Sana'a International

Let's face, it is a rotten shack in the middle of nowhere. But we fell for it! Such cool way to start an adventure - I believe shock therapy is the right expression; a stop-over at Sana'a International Airport. Not only was I sick on the bravery of feasting on Yemenia (Yemen state airways) in-flight cuisine, the toilets that greeted the cursed visitor at this desert plane hub made me realise how much I miss mum - always there to wipe my buttee. The gaping hole in the stained floor tickled the reflexes in my tummy, cold sweat appeared on my forehead when I realised there was no loo roll handy, and at the sight of a mere tap in the wall at the height of my ancles (presumably to wash your left hand) it all became too much to handle. Exit only - Mutti, take me home!
We had a good laugh about my little emergency at the departures hall, though the sympathy (coaching) you get from your girlfriend never lives up to the motherly care in the memories from the age of three. Nevertheless, the scene in front of our eyes was similar to the those India Jones tends to fend off with such macho vigour; in fact, a dose of that was desperately needed. There are two ways officials handle arriving crowds at Sana'a International. The dude with the loudest voice makes the biggest mess (most officials aspire to this status) and the dude with the highest military rank (always the quiet one in the crowd) has the last word. Without exception, but with much confusion, all passengers are ushered through the whole building, across all floors, possibly with the intention of teaching Johnny Westerners the art of Arab queueing - in actuality, quite similar to the behaviour of rowdy crowds at a Danish music festival. Before being herded into a bus to shuttle us off to the connecting flight (all planes are parked a kilometre or so into the steppe in the night), the chaos at the upteenth security check made even the calmest of local generalissimos resort to more hands-on kind of techniques to get us through the metal detector one final time. Christina took the prize - she got to meet two ladies dressed in burkas in a cordoned-off box where all European nonsensical politeness had been swept away with the desert breeze (a welcoming grope of the breast and so on). For some reason, she came out of the situation with a beaming smile over her blushed face. Once safely back on the runway, tuning into the mad sound of local Schlager on the flight to Mumbai, we could not help but laugh it all off. Dear diary, I wish every day for the following weeks will bring such and adventure! Turns out most did.
[below snapshot from old town of Sana'a about a month later]

The Bombay of Dreams

Mumbai, or Bombay as it was formermly known, will hardly get the attention it deserves in the following few paragraphs, but it is a start. A city that never sleeps, a restless giant of +17m people, a roaring monster that devours anything on its way that fails to tap into the beat fast enough. For example, imagine what traffic is like – the sounds, fumes, the shere agression. No-one is spared. Being used to commuting in the heart of London with its below (European) par transport infrastructure, Mumbai comes across as that amp that goes to eleven. From the memory lane: commuting by train from downtown Colaba to the Bandra suburb during the afternoon rush hour meant sharing a 10sqm compartment with no less than 80 fellow commuters; being the only white person in the carriage meant a lot of attention too, not to mention trying to subdue a teenage itch for panic attacks. The only way to exit was to literally ram one’s way through towards the exit (a few excruciating meters) before being tossed off to the moving platform with the cheerful aid of those left behind (a choice between a kick in the rump or missing the station).
That amp goes to eleven in other ways too. Business, religion, nightlife – survival. It all comes to life in huge volumes and with stunning energy. It is no wonder Goan backpackers are often too happy to leave only after a few days of nosing around. To be able to process this madness more gently, it is well worth getting introduced to the city by locals. (We have mainly Ryan and Gurveer to thank for this, see Lunch at the Hilton below.) In the end, we left with the impression that Mumbai compares very well to its counterparts in the West – should there be any.
Some of the things a Mumbai virgin should not miss...
An introduction to religious worship: Mahalakshmi temple and the neighbouring Haji Ali mosque. On the way to the temple, pick your favourite choice of flowers, coconuts and fabrics in a set of colourful stalls to sacrifice to the goddesses in the temple. Mind you, while some are returned by the priests sorting out the gifts, for example coconuts and valuables are not. Perhaps just best to watch the whole show on the TV screen outside the inner sanctum. It takes more courage to reach the mosque down the road. Pilgrims must literally walk on water (and fend off scores of beggars on the way), perhaps in a test of faith. Once there, mingle with the cops, it just feels safer that way, the sight of westerners with cameras may not be as welcome as with the hindus next door. [below the passage to Haji Ali]


An introduction to shopping; Fort bazaars. We never got further than Crawford Market, but if you thought Brick Lane Market in London was a walk on the wildside, then think again – steer clear of the chicken stalls! The Fort area itself hosts a myriad of shops offering anything from cheap books and pirate DVDs to tailors and textiles. No McDo, KFC, Greenpeace volunteers or parking wardens to spoil the experience. Ha!
An introduction to partying; Govinda Festival. Nevermind the occasion, most religious festivals take place on wholly different proportions than in boring Old Europe (with the exception of the crowds Papa Razzi pulls these days); or the events taking place during the actual celebrations (with hundreds of thousands of hindu gods alone, diverse traditions are the norm). We stumbled over a tipsy crowd of young lads having a go at the Govinda celebrations one day early. Similar to a distant Spanish tradition, this particular fiesta entailed creating a human tower to smash a jar of buttermilk dangling somewhere mid-air. Of course, the lightest rascal is sent to climb up top. He tends to brave his way up without the customary performance enhancers (read: cheap brandy), but is reassured of his safety by wearing a biking helmet. His safe return is celebrated by fire crackers, dancing, and the odd gulp of, ehm, buttermilk I am sure.


An introduction to most things hip; the Colaba. I would be surprised if downtown Mumbai leaves any of its visitors bored. From delicious eateries to cinemas, sports clubs, lush hotels, shops and nightlife, the area referred to as the Colaba caters for most of Mumbai’s immediate scene. Don’t get me wrong here, this stuff comes with a well roasted local flair, and the copycat whiff of Banglaore where it is considered cool to hang out at the mall with the Simpsons and Bundies is, thankfully, non-existent. Of course, there are other parts of town with specific scenes too such as Bandra and Juhu. But Colaba offers arguably the best spots to chill out from the hustle and bustle of the city and, indeed, at times, from the rest of the country. To mention but a few of the pearls – the grub and views at the rooftop Arab restaurant Koyla, the numerous cafès specialising in chocolate-covered sins such as Mocha, the chilled beer at the rooftop bar of the Intercontinental Hotel (again, the views, and they have a pool too!), lunch at the Cricket Club of India, and the European toilets and warmwater showers at the YWCA. Bless them all, for they felt like an oasis for those of us lucky enough to afford to escape the demons for a little while. And damn us all for enjoying such snobbery for a weekend or two! [below a view from the Cricket Club of India]

In the aftermath of the wave

It was a random decision to say the least but it paid off. After arriving at Chennai airport on the Bay of Bengal side of things, we decided to fork out enough rupees for a cabbie ride to the beach instead of heading for (yet another) behemoth of a city that Chennai was rumoured to be. On course to Mamallapuram, a small town in Indian standards tucked away and forgotten between Chennai and Pondicherry, we noticed clusters of empty huts scattered along the East Coast highway. In the evening, discussing the journey with locals, we got the full download of the events around Christmas last year. On this side of the mainland, the tsunami had caused considerable damage to local fishermen who lived in huts built of palm leaves on the beaches. The devastation must have been considerable. In any event, these beaches were now believed jinxed and fishermen had taken a government offer to resettle a bit inland instead. On the positive key, Mamallapuram’s ancient temples were left unharmed by the disaster, and local fishermen are still braving the sea. The cheeky old monkey has returned to his bad habits too! [see below]

Auroville: a utopian future?

Out of all the temples, palaces and holy sites belonging to cults we stumbled upon during our travels, Auroville had the deepest impact on me. I cannot really put a finger on why this is the case, perhaps due to the megalomanic grand narrative of it all, or its out of place futuristic architecture. The area, typically and literally in the sticks, is dedicated to the principles of Sri Aurobindo Ghosh’s teachings, still tangible in the thriving community set up after his death by his chief disciple Mirra Alfassa, the Mother. Ghosh, an early 20th Century Bengali nationalist set up an ashram in Pondicherry to practice his philosophy of a peaceful community. Auroville, or the „City of Dawn“, came into existence in 1968 and still attracts people from all corners of the world. The Charter reads: „To live in Auroville one must be a willing servitor of the Divine Consciousness“... Auroville belongs to „humanity as a whole... the place of an undending education, of constant progress... a bridge between the past and the future... a site of material and spiritual researches.“ The community hosts its own schools and workshops, and is, I believe, more or less self-sufficient. Thousands of Indians have found work here, and in some ways, when interviewing inhabitants, one gets the impression that some things may not need a marketplace to work proper – just a framework of life to adhere to, albeit very different from the individualism we celebrate today in the West. On the other hand, the community does not share its treasures with the outside world very openly. For example, in order to be able to explore the huge area freely, visitors should sign up for kibbutsi-style living amongst families in the community. A small sacrifice perhaps, or none at all considering the architectural landscape and scope for relaxation.
The 30m high globe called Mathrimandir, pictured below, stands at the centre of Auroville and functions as a meditation room with a lotus bud shaped foundation urn and a crystal, apparently the largest in the world. A backpacker we met recommended Auroville’s guest houses at the beaches but, while a bit tempted, we played it safe and signed up for a guest house run by the ashram in town instead – possibly the best value we got during the journey. I guess we figured out where the money comes to fund the future of Sri Aurobindo’s dream. There is a marketplace after all.

On the Tamil temple trail

Chidambaram, Tanjore, Madurai; possibly the most dusty, smelly, sticky places I have ever seen. The crowded cities give an almost hostile welcome to visitors: masses of people, tons of litter and an exhausting damp heat. And while this might be written off as simply being „India“, it does not make the experience any easier. So is chasing holy smoke rewarding? I guess so. And hard work? You bet your ass. [below basin at the Chidambaram temple]


Nevertheless, the sight of the temples with their huge gopuram gates, ornamented with faces of various deities sporting "pointy big teeth", coupled with the experience of the life crammed within the temple walls, all the way to the holiest of the inner sanctums, is a remarkable testimony of the traditions of hinduism that is placed at the forefront of Indian life still today. Again, parallels to Indiana Jones and holy cows spring to my mind. Haggling over donations with brahmins is not uncommon, nor slipping on buttermilk on the stone floors, or stepping into cow litter with bare feet. Do not miss the blessing of an elephant (slimy trunk!), live music and the evening puja. The mood is sometimes eerie, sometimes magical – especially at dusk when temples come to life in a different light; maybe a memory of pagan mysticism we left behind a long time ago? [below gopuram gate at Chidambaram temple]

Burning ring of fire (NHS, up yours!)

In retrospect, I realise it must have been a combination of things. Christina was out of action for the second or third day in a row, and I had lost count of the times that the curry from the previous night had reminded me of its burning existence. The pattern would repeat itself a few times during the journey, but the prevalent factor must have been the heat. It kind of knocks off the normal functions of your body and your existence is reduced to a lethargic struggle for survival. Not that I was having any of it, bouncing about from place to place with a mad gleam in my eyes to compliment the hectic travel itinerary of a fool. For my part, I somehow managed to keep it all together but Christina was knocked out by fever and stomach pains a few times. My mother had painted a rather bleak picture of healthcare in India before we set off - so much for her expertise providing similar services at the headquarters of Nokia; so, for the record, she has been proven wrong. On two occasions, once at the outskirts of a jungle, we received prompt private healthcare for the hefty price of a hundred rupees a go, just over one pound sterling. Now, in defence of my mother’s advice, it may not take a rocket scientist to prescribe antibiotics to tourists complaining of stomach pains. Yet, I have learned from elsewhere that healthcare services on the upper echelons of the price scale are fast becoming products catering for international demand in the form of health tourism. As one tourist guide to Bangalore puts it, open-heart surgery may come with around a quarter of the price in India as compare to the West. (Americans - do not take this literally; consult your GP before getting any ideas.) The quality seems to be in place too – at least one backpacker we met on the road vouched for local dentists. And adding to this, a European medical student tells me that most of the top Australian insitutes are crowded with Indian specialists. Go figure, I got the impression that at least tourists are in good hands – not something I can necessarily brag about back home.

And the picture below? Well, even at the dusty temple trail across Tamil Nadu (Madurai), on antibiotics and seemingly pale, at least some stubborn ladies of potent Bavarian breed still manage to stay firm and haggle a good deal in time to catch the night train. A set of custom made skirts to put a smile on a tired face, ha!

Kerala backwaters

As we left Kanniyakumari, we also left behind the ragged landscape of the Tamil heartland in exchange for the lush greens of Kerala. Forests of palm trees, rice paddies, beaches and tiny rivers crawling through „God’s own country“. The journey took us to Varkala, Kollam, Alleppey and Fort Kochi, most of which are neatly connected by waterways along the coast of the Arabian Sea – the Kerala backwaters, a well-known etappe on the tourist trail.





The images below illustrate views from canoes and river boats that took us through villages in the backwaters, along canals and major waterways. Perhaps the odd comparison to Vietnam is not too far fetched, or indeed the Netherlands (with palmtrees!).






Our Keralan week was spoiled to some extent by the monsoon rains, and any hope of a enjoying a few days of reading in a hammock under a palm tree at the beach were wrecked. However, Fort Kochi turned out to offer much of that post-colonial charm that is surprisingly tricky to stumble over at times. The raggedness of the British, Prtuguese and Dutch built mansions, the wonderful mix of religious enclaves on the street map, the spice merchants still crowding Bazaar Road, the antiques shops at the Jewish quarters and the inviting locals eager for a chat on the state of affairs in Communist Kerala, the diversity of India, the spiritual void in the West and beyond. Alongside Mumbai, and regardless of the whiff of tourists that flock here once the season starts in November, this felt like as a place in the South we wanted to return to some day.
[below a fromer colonial estate we stayed in at Kollam, and images from the streets in Fort Kochi]

Where the three seas meet...a Canadian

Kanniyakumari, the southernmost tip of the country („next stop Australia, sir“), probably boasts the most stunning sunrise/set of South India. Or that, at least, according to the guidebooks: an opinion supported by the hordes of Indian tourists crowding hotel rooftops each morning. This was the place chosen for strewing some of the Great Soul Gandhis ashes in the 1950s. For us, the whole point was to ditch the dusty temple trail and get some fresh air at sea. In fact, the Bay of Bengal, Indian Ocean and Arabian Sea all meet a few clicks from the shoreline (not that I made any notice of it). We braved our way southbound from Madurai by the cheap and cheerful means of second class sleeper tickets on the Indian Railways, a recommended means of transport compared to the local buses. While tickets were as tricky to get as changing TCs at the State Bank – note the bureaucracy – we had managed to haggle two tickets on the tourist quota: one of those local benefits that state officials, military folk and other allegedly handicapped travellers like ourselves are allowed to exploit. Our arrival corresponded neatly with the sunrise just past six AM. A wonderful sight, hundreds of lanters bopping in the black sea, lighting up the track of fishermen passing in the horizon. The peaceful scene was broken by the appearance of the first rays of red sunlight and, at that very moment, an explosion of cacophony with Christian and Muslim mantras bellowing out from loudspeakers across the sea, turning the wonders of nature into a battle of microphones. I joined in by cheering for Arsenal, Capitalism and the Swedish People’s Party, a silly rant that no-one registered. Later on, zapping for the morning digest of news, the appearance of Celine Dion on CNN’s Larry King show felt like a kick in the groin from the man upstairs. In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, Celine had joined Larry with a cadre of his celeb chums, seemingly upset by the fact that she had only been able to donate a million bucks but no fresh water for those stuck in New Orleans. Of course, between the tears and snot running down her cheeks, we soon realised that there was more to come: a song called „The Prayer“ she had released earlier this year...performed live...on CNN...yet another Canadian making Elliott Cherneski howl in disbelief. To this date, I cannot begin to imagine what went through her mind. But it was entertaining. At sunset, I raised a glass to a view ruined by dark clouds gathering at sea, and cheered for Chelsea, Marxism and the Social Democrats in the hope that the Dude could sort out Celine for an episode on South Park. Kippers!

The Blue Mountain Railway

Ever had the chance to ride a steam engine across lush blue and green mountains covered by tea plantations in the crisp autumn morning? It beats the sub-surface Eurostar experience and the 250km/h German ICE marathon. For the few brief hours that the iron coated snake winds its way from Mettupalayam to Conoor and Ooty, travellers genuinely feel like being transported back in time rather than up the hill towards the former British holiday resorts and tea estates. While there is little left to experience in the mountain towns in terms of the luxurious life of former colonial times, a hike along the silent, narrow roads of the Niligiri mountains offers yet another unlikely gem of this diverse nation.
[below snaps from the trainride, the latest fashion in Ooty and a hut for distilling eucalyptus oil - something of a local Turkish sauna]




Times could be better for local farmers: the market price for tea is around rs 6 per kg, and the price for pepper even less. I dare not think what the ladies picking tea leaves on the steep hills might earn for an hour’s work, but down at the commodities exchanges in cities at sea level, low prices yield an appetite for active futures speculation. But as ever, like a surprise visit to a local tea factory showed us („yes sir, welcome, the boss is back only in two hours“), life goes on at the grass roots, and mishaps are best tackled with a wide, toothless smile.
[below images from a tea factory in the hills, its green surroundings including a little temple, and a trader at Pepper Exchange in Kochi]

Salaam Namaste

Like religious worship, it seems the cult of cinema pervades the life of all Indians. From the screaming pirate DVDs keeping passengers awake on busrides in the night, to every damn channel on the state and national TV networks, Indian films beam out to audiences in all corners of the country, at any given moment during the day. Studios operate in most states to cater silver screen narratives for local audiences, though the Mumbai works are the only ones capable of attracting audiences in Europe and beyond, notably not only amongst expat communities. A visit to a local blockbuster cinema in Bangalore showing the recently released „Salaam Namaste“ reminded us of the spontaneous nature of audiences in this part of the world. Where there was humour, the audience replied cheering, where there was singing and dancing, the reply came with more cheering, and when clothes were stripped at the romantic climax, the crowd response came close to that to a golden goal at the FA Cup final. We were glad to be seated near the front row – those under the balcony tend to be showered with popcorn and Pepsi.
But then again, we were screen veterans by the time we got to Bangalore, so we knew our way about. A few days earlier, in Fort Kochi, we had passed by a fashion boutique on a morning stroll in town and found ourselves promptly ushered in as extras for an advertisement being filmed for Mothood Bank, set to be released on AsiaNet in Kerala. The cast of actors belonged to the whitest of Indians we had come across during our travels, a feature very typical in both print- and broadcasting media for advertising and entertainment. And yes, we did feel out of place on a film set in stained t-shirts and bermuda shorts, but it was exciting nevertheless. Fundamentally, however – being the professionals we were during that brief period of screen fame – for the generous reward of a chocolate bar, we had contributed to the future success of Mothood&Co by our western looks before the day had reached noon. We had been officially made; we joined that cadre of silver screen deities the mere mortals dare not even dream of in India. Now, this is what I would like to think India offers the curious traveller at its best: an adventure under every stone you turn.

A walk on the wild side

Mudumalai wildlife sanctuary stretches out from the plains at the foot of the Niligiris to the border zone between Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. While the parkland hosts wildcats like tigers and cheetas, as well as elephants, bison and many more of those fascinating four-legged friends brought to us prime time courtesy of one Mssr Attenborough, it turns out that most of them, quite like ourselves, despise rain. And being that time of the year, they prefer to take cover in the bush. For those familiar with the works of the local bandit Veerappan and his merry entourage, it comes as no surprise that the local official have banned most tourist activity in the sanctuary and limited it to state run busrides along the main roads only. A visit to an urban European zoo to see fornicating ornangutangs proves more exciting. But there is, like elsewhere too, a way around government policies for nature reserves. A chat with a handful locals at the local "wine shop" (read: brandy den) in the afternoon soon lands an offer or two for a walk on the wild side in exchange for enough rupees to buy the whole rowdy bunch a ticket to oblivion. But while water buffalos, wild boar, deer and monkeys may be spotted in the wild, and approached with safety by foot, it turns out the locals have a fearful respect only of two animals: bears and elephants. The reason to why this golden rule for survival in the wild was annulled stood half-empty at the counter of the wine shop. Thus, at the sight of the first elephant in the bush, it was only the pussy tourist who wanted to approach the beast with caution. By the time we were being eyed for a charge, only those who had not started drinking in the morning wanted to join the Nordic Viking in climbing up a tree. Turns out there was no danger in the first place: a river too wide to cross separated us from the seemingly frustrated Dumbo. I got my snapshot and was happy to chase wild boar and water buffalos for the rest of the day. In the aftermath of this close encounter, I have decided to enjoy the wildlife back home in more detail whenever I get a chance – for the record, my first challenge is to ride a wild moose, perkele!

Bangalore, and being afraid of the dark

I do not know how we had managed to miss it in our planning but for the first time in India, we faced considerable difficulty in trying to find a roof on top of our heads and two beds to sleep in. The incessant noise of the chaotic traffic and the humid afternoon heat added to the frustration of a few hours of dragging around valuables from place to another around MG Road, downtown Bangalore. I eventually spilled my beans when a rickshaw driver took us to an address we had not asked for, presumably with the intention of doing a favour to a local hotelier in exchange for a handful of rupees. By the time I had spat a litany F- and related words at him, he too lost his wit and launched into an incomprehensible rant, shaking his tiny fist in the air in what looked like the summoning of higher powers for our extermination. This "town" was stretching my nerves.
Turns out Bangalore, alongside Mumbai, attracts such large numbers of tourists every weekend that on a Friday afternoon most hotels are jam-packed with people. And for this reason, most places downtown charge sums that border the unaffordable for those with a meagre travel budget. By dusk, we found something at the local YWCA, a long-shot from the Ritz we stayed in at Mysore the previous nights for next to nothing. In fact, it soon started to dawn on me that Bangalore itself did not quite live up to the hype it has been credited with. The city center has a distinctly western feel with glass-walled offices, malls, cinema complexes and shopping boulevards. However, I got the impression that the ambience lacked local flair. Mumbai has more than enough to offer in this sense, perhaps for having hosted foreigners for centuries and allowing for the sort of cultural melting-pot found in London, Amsterdam and New York.


A stroll around Bangalore’s renowned technology park or city centre felt like hanging out with the Joneses of the mail order catalogue. Where were the skyscrapers, tech clusters and busy bees that cause the media back home to wallow in that doomsday fatalism under the heading of „European competitiveness“? For the record, a difficult one-hour busride to the international tech park proved a disappointing exercise. Hosting a tiny mall, where Pizza Hut was the top attraction, together with and a handful of offices for 15,000 engineers and businessmen, the experience felt like gazing in childish awe at the bottom five floors of Canary Wharf trying to figure out what happened to the rest of the 45. There is no question in my mind that cities like Bangalore, Chennai, Hyderabad and Mumbai attract an incredible amount of foreign direct investment – failing to target the buying power of a growing consumer class within a population of soon +1billion Indians would be foolish. But so is being scared of the dark. We were anxious to return to Mumbai again.
[to illustrate the story, consider the contrast between the picture above to those below - it takes more than sorting the cows out of traffic to get the infrastructure sorted, and that is just for starters]

Lunch at the Hilton

Without realising it, the boys paced down the marble staircase like a pair of distinguished statesmen. While hilarious, something in that image made me reflect on what the future of India holds in the hands of its following generation of leaders. At just over twenty years of age, this lot were typically employed as managers in international companies, bankers or the like, and going about it with impressive ease. Lunch at the Hilton Oberoi had proved to be an overpriced experience but it seemed that for Gurveer and Ryan, this was not too far from the ordinary, and for a selected few, very much part of what India has to offer today. I am not qualified enough to introduce a proper discussion about the construction of social strata in Indian society, but it is suffice to say that from a European traveller's perspective, the pyramid of wealth distribution appears to stand firmly on its head.
Cruising down Muhammad Ali Road one night, the sight of hundreds of homeless people sleeping rough under a flyover bridge reminded us of the flipside of urban life in Mumbai: a city where Asia's largest slum hosts more than 1 million people. Ironically, driving down the street we whappened to be tuned into American Christmas songs, and a bizarre image of Santa Claus coming to town distributing salvation out of a Coca Cola truck sprang to mind. Then and there, however, for reasons beyond my comprehension, the homeless seemed at ease where they were resting: a strange observation from behind locked doors, in an air-conditioned white Honda.
After all this, you should be as surprised as I am to learn that India, according to a study by Messrs Deiniger and Squire for the World Bank (from 1996, quoted in Ormerod: Why Most Things Fail 2005), has been assigned a Gini coefficient (measure of income inequality) notably lower than that of the US and France - i.e. this is, on paper, a society where income is disrtributed more widely across social strata than in some of the richest and most developed nations in the world: a strange observation from an academic perspective.
To sum up the experience I reckon that never in my life, in such a short span of time, have I met people facing such varying standards of life. Beggars, omnipresent; merchants, touts, hoteliers, hassling people day and night; bureaucrats, brahmins, cops, guides, all scouting for a bribe or donation; the truly wealthy – I guess only them minding their own business. It often feels like, in India, hospitality goes as far as your purse stretches and that relationships to visitors are fickle and open for exploitation. These may be harsh words, and may merely reflect a fleeting memory of some disappointing moments, but it holds some truth, for local culture and values are much shaped by a surprisingly stern tradition of individualism: not in the occidental sense, but more in the context of survival. Time and again, our wonderful hosts in Mumbai proved the opposite by huge doses of an amicable hospitality I wish to return someday soon. But nevertheless, in some ways, there are traditions within the nation's cultures that, from our perspective, come across as weirdly counterproductive in the warped world of "Modern India".
On that bombshell, it should be noted that modern India has started to grapple with its identity, and while traditional India has yet to prove its willingness to follow suit, there is no hiding from the demons within- and outside its borders. Unlike Europe, India is not afraid of the dark: in fact, parts of it still has not emerged from the hiding, and much prefers to stay that way. True change springs from numerous elements within the body and soul of an entire nation, but it will take more than political leadership to grapple with this in the immense plurality of India: and this translates to other great projects too. Mahatma Gandhi, the Father of the Nation, once put it thus: „Unity to be real must stand the severest strain without breaking“. Where have we seen this before?

Closing the circle in Sana'a

Destined for a 15hr stop-over in Yemen on the way back home brought a number of nervous thoughts to our minds: both the US and UK foreign office websites had posted warnings for tourists to keep out of the country unless absolutely necessary. As it turns out, the second time at Sana’a International was as comfy as a stroll in the park, and from what we could gather from a few hours with a local guide in the streets of Sana’a’s old town – a Unesco World Heritage Site – the city, and indeed many corners of the barren country itself, deserves another visit. Not a whiff of the hassle with aggressive touts, none of the stinking litter, damp heat or mosquitos. Instead, a new, interesting culture to explore: men running about in traditional robes carrying daggers tucked in their belts, Mercs and SUVs swooshing away to and fro the desert landscape extending into the plains under the surrounding mountains, architecture stemming from centuries back, similar to that of saraceninc old towns on the Iberian peninsula. Also here the signs of change in the air, and interesting times ahead.