Ulta-Pulta in US --उल्टा पुल्टा इन अमरीका

उल्टा पुल्टा इन अमरीका

US customs and us
By: Rajbir Deswal
Yes, I will talk about both customs here in the US. The custom customs and also the custom customs. Customary musts of Wren and Martins are given a go by here. We in India are still the sticklers. Here we go, seriously.
Holidaying in Seattle this summer, I was surprised to watch the reaction of a local American on seeing an eagle. “Vow, did you hear the eagle squeak!” He asked me while strolling in Idylwood Park in Redmond.
I smiled back to reassure him since it is their national bird. But my mind took me on a flash back when in my village I used to dread the shriek of a kite of the eagle family, during the scorching heat of June. The yokels in my village likened the squeaking of the kite to the popping out of its eyes due to heat.
Many things here seem to claim the theme of Jaspal Bhatti’s copyright—Ulta-pulta! The lamp switches are on when turned up, and off when turned down. You tell your kids here to ‘always keep to the right’. There are no conductors and the drivers only give you tickets to your destination. The drivers flash the headlights of their vehicles to let you go first, unlike our desi variety who assert their right of way, being ‘Road Kings’.
Back at home, we receive gifts at the same time indulging in affectations like: “No, what was the need?” “No, it’s not done every time” “Why this formality?” But here when you receive gifts you are expected to open the packaging and appreciating the stuff, there and then, with many “Thank You!”s and “O so very thoughtful of you!”s.
Ofcourse when you are reading your fresh copy of the morning newspaper, then it is still the stale news of the previous evening here to catch up with. In India we invoke our Gods and Goddesses or even greatmen and women saying , “Hey” but here “Hey!” is to either express disgust or to address someone. “Hi” here is a greeting and backhome is exclamation of sorrow meaning—Alas! And lastly, you blow horns here only to invite frowns and not sound alarm to clear traffic as we do in India.

Wild Beauties मिलें ना फूल तो काँटों से दोस्ती कर लो

When it comes to appreciating or arranging flowers, we always go for the apparently good looking ones with pithy and nicely naturally cut or shaped petals or green stems and almost perspiring leaves. Why do we not appreciate the wild varieties which again are a creation of Mother Nature and grow in more exacting environs than usual. I mean heat, less water, extreme winters, deserts, tropics etc etc. The spikes and thorns put us off generally. Dryness and brownness of leaves does not attract our eyes. But if you have a liberal VIEW then you will see that even the wild varieties of flora is equally beautiful.

I took these pictures wading through the Mary Moor Park in Redmond, Seattle.

Click the TITLE above to see all photos in a web album

There is nothing yet enough to do in Porlock, Somerset, England

The Sun doesn't seem to be in a hurry to go down at Porlock (UK).

The Tribune carried our travel piece in their magazine SPECTRUM (Click title to see the travelogue in The Tribune)
on Porlock, from where the mysterious man came and disturbed Samuel Taylor Coleridge ,while he was penning his famous poem 'Kubla Khan".

Sunday, December 23, 2007
Somerset serenity
Rajbir Deswal & Chander Koumdi visit a quiet coastal village in south England that maintains its own rhythm and pace. Even the sun seems to go down in Porlock as if it is not in a hurry...

The Methodist Church in Porlock.Horse riders are a common sight in the village lanes— Photos by the writers.

WE started from London early to avoid the morning rush. A couple of hours’ drive took us to some of the most scenic slopes. Initially we had planned to visit the three most beautiful counties of south England — Somerset, Devon and Dorset. But information collected from a tourist centre on the way changed our mind and we decided to zero down on an English village in Somerset close to the sea.
We passed by many big and small towns before we reached Porlock, a tiny hamlet that boasts of beaches, cliffs and antiquity — visible on houses, churches, marketplace, lanes and farmhouses. Yes, this was the village from where once travelled the mysterious man who shook Samuel Taylor Coleridge off his opium-induced reverie while he was staying in a farmhouse and composing his famous poem Kubla Khan. The ‘person from Porlock’ is said to have distracted the legendary poet, who could not complete his work.
Before checking into a hotel close to the famous Porlock Weir, we took a good one-hour drive through the village to have a feel of the place. We decided to put up close to the shore, so close that the tides could spray showers through the windows of our room. Yes, there was only a road between us and the boats, lying in shallow waters on the mouth of the weir. Porlock is one metre below the mean sea level.
Porlock is at one end of the renowned 10-mile-long Exmoor National Park, which has the most extensive broadleaved coastal woods in Britain. Porlock has a steep jutting cliff as well as vast sloping stretches, which are very attractive and inviting.
From the high-rise land, one can see the Caravan Camping site slightly away from habitation. It can be reached through a meandering lane, which is heavily hedged with greenery. There are hotels and restaurants with a unique inner d`E9cor, a reminder of the times gone by. The facades of the buildings speak volumes of their typically oriental looks.
While sipping coffee in the restaurant, we could hear the trot of horses. On looking out of the window, we found them riding in the middle of the road outside. There is a riders’ school in Porlock.
In the late 15th century, Porlock had a lepers’ colony, which housed 50 ostracised lepers. Stories are still rife about the priests who served here. After the death of the last leper in early 16th century, the village had none to visit it for nearly a hundred years, till in the 17th century when smugglers moved into the lepers’ colony with their loot and booty.
Uphill at Culbone, reached traversing a steep path from Porlock weir, is the smallest Parish Church of England with a seating capacity of just 35. Some distance from here is the Ash Farm where Coleridge is said to have written his Kubla Khan. Porlock has an old Methodist church besides the one with a truncated spire dating back to the 13th century.
The place is not at all different from the rest of south England, where people do not like to be disturbed. There is a typically English environment all around. It does not hurt others to the extent of discomfiture. You need to follow dyed-in-the-wool English ways and any departure from them is sure to invite attention, if not censure. But then it goes with every other place on earth which seeks to maintain its rhythm.
The evenings are very well lit particularly at Porlock Weir and provide good light for photography. Every leaf and grass blade is literally bathed in sunshine. The pebbles, lying in abundance, appear as pearls strewn all around. The sun goes down as if it is not in a hurry.
The silent Bristol Sea impresses with its dark blue-green resolution. And suddenly you hear a big, fat cat meowing, followed by another, right in the middle of the road, as if announcing and indicating there isn’t going to be any traffic till 10 the next morning. Mind you, it is only 7 pm by your watch, and you are all by yourself.
We are in the embrace of an engulfing but pleasurable quietude. We decide to spend some more time on the beach when we meet a couple, who tell us they had visited this hamlet for their honeymoon 29 years ago. "We have visited Porlock four times since then!" confessed the wife with a blush and her husband smilingly nodded in agreement. It is said that there is nothing, yet enough to do, in Porlock.

Bountiful Glenwood Springs for family trips

Wrapped in mystery, Glenwood Springs in Colorado, US, appears as if it has for a long time been a favourite haunt of wanderers and holiday-makers. Today, the place is an economical and family-friendly stopover to the almost unaffordable Aspen, known worldwide for its skiing sites. Aspen is about 40 miles from here.
From Denver, we reached Glenwood Springs covering about 160 miles, through Vail, another ski destination, on the most eco-friendly highway called I-70. About 10 miles short of the place, we had an exciting experience wading through a serpentine mountainous tract that boasts of being one of the tentacles of the Grand Canyon — an awe-inspiring sight of a huge, red rock.
Until the middle of the 19th century, having been discovered as a gold mine area, this town at the confluence of Roaring Fork and Colorado rivers was called Defiance. During those times Glenwood Springs attracted tourists who were mainly interested in the ‘Fairy Caves’ with grottos and labyrinthine ducts. It was only in 1885 that Sarah Cooper, wife of one of the town’s founding fathers Issac Cooper, gave the place the name Glenwood Springs after her hometown Glenwood, Iowa.
In the late 1800s when the world’s largest hot spring pool was created here by Walter Devereaux and his brothers, the place was dotted with nearly three score such springs. Recreational activities now abound here, attracting hunters, fishermen, mountain bikers, hikers, river rafters, skiers, snowmobilers besides those who want to have a taste of yampah, meaning ‘big medicine’ since the hot water springs here are known to have curative properties to fight diseases.
No wonder then that the famous Doc Holliday, a hunter, gambler and a dentist, stayed here for 12 long years to cure himself of tuberculosis. He died in a room in Hot Springs Hotel and Lodge at the age of 38. His grave at Pioneer Cemetery is a must-visit for tourists but it is doubted whether Doc Holliday is actually buried there or not.
Standing on the rooftop of our Bed & Breakfast, Glenwood Motor Inn, and looking westward, we could have a breathtaking view of the Red Mountain, which had cottony clouds kissing its peaks. Rays of the setting sun made the entire horizon look like a collage of colours. On our east and at an elevation of about 1500 feet was the famous Cavern Adventure Park which could be approached on a cable car. One can find here the world’s First Alpine Coaster sliding through the downhill park with a speed of 50 miles an hour.
On the southern side lies the famous ski destination called Sunlight Mountain Resort offering snowmobiling and ice-skating. This place is a natural choice for "ski-stay-swim" tourists. The snowy peaks show up from here in varying hues. The average altitude of the mountains around Glenwood Springs reaches up to 13,000 feet while the place itself is at 5,700 feet. The view from the park of the Roaring Fork Valley is fascinating. Here is also America’s world famous Amtrak railhead from where one can reach the historical downtown and reach the Hot Springs pool.
The evening stroll from our hotel to the Hot Springs took us just five minutes and we again felt tempted to take a dip in the hot waters. Rain or snow, the pool is full to capacity. The mineral rich water is captured at 122 F and toned down to 93 to 104 F. There are two pools with temperatures slightly different from one another. The small Down Town area is close by with the City Hall and Police Station building. Chains of many continental eateries, besides the typically American ones, are all around. We preferred Mexican burette "to go" at Qudoba on the first day of our three-day stay. ‘To go’ means the stuff needs to be packed. ‘To stay’ means you are having it there itself.
Glenwood Springs attracts tourists all the year round and it can be reached by road as well as rail. There are about 14 direct air services but the three airports in Eagle County, Aspen and Grand Junction are 30, 40 and 90 miles from here. The accommodation is fairly cheap, almost one-fourth of what you get in the adjoining ski destination and town of fashionable and rich people, Aspen. Yes you can stay with your pets also at some of the places. They have declared a 12-mile stretch of the Roaring Fork River as the Gold Medal River where those interested in fishing find the best of trout. Back home, one is sure to miss the time spent in this beautiful valley town — Glenwood Springs.
Co-author:Chander Koumdi

This travelogue was published in The Tribune on July 1'07

New Orleans Before The Catarina Hit

It's for no ordinary reason that New Orleans is among the most visited places on earth. It has a history. A mystifying geography. And a culture that forces you into identifying with strong human emotions of pain and pleasure, jubilation and desperation, ecstasy and wonder.
The magical charm of its voodoos, ghosts, and haunted houses coupled with the social whirls of Mardi Gras, the highest pitch and frenzy of tarantella, its spirit permeating the city throughout the year, adds spice to life.
Excited at an offer of a free trip to New Orleans we were waiting for our coach to arrive at the Holiday Inn at Baton Rouge, the capital of Louisiana. Our escort, John Zins was educating us on the inevitable city, in the warm sunshine rendered almost useless because the chilly breeze made us cling on to our jackets wrapping them a little more tightly around our bodies.
The highway to New Orleans floated through swamps and marshland that turned into vast lakes at places. We made our 90-mile-long journey over long bridges. The longest stretching 24 miles over Lake Pontchartrain. Early March had denuded all the tropical trees of their foliage.
New Orleans is about 200 miles off the Mississippi mouth in the Gulf of Mexico. The river with its mud-banks flows 10-15 feet above sea level. The city stands on a levee and they dig 70 feet deep foundations to erect high-rise buildings here because of a high water table. The first skyscrapers, built in the city in 1795-1811, were three-stories tall.
Long barges floating on the Mississippi packed with merchandise stand testimony to the city’s trading past. Plantations on either bank of the river were once managed like huge commercial fiefdoms owned by rich landlords who traded in indigo, cotton-ginning, tobacco, rice and employed slaves in their hundreds. The cemeteries in the city are built above the ground where the dead are buried in stacks not inside, but above the earth. Legend has it that a farmer while dying beseeched his children not to bury him underground since he had spent all his life in misery, in the marsh, mud and muck. And that he was going, he wanted some respite from the waters in his death. Since then, folklore has it, the cemeteries have always been built above the ground. New Orleans has a mystifying and awe-inspiring interest in its voodoo and haunted houses. The place has historically been associated with disease and epidemics, which the early settlers from France and Spain suffered along with the Acadians or the Cajuns – the locals. Once upon a time the city was dominated by French architecture, which later gave way to Spanish; the latter rulers ensured a systematic approach to preserving architectural impressions in keeping with the city’s history.
We first stopped at the zoo on the banks of the Mississippi, a simulated swamp with fountains and carvings as cuspy as soft tendrils. A colony of flamingos were a major attraction. An 8-feet high statue of the sitting Buddha took us by surprise in the middle of the park.
Crossing a railway track through the lush green terrain, we reached the banks of Mississippi from where we were to join a cruise to the French quarters, sailing through the Crescent Crown in a Horseshoe route. Piercing cold breeze brought black and threatening clouds from nowhere and soon it started raining. Picnickers rushed to a shelter, their beer cans literally blown off their hands by the wind. Umbrellas turned inside out and challenged their users in a chase of sorts completely drenching them in the piercing rain. Families out on a holiday packed their children and pets into waiting cars and caravans, even as half-a-dozen among us, braved the weather, clutching a pillar for support.

This article was published in The Economic Times on 27th March, 2003.