A month in review

Charmalla, Hyderabad

In terms of numbers, we traveled for 26 days, stayed in 10 hotels (camped once), took 9 flights together, explored temples and mosques from 7 different dynasties/eras, were scuba buddies 6 times, carried 5 Patagonia pieces of luggage, visited 4 countries, got mildly sick 3 times (Drew), saw the sunrise twice, and were only forced to check a bag once. In terms of the immeasurable, we took thousands of pictures, ate oodles of noodles, consulted the Lonely Planet perhaps a few too many times, played Welder (Clare) and Maze Crusade (Drew) endlessly in airports, and saw a countless number of beautiful and intriguing sights.

We began our journey under the sea—two days of diving off the southwest coast of Thailand—and ended on a hill overlooking the city of Hyderabad, at the Palace Falaknuma.  The arc of our voyage stretched across Burma and Cambodia, where we biked around ancient temples and sampled various culinary delights. In our first week we soaked in the peace and tranquility of the Golden Buddha resort—rarely leaving the veranda of our ocean-view teak bungalow, excepting for delicious mealtimes. Our trip then picked up its pace, and by the end we found ourselves immersed in the cacophony of a Sikh parade on the frenetic streets of Old Delhi, and in the chaos that is the Taj Mahal on New Year’s Day. We spent our first Christmas as a married couple clambering amidst the ruins of Angkor Wat, and New Year’s Eve drinking and dancing at a nightclub in New Delhi’s Samrat Hotel. We finished our trip with too many highlights to be able to pick a favorite, too many experiences to recount them all, and too many photos for anyone but our parents to withstand. We hope that these smatterings of images and reflections give at least a taste of our month-long trip through Asia. For the real flavor—well, you will just have to go and see (and eat!) for yourself.

New Year’s Day 2014 at the Taj Mahal

Palace Falaknuma, Hyderabad

Years ago, in the late nineteenth century, a rich nobleman, Sir Nawab Vikar-Ul Umra, built a palace in the shape of a scorpion on a hill, overlooking the city of Hyderabad.  It was called Palace Falaknuma. The lavish palace was so admired by the sixth Nizam of Hyderabad, Mehboob Ali Pasha, that Sir Vikar, the Nizam’s brother-in-law, offered it to him as a gift. The Nizam took up residence at the palace, immersing himself and his family in its luxury and opulence. His library, a replica of the one at Windsor Castle, housed rare books and manuscripts, and even a renowned collection of the Holy Quran, all of which he collected on his travels. On the walls of the large dining room with seats for one hundred guests were murals, each one of which depicted a different type of food—pheasant and fowls on one panel, overflowing fruit bowls on another. It was said that the Nizam would merely point to the pictures of the foods he desired, and the cooks would immediately prepare elaborate dishes with his selected ingredients for him and his dining companions. A room decorated entirely with jade served as a sitting parlor; nearby ladies quarters contained circular “gossip” couches while in the billiards room, camel-leather chairs were occupied by men, smoking and sipping liquor from the Nizam’s extensive collection. Life in the palace took place above the hustle and bustle of everyday Hyderabadi life; the Nizam and his family looked down over their manicured gardens and could only guess, abstractly, at the fears and pleasures, the hopes and dreams, of the ant-like citizenry below.

Today, over a century later, the luxury hotel chain Taj Resorts has meticulously restored the Palace to its former stateliness. The oil in the Moroccan-style lamps that suspend from the portico’s ceiling has been replaced with light bulbs and there are sockets in the walls, yet there remains the feeling that a beautifully dressed princess, or dapper prince, may emerge from one of the ornate bedrooms that wrap around the perimeter of the palace.

We are here for dinner, which begins with a tour of the palace. A young woman guides us around, pointing out the writing desk where an enormous diamond once served as the Nizam’s paperweight and leading us into a dark room containing numerous sets of the royal family’s flatware—mainly English bone china interspersed with greenish-tan Chinese ceramics—and various pieces of tarnished silverware. The tour finishes in the inner courtyard, and we walk alongside the softy lit ponds that run through its center towards the restaurant, Adaa. We pass a private party taking place in one of the courtyard’s side gardens, where lanterns hang and we can hear boisterous laughter and notes of music, a drum beating. It is enchanting, and for yet another time on this trip, we are transported back in history—this time to a bygone era of lavish royal parties, Turkish princesses marrying Mughal princes, stately dinners with only the finest of crystal and best cuts of meat, the visiting of European monarchs, walks about the gardens, high tea on the veranda.

Our meal at Adaa is delicious. We are served South Indian style lobster, in a rich flavorful tomato sauce, tender lamb that falls off the bone with the slightest touch of our forks, accompanied by coriander and mustard seed-flecked green beans and potatoes. “Eggplant three ways” provides us finally with a taste of that delicious dish that is baingan bharta, served with slightly smoky, fresh out of the tandoori oven naan. We gaze out onto the twinkling lights of Hyderabad below, glancing at the large party dining al fresco on the veranda, table candles flickering in the still-warm evening air. They sip wine, nibble on papadums, and there is a sparkling quality to the tableau in front of us, a sense of sprinkled fairy dust. Not entirely unlike the magic of our own wedding dinner just a few months ago. After dinner we walk out of the Palace’s front entrance, past two white horses in royal regalia, their silver buckles catching the light from the glowing bulbs of the old-fashioned style street lamps. We are ferried via golf cart down the hill back to our car, where our driver Abu awaits, opening the door for us, ready to take us back through the dusty streets and honking traffic of the old city.

Lunch near Galconda Fort, Hyderabad

There is an art to eating with one’s hands, but for now we, as lefties, are just focused on remembering to eat with our right hand. We stand out enough as it is, and we would rather not entirely embarrass ourselves or offend anyone with a major culinary faux pas. We are in a narrow bustling canteen, shaped like a train car with windows on one side and lined with diner-style banquets, and it is lunchtime. On the other side of the street tourists are making their way past the gauntlet of hawkers and tour guides to the Galconda Fort, but we are hungry and food is on the agenda before we climb the crumbling ramparts of the citadel. We have spotted this little unassuming restaurant conveniently located directly across the road from the fort’s entrance. Inside, the banquets are crowded with local Hyderabadi families, and two waiters run up and down the galley serving up silver plates with dividers that contain a half section of rice, a quarter section of veggie stew, a quarter section of dal, a bit of achar (spicy pickle), and topped with a chapati. This is thali, South India’s version of a plate lunch. It is simple, filling and tasty. Yet in this casual eatery, there are no menus and no silverware. Sopping up the lentils with a chapati is easy enough, but when the bread is finished, the rice and stew prove harder to negotiate. I glance over at a boy in the banquet across from us. He’s probably about nine or ten, and he is wolfing down his food, using his curled fingers like a scoop and his thumb to help maneuver the soupy grains of rice into his mouth. Funny how something so natural to a child can feel foreign and awkward to us. Hungry, Drew dives right in and seems to do all right, save the last few bits of rice on his plate. This photo, snapped to the amusement (or bemusement?) of the restaurant owner, captures some of the mealtime action.

Morning visit to Taj Mahal (Agra, India)

You have seen the pictures. You have watched movies where street kids give bogus tours. You have heard me say how it is truly the most amazing spectacular human-made creation I have ever seen. How it floats on the horizon, its whiteness and proportions not believable, like a figment of the imagination. And yet…you are caught off guard by its beauty.  It is just after dawn, the crowds have not yet arrived, and the light is a soft yellow, reflecting off the marble and making it look buttery, then rosy pink. You are snapping away, an early morning shutterbug, and I can see that you are caught up in its magic too, captivated by its spell. You half-listen to the guide explain its story, already familiar with the love story narrative, of its genesis as a mausoleum, a tribute to Shah Jahan’s immense love for his third wife, Mumtaz, who died in childbirth bearing their fourteenth child. Of how he was then imprisoned by his son, confined to a room where he spent the rest of his days gazing outwards towards his beautiful creation. We walk alongside the pools and make our way into the interior, you behind the camera as I run my hands over the smooth marble, the inlays of precious stones intricately patterned along the walls. We gaze at the false tombs, the real ones safely barricaded deep below, and look out through the latticework of marble screens. We walk again outside into the light, and take it in from all sides, savoring the quiet, the way the light hits each wall of marble differently, the strange concoction of opulence and simplicity, of pure white lightness.  It is somehow both gargantuan and weightless. The longer we stay, the prettier the light becomes, and the harder it is to tear our eyes, and your lens, away. It is almost too much to take in, a sugar rush of eye candy. I follow the guide towards the gates, it is time to leave, and you linger behind, capturing a few final images in the last of the morning light. We exit, still in awe, stealing glances behind us, hesitant to fully depart. As we enter the fray of cheap T-shirt stands and pushy boys selling snowglobes and figurines, our guide tells us that there are two types of people in the world, those that have seen the Taj Mahal and those who have not. We, the lucky ones, have had our morning in the aura of its greatness.