables you to manoeuvre them and change their intensities and temperatures, and something that provides a background noise to cover all your toilet sounds. Wow! All that’s missing is a video game that provides a target down below for you to aim your matter at (as kids, we used to throw in a paper ball and play ‘Bombing of Berlin’) and rack up points.

Japanese Gardens: I had read ‘The Garden of Evening Mists’ (Tan Twan Eng, 2012) before the visit, and so knew a little about the concept of a Japanese Garden in which elements of nature are reduced into an artificial space and controlled so as to produce an immaculate area for retreat and reflection. It was therefore a pleasure to see several of them in Kyoto – the ones that particularly impressed were in Ginkakuji Temple, in the Nijo Castle, and in one of the residences around the Imperial Palace. They stood in sharp contrast to the Zen Garden in the Ryoanji Temple, also very impressive but in a minimal way; all pebble, a few rocks, no water, and not a blade of grass – the only green coming from a little moss around the rocks.

The small things: Not everything that impressed was about high technology and fancy design – we also saw simple innovations that made everyday living easier. The ladies toilets (in case you are wondering, this observation is from the better half) have a little space upon which you can strap on a baby and do your job in peace. Hotel receptions had barstools upon which you could place a bag and thereby easily access your wallet or diary. Fast food joints gave you a buzzer that alerted you as to when your order was ready at the counter. All places where you had to take your shoes off had a long shoe horn nearby to help you put them back on. And so on!

The Food: The food was a revelation – cheap and excellent, but maybe not too suitable for vegetarians, practising Muslims, and Hindutva-types, and this is probably a reason for us seeing few fellow countrymen during the visit (no complaints on this – the departure gate for the Shanghai-Delhi flight was full of India’s finest; loud, manner-less testicle scratchers on their way back from some trade fair – next time, a direct flight). New sensations flooded my taste buds; wasabi, different types of sushi and tempura, steaks, fried chicken (so good that KFC was comparatively bland), the more neutral sashimi, sticky rice, grills, gyoza, and an array of sauces and powders to manipulate the flavours. We washed stuff down with beer (the Sapporo draft was the best, Kirrin and Asahi were good) and sake (while we had quite a bit ourselves, we didn’t see any Japanese having any). Pictures and prices of the food would be displayed prominently on the menus and outside the restaurant, and many places had a menu in English. And, last but not least, no tips, anywhere!

Nagoya Airport: The Central Japan International Airport outside Nagoya is on an artificial island that was built specifically for this purpose. We entered at night, and therefore only experienced its efficiency – out, a quick, pleasant and welcoming immigration experience, collect the baggage, and into the train for the centre of town. It was when we were leaving, in the afternoon that we saw its viewing gallery of both the runway and the sea around it, the wide spaces (including a giant tsunami evacuation hall), and the wide and varied shopping, and realized that we could have also taken a speedboat into town (albeit at three times the price of the train).

Miyajima: We decided to do one thing slightly out of the way, and that was to spend a night and day at this small island in the Seto Inland Sea that was said to contain one of the three best views in Japan. This required taking a train from Hiroshima to Miyajimaguchi and then a ferry across to Miyajima, (all covered under the JR Pass) and spending a night in a ryokan (a traditional Japanese Inn – expensive and requiring sleeping on the floor, but luxurious and spacious and with a public bath facility thrown into the cost that we both experienced). We did the 2-hour trek up to Mt. Misen (a holy mountain that forms part of a world heritage site) the next day, through the Ohmata Park and across primeval forests, a walk in the park for those who have done the Kailash Yatra on foot but also the first occasion that I was glad that I had brought my serious walking boots along, and came down using a fancy ropeway system. This was also the only place we visited where most people spoke a little English, where asking for directions was not an exercise in futility.

To conclude: The brochures said that Japan mixed ‘western lifestyle with eastern sensibilities’, and I can agree. There was much to appreciate in this first trip, and some irritants as well; the difficulty in finding a place (nobody knew anything about the location of any place, and would take at least ten minutes to tell you so – we soon learnt not to ask for directions), the queues at women’s toilets (the men, on the other hand, could just walk in, do the job, and walk out; there was no wait-time anywhere), and the rather sorry description of Japan’s reasons for going into WW2 at Hiroshima (apparently it was to free their Asian brethren of colonial rule) and its depiction of itself as a victim and not aggressor. I will go back, travel around more, and let the country unfold itself slowly upon me. Arigatou gozaimasu and sayonara!