Beyond Here lies Nothing

When the white man first set foot upon Sydney’s eastern seaboard, he might’ve been surprised to find the native people of Australia already here. The Aborigine knew this stretch of sand simply as 'bondi'. Loosely translated, ‘the sound of breaking water’.

Before they were driven out by the colonists, the Aboriginal people used the beach area as a massive tool-making facility, using materials from the volcanic trenches that inundated the coastline. We know this, because somewhere in the 1930’s, a severe cyclonic storm drove back the sand dunes, unearthing the rock floor with its treasure trove of Aboriginal artifacts. Later, at the turn of the century, the word bondi and its ethereal blue-green hue signaled the second coming of Apple Inc. The bondi blue iMac, with its translucent geek coolth, captured the hearts and minds of global youth, ready to surf the freshly-minted world wide web. 

Bondi Beach

The iconic Bondi Icebergs Club

No trip to Sydney is complete without a visit to its iconic Bondi beach front. A paradise of golden sand, blue-green water, and armies of surfer dudes riding the crests of waves breaking deep into the shoreline, like modern day Vikings. But Bondi to Coogee coastal walk? This 6.5 km walk of moderate difficulty promised to be ‘the greatest coastal walk on the Pacific seaboard’. After due consideration, my wife and I decided to spend our Bondi beach day doing more than just spending the entire day on the main beach front, but actually checking this out.

Getting to Bondi beach from central Sydney is easy. We used the Sydney Metro to ride into Bondi station from the Town Hall area, and were ushered seamlessly into a bus that rode us through the scenic neighborhood right up to the beach front. That first sight of Bondi beach is special. The perfect cusp, the golden sand, the majestic cliff-side setting is all very fine, but what sets this beach truly apart is embedded into its name. It is only now that one realizes that the colour of these waters does indeed merit a name of its own. 

It was an early October morning when we visited. The winter season was winding down, and warmer waters were beginning to flow in from the South Pacific. We spent a leisurely hour relaxing on this beach, enjoying the sunshine and the water. On one end of the beach stood the Bondi Iceberg Club, with its fabulous infinity pool, where a small fee allowed all comers to enjoy a swim. Although we never did, I strongly recommend it. Our agenda, of course, was to walk from Bondi to Coogee, with several pit stops along the way.

The Bondi Icebergs Club is effectively the starting point for this walk. The path is concretized along the cliff, and although it involves climbing up and down stairs cut into cliff sides, it is a properly developed walking track all the way. Imagine a perfect gym walking track along a cliff, with sweeping ocean views on one side, and rock overhangs and aboriginal engravings on the other, and you’re somewhere close. Every now and then, the rock formations jut out into the ocean to create coves. Here and there, keen anglers can be spotted sitting patiently alert, atop some such rock that juts out into sea. The rock overhangs bear evidence of aboriginal cave art, although the ocean spray has washed away much of it over the centuries.

The first stretch lasts about 1.2 kms, sweeping around a cove and emerging near the Tamarama clubhouse.  As we keep walking from Tamarama towards Bronte beach, we cross a small inlet called Mackenzies Bay, where surfers are at large. Some of the best surfing waves along this stretch of coast are found right here at Mackenzie’s Point. We can sense that this is a preferred surfing destination going by the sheer number of bronzed surfers who hog this part of coast, and their high skill levels. We descend down onto the sands and waters at Bronte beach. There is a rock pool at one end of the beach. It is a very unique pool indeed. Sort of like a salt water swimming pool, with sea water and a rock bottom. The locals call it Bogey Hole.

An angler's Paradise

Surfers on Tamarama Beach

Two bronzed Surfers at Mackenzies Point

Natural pools at The Bogey Hole

Beyond the rock pool at Bronte, one has to climb stairs and cross a short stretch across a parking area to continue on the trail. Fortunately, the signage is very good, and easy to follow. Once back on the trail, we start to ascend cliffs that offer quite majestic views of the entire sweeping coastline, from Bondi all the way up to Coogee and beyond. As we keep ascending, along the next curve we find ourselves at, wonder of wonders, a cemetery. Along the cliff, in what should definitely rank as one of the more picturesque settings for a burial ground, lies the Waverly cemetery. It is worth spending some time here. We cannot help doing so. The silence of the gravestones against the blue beyond of the Pacific creates an Ozymandias moment that can only be broken by the mid-jog conversation of a trio of hunks around something more corporeal. We return on the trail to reach Clovelly, the next mini-stop on the circuit.

A sombre Pacific lookout

Waverly Cemetery

The Clovelly beach is pretty unique as well. Between two rocky ridges, a narrow bay runs deep into the mainland to create a cove. Clovelly beach is a favourite snorkeling destination, and also famous for being the home of one of the world’s first surf life-saving clubs, founded in 1906. The Bondi Surf Bather’s Life Saving Club, wearing their distinctive red and yellow quarters, began to prevent swimming disasters back then, and definitely played a part in making swimming out on sea a family sport in modern society. Their contribution was immortalized in the events of 1938’s ‘Black Sunday’, when three freak waves swept hundreds of people from Bondi beach out to sea. The lifesavers rescued 300 people in what remains the largest rescue operation in the history of surf bathing.

Bronte Beach balance lessons

Dusk at Coogee Bay

The sun has now begun its downward descent, and we want to catch the sunset at Coogee. So, we soldier on past Clovelly, crossing the Clovelly Bowling Club, and still more hidden coves and pristine stretches on the one side, luxury villas dotting the other. Clearly, the Bondi to Coogee stretch is the playground of the rich and famous in the Southern hemisphere, housing literally Australia’s Who’s Who along this six kilometre stretch. 1.8 kms further along, we see the wineglass shape of Coogee’s beach front open up as the sun gloriously touches down. We have left too little time to explore Coogee beach within daylight hours, but that does not deter us from walking up to the shoreline. Dusk cannot be more graceful in its measured advent. We finally sit down on the sandy Coogee beach, our walk now completed.

Later, as we explore the beach-facing promenade, we realize that Coogee is certainly no distant outpost. Plenty of options abound, whether you’d prefer a tipple or two, or even if you wish to head straight into dinner. We opted for a specialist seafood place, offering a significant gamut of Pacific marine life on a plate. Scallops went well with shallots, and pink trout left little doubt that the local black mussels were well worth the hustle. Seriously, do try the seafood in these parts. It’s fresh, light, and cooked unpretentiously. Like most things in Australia, what you see is what you get.

As we boarded the bus back into the city, I was left thinking just how much we covered in one day at Bondi, and yet only just scraped the surface. Isn’t that what a great destination should be like? Whether you spend a day here, or a leisurely month, Bondi beach and the Pacific shoreline will have you come back for more.

Blood on The tracks

Traveling through time on the Burma Death Railway

Bangkok sleeps early. Early morning, that is. As my wife and I step out of our self-catered apartment in Th Suan Phlu near Lumpini Park at about 6 am, we are amazed to find not a soul in sight. Less than four hours earlier, stampede-worthy crowds thronged these very streets, urban explosion at its detonation point, every nook and cranny crammed with a stall or a vendor or at least a honking tuktuk. Now, empty. We walk the entire block silently for a good 800 metres till the corner of Sathorn Road, where a lone pink taxi is pulled over by the wayside. Without fuss, we alight and utter the magic words.

“Thonburi Station.”

Within a few minutes, we’ve crossed the Chaophraya river, and bifurcated into a much older city. Derelict buildings and narrow bylanes, our taxi a time machine. Given its traffic notoriety, we have factored in the usual 2 hour Bangkok commute time. And here we are, in under 10 minutes. 15, tops. As I stand in the queue at the counter that simply reads “Third Class Passenger Ticket”, I must admit to a certain rush that courses through me. After all, this is the infamous Burmese ‘Death Railway’, across the bridge on the river Kwai into the heart of Thailand’s wild and unspoilt Kanchanaburi province.

Thonburi Station wakes early. Most unlike Bkk

The Nam Tok Express leaves at 7.45 am

Seems familiar?

Rewind to 1939. Asian ‘Axis’ power Japan starts to rampantly invade much of North and South East Asia. Thailand plays in Asia a role akin to Switzerland’s in Europe. No direct participation, but tacit support and occupation by the Japanese. To bring supplies into Burma, there’s only the sea route via Straits of Malacca, teeming with ‘allied’ submarines. Thus, the need for a railway link from Thailand into Burma. The Brits have already surveyed the mountainous terrain and concluded it is impossible to build such a railway. The Japs think otherwise. The Kempeitai, Japan’s secret police, not unlike Nazi Germany’s Gestapo, is roped in to expedite this herculean task. Using allied prisoners of war and unskilled Asian labourers, they set about building the Burma railway.

What should normally take more than ten years to build, if at all feasible, is attempted in ten months. Documented stories of abominable human suffering stand testimony to the building of the Burma railway. The Imperial Japanese Army (IJA) indoctrinated its soldiers to believe that surrender was dishonourable. POWs were therefore thought to be unworthy of respect. Severe punishments were meted out for even minor mistakes, such as failure to salute a Japanese guard. The sick and the ailing were not excused from duty, often leading to their deaths. More than 100,000 workers died under brutal conditions and unimaginable cruelty during the building of this railroad. It is said that one life was lost for each sleeper laid on this track.

The Burma Railway started operating in early 1944. However, on 13^th February 1945, the British Royal Air Force (RAF) bombed Bridge 277, the bridge over the Khwae Noi river, and with it, put paid to Japanese ambitions of world dominion. Most of us know the story through Pierre Boulle’s war-epic and later David Lean classic ‘The Bridge on the River Kwai’. After the Japanese surrender, the British removed about 4 kms of track at the Burma border. The track was sold to Thai Railway, who re-laid the Thai side of the railway between Ban Pong and Nam Tok. This section continues to be in use today. The present bridge has two of its central spans rebuilt. The original parts that were bombed can be seen at the War Museum.

*          *          *

The third class compartment aboard the Nam Tok Express isn’t half bad. Although non air-con, the seats match First Class offerings elsewhere in South Asia. What’s more, apart from the excellent pre-packed fruit and satay packets, the local vendors walking up and down the train aisle also carry beer. As we leave Bangkok behind us, the verdant greenery of rural Thailand dazzles. Before long, we are in mountain country. Although the train stops at Kanchanaburi, we choose to continue all the way to Nam Tok, crossing the bridge across Kwai, and later the Wampo Viaduct, built along the cliff side above the river. The train grinds slowly across the viaduct, also built painstakingly by the wartime labourers. 

The Third Class Compartment

A traveller awaits his station eagerly

As we cross the Wampo, a persistent vision of tens of thousands of sickly men laying tracks along the impossible bends conjure up. Today, the scenery is picture postcard tropical paradise. In fact, when the POW’s were first sent into Thailand, there was a rumour that they have been ‘upgraded’ and will spend the rest of their war in comfort, as was promised to them in the earlier camps in Japan. Little did they know.

We hire a local taxi at Nam Tok, and although we had considered a trip to ‘Hellfire Pass’, a disused section of the railway where one can walk for miles along the track, the midday sun and humidity levels have crossed into the red. The prospect of a cold towel at U Inchantree in Kanchanaburi beckons. Disappointed, we aren’t. A delightful property, literally five minutes downriver from the famous bridge, every earthly comfort thought of (at earthly prices), I recommend it thoroughly. There are other options of course, among which the quirkiest would be to stay on the water itself, on rafts built on stilts. Be warned though. Late evenings won’t be quiet, especially on weekends, as Thai and Korean Karaoke parties pierce into the stillness. Mercifully, our hotel was located on the other bank, relatively immune to these attacks.

U Inchantree Resort, Kanchanaburi. Enchanting, it is

The sit-out on the Kwai river

The hotel has it's own pier

There are 3 museums and 2 cemeteries dedicated to the Burmese Railway POW’s, all within Kanchanaburi town itself. Although we visited each of them, I particularly recommend the Death Railway Museum & Research Centre for a thorough and moving experience. The Thai War museum is interesting in a different way, with life-size sculptures of scenes re-enacted. POW’s laying tracks, while Japanese policemen with sticks and pistols hovering above them, cigarettes dangling from contorted lips. A train bogey with sickly workers’ bodies heaped inside. My favourite one is a wall with Allied leaders on one side, and Axis on the other. Hitler, Mussoulini, Stalin, Churchill, they’re all here. One sign on the wall reads- “War is sinful behavior.” Another one, profound- “Peace is the behavior merit.” Clearly, some translation losses have been incurred.

From the Death Railway Museum & Research Centre

The Thai War Museum is gigantic

Life-Size depictions of Death Railway scenes

The feared Kempeitai, Japan's secret police

Ahem. Indeed

Good example of Th's continuing demand for English teachers

 Next morning, we start early and set out on a jeep across the Khwae Noi valley towards the river mouth. The spectacular drive takes us up to Erawan National Park, where the seven-tiered Erawan Falls awaits. If there’s one reason to visit this part of the world, this would clearly be it. As we keep ascending from the lower tiers to its upper reaches, the water keeps getting bluer, and the bathers scarcer. We pitch anchor at tier 6. If only the fish wouldn’t gnaw at us so, this would indeed be paradise. 

Panaromic shot of Kanchanaburi province

The river mouth. Ethereal

Tier 3 of the 7-tiered Erawan Falls

Father and son pontificate

Each tier of Erawan Falls offers something different

Tier 6, where we found our bliss

A further hour’s drive into the national park takes us to the Phra That cave site. Warning. This involves a serious climb. About 2000 steps cut into a steep mountain side. Aah, but the rewards. Stunning stalactite and stalagmites like I’ve never seen before. Entire cave walls made of quartz. One of the formations resembles a sitting Buddha. It is astonishing.

The trek up to Phrathat Caves

The cave entrance belies its massive size

The last of available light as we descend

Entire walls made of quartz

Myriad stalachtite/stalagmite formations

The curtains deep underneath

All good things do come to an end. If we had another week, we would ride on an elephant, walk along the death railway tracks to the Hellfire Pass, hire bicycles and ride along the Khwae Noi river, or just float on a boat upstream, fine tuning the art of doing nothing. Instead, we find ourselves aboard a minibus on the third day, ziplining into Bangkok’s outer reaches in under two hours.

The city has woken up, though. It takes a further two to see us back to the condo.

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This is Radio Mali

On a rain-soaked day, after a tumultuous journey through 3 West African airports over the best part of a night and a morning, we have arrived at the town they call Bamako. Ali Farka Toure’s Bamako, the bars and the cafes where Manu Chao, Ry Cooder and a host of other luminaries from the world of music have played and recorded at. The Bamako that’s the other end of the Dakar Rally, the Bamako at the bank of the Niger river, the Bamako that is the capital of the country that towards its North-East extremities has a place that is as close to nowhere as is known to man. A place called Timbuktoo.

This is Radio Mali. Turn it on, leave it on.

Je ne parle pas francais...

Please monsieur, I do not speak French.

Having learnt my first meaningful French phrase after spending a lifetime dodging about with ce va’s and bonjour’s and merci boucoup’s, I was feeling particularly vulnerable on my first foray into Le Francophone Afrique, despite the good fortune of having the company of KO, my multilingual (French/English/Others) colleague for support. We had spent the better part of the night negotiating our way through myriad West African airports, embarking at Accra Kotoka on a Virgin Nigeria flight, and for some strange reason, flying all the way out to Dakar, capital of Senegal, before flying halfway back and upwards to Mali. The journey had been eventful, to say the least.

Highlights would include spending 5 hours in utero in a glass cubby-hole known as the transit lounge of the Dakar airport, where some Senegalese officials had confiscated my passport for safe-keeping while I waited in transit. Not to mention the health officer we encountered when we touched down in Mali, who demanded to see our Yellow Fever Vaccination certificates. We didn’t have them, alas, and were promptly marched into a room bearing the title - Medical Officer. Once inside, Mr. Medical Officer proceeded to light up a long-tipped cigarette. Right there, in the middle of Mali International Airport!! Me and KO were too bizarred out for a couple of minutes to react properly, wild thoughts running through our heads no doubt... injections from unsterilized needles administered by strange Touareg-looking Malian Health Officer, Marlboro dangling from lips... fortunately, it turned out okay, as he merely produced a tattered pamphlet which listed fines for different offences. Our’s came in at 18000 CFA’s, and after some skillful bargaining (KO), we managed to wrangle ourselves out of disaster area, and into the welcoming arms of a bunch of dudes in Nestle T-Shirts, and from there-on, full corporate fortification.

Purquois une brand essence?

My first Only French workshop is not the disaster I expected it would be. Thankfully, KO is an articulate and effective translator, and the (very few) instances I have needed to speak, it has been fairly easy to do so. I am sitting in a room full of Nestle managers from different countries across West Africa, who are flinging powerpoints at each other with unerring accuracy. Thankfully, everything is in French, so I can conveniently keep scribbling the mineral water bottle label literature on my notepad... eu minerale naturelle Tombouctou 0.5 litre... recommendee pour toute la familie... We are in this room to display our good intentions, and represent to our gentle hosts that we are not afraid of sending Indian people into African boardrooms where business is conducted in French.

Consommateur is always the king!

Last evening had turned out fun. Soon after arriving, we had walked downtown. Not that there is much town to walk in Bamako, although the Grande Hotel is located strategically, amidst tree-lined military barracks on either side, crumbling yet majestic colonial structures from the French era... the post office, the ministries, and culminating into the piece de resistance, the Grand Musee De Mali.

Spread over a large area of over a hectare or more, the Musee is located at one end of Bamako town, away from the river. A cliff rises from within the museum premises, and along the foothills, there are interesting pieces of installation art. We spotted a dinosaur family, a miniature of the mosque at Djenne, a life-size bush taxi, sculpted with meticulous precision that looks deceptively life-like at first glance. We would have entered the Museum, but unfortunately our ploy to pass me off as a Ghanaian (and therefore eligible to an entry fee of 500 CFA as opposed to 2500 CFA that foreigners had to pay) did not work out. KO could not deal with this, got violent and all, and so we were reluctantly leaving, when an enterprising Bamako taxicab man convinced us to jump into his car. The fact that it was a good looking (though beat-up) Mercedes Benz may have had something to do with it. Soon, we were climbing steeply up the cliff, and shortly, reached the summit.

The view atop Musee hill was breathtaking. More so because directly below the cliff, an Olympic-size track and field stadium opened up unexpectedly, giving us a helicopters-eye view of the majestic stadium below. We had turned into eagles, flying over the Niger delta... the sprawl of Bamako stretched out below, the Musee, the Stadium (where 3 days ago the Ghanaian Black Stars had put paid to Malian World Cup ambitions 2-0). Further behind, the Niger river bisected the town into two. As far as the eye could see, the land lay flat, and the vegetation sparse, a prelude to the harsher Sahelian desert that stretches North. But from that vantage point, that afternoon, harsh desert was still some distance away... the air was cool and clean, markedly different from the heavily polluted town below. It felt good to be there. We lingered there for quite some time. Finally, the sun tore through the clouds, and we decided to head back to the comforts of our hotel before we head out for the evening.

The Azalai Grand Hotel of Bamako deserves a worthy mention here. Situated centrally, the Grand is registered as a Four Star property, and is part of the Casablanca-based Azalai Group of hotels. However, in more ways than one, its features are ‘deluxe’ as opposed to ‘superior’... Italian marble and zero-volume opera in the toilets that segue into livelier Creole sounds as you move from toilets to lobby areas, for example. High-speed internet access in rooms, wi-fi across, well-appointed salon, antique shop, well-stocked bookshop, travel agency, it’s all here, and discreetly done. One killer feature that we enjoyed- 2 swimming pools in the premises... the main one, and then, in the extended grounds which also houses tennis courts and sports facilities, an identical-sized second pool. We began to understand why this works really well on our first afternoon itself, when about 45 kids spent the best part of the day splashing-sploshing noisily. But neatly tucked away in the second pool. The main one was stylishly quiet, and in a sense, out of bounds for the little fellas. Brilliantly done, we thought. The food, staff-responsiveness, and bang-for-buck (we were staying in rather well-appointed rooms with high-speed internet for $60 per night) make the Azalai Grande a recommended choice for future travellers.

The bustling nightlife of Bamako town... music spilling from nooks and crannies that we were expecting to encounter on our first evening... eluded us on the first night. We went to a couple of places where we were told it’s still too early (things apparently kicked off midnight onwards). Dejected, we went to a street they call the Rue De Princesse, which was better, with a bunch of cafes, bistros and restaurants lined up along a dusty side alley. We blindly tried one of the places, called La Terrace. Turned out to be a great choice, really... a cavernous and beautifully designed open-format place where a lot of beautiful people were hanging out. A bevy of beauties were manning the bars (Ivorians, we later learnt), so bar stools were a natural choice. John Fogerty was belting out old CCR hits 20 years too late on the giant video screen, although that was not the high point of the ambience. In all, when in Bamako, look up Rue De Princesse for an early evening session, before the serious stuff.

The serious stuff, we glimpsed on our following evening. After a day spent visiting markets, talking to consumers, and basically working our bones off, we needed to chill in a large way. There is a street in Bamako which houses all the fine-dining stuff. TexMex, Thai, Italian, Lebanese, they have it all. We went to a French/Mediterranean restaurant at a wrap party that the Nestle people were throwing. It turned out to be memorable, not for the food so much, but for the house band... a blind keyboard player and a sunburnt guitarist, played distilled versions of French/Polynesian/Acoustic classics. It being a corporate type sit-down dinner after a hard day’s work, the party retired at the polite hour, leaving us stranded somewhat. Thankfully, our gentle host Desiree really shined here... Our main man lost the crowd, and thereafter proceeded to drive us to where the action was. From nowhere, his buddies emerged, and before we knew it, we were plush inside a jazz club with class written all over it, and a full-fledged band playing breathtaking jazz in the house. Finally! We settled in like the proverbial birds. Mr Jack was in da house, and all was well with God’s world.

No visit to Mali is complete without a mention of what struck me as its greatest asset... it’s artisana. This has got to be one of the most artistic nations on earth. Take the fine weaving of the Bogalon fabric, where mud fabric is all hand spun with earthy African motifs, and then the entire piece of fabric is dyed in tea made from the Bogalon tree found in Mali... or take the breathtaking Malian masks, Ebony wood carvings, the Djembe drum of the Dogon people, ancient Moslemic brass weaponry, the scriptures of Tombouctou, the list goes on and on. As one of the earliest seats of Moslem learning and culture, Malian art is a heady Molotov cocktail made of diverse ingredients... the Tuareg, the Songhai, the Dogon, the Bambara, all these people and cultures contribute, and make Mali one of the most artsy cultures in the world. Struck me as a pity that the government of Mali or France has never really been able to represent the wealth of the material available, and exploit its tourist potential.

Perhaps it’s better left so...

Et si l’Afrique refusait le developement?

What if Africa refused to be developed, intentionally?

Mali Lynx

The Festival of the Desert | The legendary Festival of the desert every January attracts tourists from the world over.

http://africaguide.com/travel/package/1708.htm

Et si l’Afrique refusait le developement? | Axelle Kabou’s 1991 Classic on developmental economics where she argues the case for an Africa that refues to be developed along Western lines, and argues what if it is deliberate.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Axelle_Kabou

Mia Mali | If you happen to visit Bamako, definitely check out this gift shop. Admittedly boutique, it is still very decently priced for the kind of stuff on offer.

http://www.elainebellezza.com/

Azalai Hotels | A good choice. We were at the Azalai Grande, which is a really nice and cost-effective option. However, the Azalai Nord Sud (which we visited) has a super-duper Jazz club and is even more upmarket.

http://www.azalaihotels.com/

Artisana | The open market near the Courts leads to this amazing Crafts bazaar where the best of Malian crafts are available in a haggle and haul bazaar environment that will please even hardcore street market buffs. Do not miss.

Timbuktoo Scriptures | A New York Times piece on the ancient scriptures of Timbuktoo that gives insight into its past and perhaps future significance.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/07/world/africa/07mali.html?_r=2