tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65718264016949095402024-02-20T11:12:52.109-08:00Jeremy AtiyahAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.comBlogger197125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-45021778776435230642006-05-14T02:21:00.000-07:002012-02-19T02:21:55.387-08:00A tribute to Jeremy Atiyah - the first travel editor of 'The Independent on Sunday'<br />
<h1 style="margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 19.5pt; font-weight: normal;">A tribute to Jeremy Atiyah - the first
travel editor of 'The Independent on Sunday'<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
<div class="tagline" style="line-height: 10.5pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9.0pt;">Jeremy Atiyah (</span></b><st1:date day="30" month="12" year="1962"><b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9.0pt;">30/12/62</span></b></st1:date><b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9.0pt;"> to </span></b><st1:date day="12" month="4" year="2006"><b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9.0pt;">12/04/06</span></b></st1:date><b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9.0pt;">),
died suddenly last month while walking in </span></b><st1:state><st1:place><b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9.0pt;">Umbria</span></b></st1:place></st1:state><b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9.0pt;">.
Here we publish the last piece he wrote for these pages, a humorous tale from
his travels in Egypt<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="info" style="line-height: 9.0pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<st1:date day="14" month="5" year="2006"><em><span style="background: white; color: #464646; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 7.5pt; font-style: normal;">Sunday, 14 May 2006</span></em></st1:date><span style="background: white; color: #464646; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">From the back seat of a Mercedes, in
the mother of cities, I am looking for an obelisk. "Slow down!" I
shout, as we swerve between a group of schoolgirls and a line of parked
vehicles. My driver calmly reminds me that we are on an urgent mission: to find
relics of the city of On, the most ancient of all the cities ever built here at
the base of the </span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Nile</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">'s
delta.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">"But look out!" I cry, as we
accelerate to overtake a donkey cart. We are heading into the path of two
converging buses. Yet again, we emerge with an inch to spare on either side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Number One driver in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Egypt</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,"
chuckles the driver, as I grip my seatbelt and concentrate on the scholarly
words of the Roman geographer Strabo. "It was said," he wrote in the
first century BC, "that, anciently, this was the principal residence of
the priests, who studied philosophy and astronomy..." In Strabo's day, it
was already 4,000 years old, and all he found was a mound and a few stones.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Might any of these stones survive? My
driver has assured me that they do: there is an obelisk on a traffic
roundabout, in the district of Matariyah, the last surviving relic of ancient
On. Only modern </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">'s
traffic comes between us and it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">On my first trip to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"> in
1982, as a 19-year-old back-packer I had no map, guide or money. I saw little
beyond my mosquito-infested hotel, which is why I have been so determined to
make amends this time round, by covering 6,000 years of Cairo's historic sites
in six days (hence driver No 1).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Amid honking traffic, I recall the
sites I have seen so far, starting, six days ago, at the southern end of </span><st1:place><st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Roda</span></st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span><st1:placetype><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Island</span></st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
at the so-called Nilometer, the device originally used for measuring the annual
flood of the </span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Nile</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"> in the whole of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Egypt</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">.
On a certain day each August, the height of the water was measured here: too
little foretold drought, too much foretold floods. Harvests could be predicted
and tax levels set throughout </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Egypt</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
according to the readings obtained. The Nilometer's tunnels have long been
sealed, and the well shaft is dry. But no cities here could have existed
without it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Also on the first day, I made a fast
drive up to the heights: to the top of the barren Muqattam, the cliffs of bare
stone that impede </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">'s
growth to the south-east. Romantic couples come here to canoodle in their cars,
gazing down on their vast, smoggy city. From these cliffs, the white sandstone
was quarried that clad the pyramids 4,500 years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Dedicating the second day to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Egypt</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">'s
pharaonic remains, I started with the city of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Memphis</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">:
not quite the first city of the area, but certainly the first imperial capital.
From here, Upper and </span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Lower Egypt</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">
were united under one ruler for the first time, some 5,000 years ago. Back
then, it was the world's greatest city, with granaries, lakes and temples. But
all I could see was a mangy dog chasing a woman, and a bullock. Two hundred
tourists trudged diligently behind me, wondering what to look at.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Today </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Memphis</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"> is
a smallish enclosed park, littered with broken statuary, amid groves of dusty,
spiky palm trees. The foundations of the old city lie lost far beneath the
ground. I spent a day touring pyramids that date back 45 centuries, starting
with the stunning step-pyramid - Sakkara, the oldest freestanding, man-made
structure in the world, followed by the "bent" pyramid of Dahshur, so
called for the abrupt change in angle of its outside walls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">This was the true </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Egypt</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
down to the handsome, rogues sidling alongside me on the backs of camels. Did
madam wish to sit on a camel? Did I wish to have my photo taken next to madam?
Did I have any baksheesh? I gave them what they wanted."Egyptian
Cadillac!" cried a man approaching on a donkey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">I still had the pyramids of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Giza</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">
ahead of me. After 4,500 years, these have not yet lost their power to astound
and awe, even though they now stand on the outskirts of the modern city. The
son et lumière shows, the productions of Aida, the encroaching hotels, adjacent
golf courses, tour buses, "special price" guides, camels, postcards,
picture books, clap-trap - none of these detract from the experience of looking
for the first time into the impassive face of the Sphinx, with the Great
Pyramid of Cheops filling half the sky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">On the third day, I was ready to turn
my attention to the living city of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">.
Beyond the skyscraping hotels with their splendid </span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Nile</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">
views, much of the city seems to have been trampled into the dirt by the
supporting pillars of flyovers. Everything has been reduced to a uniform dun
colour, thanks to dust blowing ceaselessly off the desert. Much of it, in result,
is rendered invisible in the haze, hidden below the level of the roads,
disdained, semi-ruinous and forgotten. But it is there. When the Romans came to
</span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Egypt</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
they built a city called </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Babylon</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">
(not to be confused with </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Babylon</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"> in
</span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Mesopotamia</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">). What remains of their
efforts are not only fortifications, but also culture. The city quarter now
known as "Old Cairo", built on the site of ancient </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Babylon</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
is still the Coptic quarter of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"> -
the Copts being a relic of the Roman population, pre-dating the arrival of the
Muslims in AD641.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Old </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">
today is not a lovely place. Coach-loads of slightly disappointed tourists
creep along dusty alleys of cement and bare brick. Wobbling clay-built Roman
walls protrude here and there, some conserved, others festering amid piles of
rubbish. One of the old towers of Roman Babylon stands outside the metro
station, but its base starts 10 metres below the ground. The Coptic churches
too are at varying subterranean levels, according toage. The oldest are
accessible down excavated steps and are little gems, lined with icons and
filched Roman columns.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">'s
Christian spring was a short one and a long Islamic summer soon dawned. North
of Old Cairo is the site of the first Islamic city of the region, Fustat. I
arrived here on my fourth day to visit the great Mosque of Amr Ibn al-As - the
first in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
dating from the 7th century, a huge white plain of marble, where the world came
to pray amid forests of Corinthian columns.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">The city of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Al-Qahira</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
founded in 969, eventually became the seat of the Caliphate, and the largest,
richest city in the world. This was the fabled medieval </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"> of
bazaars, minarets and domes. Much has been lost; much continues to decay and
crumble. But splendid mosques and madrassas and palaces survive by the dozen,
and a connoisseur could spend weeks here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">I walked round the gorgeously archaic
Mosque of Ibn Tulun. I gazed upon the magnificent façade of the madrassa of
Sultan Qalaoun. I heard the call to prayer from the tiered minarets of the
mosque of Sultan Hassan. I smelled the donkey droppings by the Bab Zuwayla. I
browsed the trinkets in the Khan Al-Khalili bazaar. I even picked through the
litter-strewn alleys of the Cities of the Dead, medieval cemeteries inhabited
by the city's poor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">And I glimpsed the hidden domestic
world of medieval </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
with its secret salons and invisible courtyards, at the Beit Al-Sihaymi in the
Darb Al-Asfar, and in the so-called </span><st1:place><st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Gayer</span></st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span><st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Anderson</span></st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span><st1:placetype><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Museum</span></st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
attached to the Ibn Tulun Mosque, where an eccentric Englishman lived out his
orientalist fantasies with a Nubian boy-servant in the early 20th century.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">I saved until last the Al-Azhar Mosque,
the foremost centre of Islamic learning in the world where, in an atmosphere of
utter tranquillity, earnest young men lounged on carpets, reading their Koran
and debating in hushed voices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">On the fifth day I charged up to
Saladin's citadel, the massive fortifications of which have commanded
astonishing views over </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">
since the 12th century. The main structures that survive here today are not
those of Saladin, but of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Egypt</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">'s
great 19th-century nationalist, Mohammed Ali. His mosque is purely Ottoman in
style, decadent and sumptuous: half-mosque, half ballroom. In the courtyard
wall stands a clock given to Ali by the French government in exchange for the
obelisk that now decorates the Place de la Concorde. "The French gave us
that broken clock!" my guide said in despair. "We are still trying to
fix it!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">And so I hastened, on the sixth day,
into </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">'s
European century. The Paris of Napoleon III was the paradise that Ismail Pasha
tried to reproduce here on the banks of the </span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Nile</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
with its palaces, legations, handsome Italianate villas, leafy avenues, hotels,
theatres and cafes. Dribs and drabs of this survive in suburbs such as Garden
City, home to the huge British Embassy. But 20th-century </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">
expropriated most of what had gone before. By its end, the city's population
had bloated to 16 million, and the amount of parkland per inhabitant could be
measured in square inches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">But modern </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cairo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"> is
not without its pleasures. A million Arab tourists come here each year, to
visit its casinos and its opera house, ogle its belly-dancers, read its
newspapers, follow its fashions, and to eat and drink in its restaurants and
bars. I've tried to join them, drinking tea at Groppi's, dining at pavement
cafés behind Ezbekiya Gardens where grilled chicken and rice cost £1, and in
swanky Zamalek at Abou Seed, with its seductive music and sophisticated
clientele.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">"What are you doing?" I gasp,
as my driver suddenly hits a speed bump at 50mph. "The obelisk is
near!" he cries, accelerating again. We are here, at the fabled
roundabout, the location of the last relic of On. What we find is not an
obelisk, but a notice, and a laminated picture - of an obelisk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">"By God!" he shouts again,
hurtling round the roundabout and putting three traffic cops and a donkey to
flight. "The original has been removed!" And Ibeg him to let me walk
home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Abercrombie & Kent (0845-0700 612;
abercrombiekent .co.uk) offers four nights at the Four Season Cairo at Nile
Plaza from £849 per person, including return flights, transfers and b&b<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-40388808136561256482006-04-16T02:19:00.000-07:002012-02-19T02:20:58.559-08:00A quest to the end of the Earth<br />
<h1>
A quest to the end of the Earth<o:p></o:p></h1>
<h2>
Simon Calder on the former 'IoS' travel editor,
Jeremy Atiyah, a 'weaver of magical stories', who died last week<o:p></o:p></h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="16" month="4" year="2006">16 April 2006</st1:date><o:p></o:p></h4>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The Millennium Dome, for all its
many flaws, got at least some details right. The first thing that visitors to
the ill-fated tourist attraction saw was a giant bookcase, with a row of
towering spines. Most prominent among them was The Rough Guide to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">. With one slice of scenery, the designers
deftly combined three key themes for the 21st century: travel, the ascent of
the world's most populous nation, and the need for cross-cultural
understanding.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">One of the writers of this
defining travel guide was Jeremy Atiyah, whose tragically early death in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Italy</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> on Wednesday has deprived us of an exceptional
writer. The travel editor of The Independent on Sunday from 1997 to 2000, he
continued to be a regular contributor to this paper and the daily Independent.
His final piece is reproduced below.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">With his pioneering guidebook to
the People's Republic, Jeremy worked within strict parameters. Yet in his
articles, he relished the liberty of imagination - as, for example, when he
speculated about the true nature of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Singapore</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">"On the face of it, this
place is just too good to be true. It must be the result of government spin. It
will vanish as soon as my back is turned. The charming façades of those
'heritage' quarters will be removed to reveal ugly concrete blocks and piles of
garbage. The lovely canopies of rain-trees embracing the highways will be replaced
by hoardings of naked women. The quiet couples slurping noodles after dark on
verandas will become rioting, spitting, drug- taking delinquents. The very
history of this island state will be unwritten."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The day one met Jeremy, the world
suddenly improved. Our first encounter was late in 1996, as the year drizzled
to a damp conclusion. I had read his work, and wanted to meet the man whose
words were at once effortless and enlightening.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Here was a writer whose
intellect, culture and energy were masked by a winning courtesy; a real English
gentleman with an easy, natural charm. Yet he was also a modern-day explorer.
He was on a quest, it seemed to me, to trace the ends of the earth and weave
magical stories that would gently transport his readers far beyond their normal
horizons.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">His stoicism was legendary: a
week on a train across </span><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Siberia</span></st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> caused no more discomfort for Jeremy than three stops on the
Northern Line for most of us. While wandering through the deserts of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Jordan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> one day, he was caught, without food, in
a storm that raged for 10 hours; he simply dug a trench and sat it out.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">He formed some deep
relationships, yet his innate spontaneity proved incompatible with a steady
partnership. He described himself as "a nomadic revivalist, lamenting the
appearance, 8,000-odd years ago, of more settled patterns of life". Even
so, the women in his life - including his ex-wife, Xiaosong, and his last love
Sophie, remained close to him until the last.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Despite or (more likely) because
of his fascinating, erratic existence, all who knew Jeremy felt close to him -
enriched by his wisdom and his sparkle.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">For those of us who lacked the
sheer guts to venture to the edge and beyond, no problem: Jeremy would go there
anyway, and report back with grace, humour and eloquence.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">From </span></b><st1:city><st1:place><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Florence</span></b></st1:place></st1:city><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">: Reflections on love and adventure in </span></b><st1:country-region><st1:place><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Italy</span></b></st1:place></st1:country-region><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> of yore</span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Extract from Jeremy Atiyah's
last piece for the 'IoS', which appeared a month ago</span></i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It has always seemed to me that I
was born with the desire to live in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Italy</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> embedded in my </span><st1:stockticker><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">DNA</span></st1:stockticker><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">. It felt like an innate, instinctive
desire for little coffees and bright light and expressive neighbours. And now
it turns out to be true.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I have learnt that I can blame my
grandfather. I never knew him because he died more than 40 years ago. But I am
told that he was a passionate, cultured man who loved history, good food and
robust discussion. The result was, in the late Fifties and early Sixties, that
he ended up driving to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Italy</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> every summer with his lover.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It is the lover - now aged nearly
90 - who tells me this. She has told me about the blue Ford Consul motor car,
and the roads that were not yet crowded with traffic. He was in his late
fifties, she some 15 years his junior.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Their first destination was the
aerodrome at Lydd, in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Kent</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">, where they loaded their car on to a
plane. They were fun, those flights to Le Touquet: after a mere 17 and a half
minutes in the air, you arrived in a world that was as exotic as </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">India</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> is today.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">They then drove off, with the
freedom of an entire continent beneath their wheels. Their route through </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">France</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> took them along roads lined with chestnut
and walnut trees. They usually crossed the border somewhere above Domodossola,
that little mountain village whose syllables so blatantly announce the onset of
</span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Italy</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Once there, my grandfather and
his lover turned to their trusty guidebooks, two fragile, red Baedekers
published in the first decade of the 20th century. These books have since come
down to me: bundles of tiny print and exquisitely drawn maps on Bible-thin
paper.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Why would my grandfather and his
lover have wanted to rely on guidebooks that were 50 years old? </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Italy</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> was still </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Italy</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">, I am sure they would have said. The </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Italy</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> of 1960 was still essentially the </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Italy</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> of 1900. The intervention of two world
wars was no more than a detail. As for me, I cling to the hope that neither of
those </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Italys</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> can be so irredeemably different from
mine.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></st1:place></st1:city><br />
<st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Florence</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">, I am told, was the city to which they
returned with most gusto. And enclosed in the </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Florence</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> chapter, I discovered a bill, from a
long-defunct hotel named the Albergo Berchielli, dated September 1962. Four
nights, including breakfasts, drinks and laundry, comes to 26,000 lire,
equating to roughly £10.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">During my own visit to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Florence</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> I stayed in a chic, air-conditioned hotel
by the </span><st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Arno</span></st1:place><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> that cost £200 per night. How I would
love to have crossed the decades, for the sake of a room in the Albergo
Berchielli with an iron bedstead, stone tiles and a sink in the corner ...<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-57362548788576297192006-04-15T02:22:00.000-07:002012-02-19T02:23:27.232-08:00Jeremy Atiyah<br />
<h1 style="margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 19.5pt; font-weight: normal;">Jeremy Atiyah<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
<div class="tagline" style="line-height: 10.5pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9.0pt;">Travel writer and editor who took to a
nomadic life for the sheer elation of wandering and discovering<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="info" style="line-height: 9.0pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<st1:date day="15" month="4" year="2006"><em><span style="background: white; color: #464646; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 7.5pt; font-style: normal;">Saturday, 15 April 2006</span></em></st1:date><span style="background: white; color: #464646; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Jeremy Francis Atiyah,
traveller and writer: born Woking, Surrey 30 December 1963; Travel Editor, The
Independent on Sunday 1997-2000; married 1991 Xiaosong Que (marriage dissolved
2000); died Monti Sibillini National Park, Italy 12 April 2006.</span></b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">'As I entered my 40th year, I turned
myself into a vagabond." Jeremy Atiyah was many things - a teacher, a
linguist, a brilliant writer - but above all he was a traveller. In January
2002, he walked out of his flat with a rucksack on his back, for yet another
adventure. He rented out his home, shrugged off almost all material possessions
- save for "a bicycle, an e-mail address and a mobile telephone" -
and began the life of a nomad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Part of the following three years was
spent in London, researching at the British Library, and living as "a
middle-class vagrant . . . blessed by supportive and well-off friends". He
roamed on assignment for this newspaper, and others: searching for Shangri-La
in China, and finding corners of Italy that have yet to be over-run by
tourists. Above all, though, he simply travelled for the sheer elation of
wandering, encountering and discovering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Yet Atiyah was no aimless drifter on
the fringes of society. His love of life, unselfconscious charm and natural
curiosity meant he acquired friends with ease at home and abroad. The great
warmth with which he was regarded made his sudden death in Italy (naturally, he
was travelling) at the shockingly early age of 42 all the sadder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Jeremy Atiyah was born in Surrey,
during a blizzard, on the penultimate day of 1963. An early sign of his
erudition came within a few weeks of his starting primary school, when he
rapidly learned to read. For three years from 1970, the family moved to the
Australian capital, Canberra, where his father, Professor Patrick Atiyah, had a
teaching post at the university.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Upon their return to the UK, they moved
to Royal Leamington Spa in Warwickshire. Jeremy attended the grammar school
from 1974 to 1977; and later, when his father took up a chair in Oxford,
Magdalen College School.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">After A-levels, Jeremy Atiyah's love of
travel became evident. At a time when venturing beyond Europe was still a rarity,
he spent the summer travelling around India. Aged 17, Atiyah proved a shrewd
backpacker, often staying at ashrams for a pound or two per night in order to
extend his journey for as long as possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">After spending his last few rupees on
the bus to the airport for his flight home, he was surprised to learn that an
airport tax had been imposed. Self-reliance to the fore, Atiyah trawled the
check-in queue until he found a generous fellow traveller willing to lend him
the money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">If he or his parents thought the Indian
experience would get the travel bug out of his system, they were gladly
mistaken; instead, the journey served to whet his appetite for more adventures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Perhaps it was a yearning for elsewhere
that dogged his university career. For someone with such a formidable and
well-rounded intellect, Atiyah found life at Trinity College, Oxford
surprisingly heavy going. He enrolled initially for Classics, but later
switched to PPE. He graduated in 1985.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">He had always demonstrated a love for
words: procuring them, inventing them, exploring their power and potential.
Happily, his graduation coincided with the launch of the Amstrad word
processor, which for the first time offered the prospect of creating, editing
and printing text for an affordable price - under £400. Astutely, Professor
Atiyah bought one of the first models off the production line - and set his son
on what was to prove a most illustrious writing career.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">The most pressing need for the young
graduate, though, was to earn some cash. The late 1980s were difficult days in
Britain, so Jeremy set off for Barcelona. Spain was blossoming after the
suffocating Franco years, and the Catalan capital had just been awarded the
1992 Olympics, creating a strong demand for teachers of English. At the same time
as teaching his mother tongue, he mastered Spanish with apparent ease - as he
later did with German, Mandarin, Russian and Italian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Even when living humbly in a cheap
pension in the heart of Barcelona, Atiyah found the temptation of travel
irresistible. One Friday night, the week's wages in his pocket, he happened to
pass through the main station on the way home. The departure board showed a
train to Granada about to leave, so he hopped aboard. In those days, Spanish
Railways ran a creaky old network; he had barely a couple of hours in the
fabulous Andalucian city before catching a northbound train, but the joy of the
journey itself and the miscellany of fellow travellers he met repaid the
investment many times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">In 1989, his brother Simon was posted
to Hong Kong, and invited Jeremy over. At the end of the stay, Jeremy Atiyah
could have caught a plane straight home. Instead, he opted for the railway less
travelled - and what turned out to be a life-changing journey. He ventured
north through China, at the time an alien land for independent travellers, to
Beijing. Here, he boarded the Trans-Mongolian Express to Moscow - and, en
route, met a young Chinese woman named Xiaosong Que who was on her way to study
literature in West Germany. With a passion and certainty that transcended his
usual amiable diffidence, he wooed and eventually married her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Xiaosong was unable to join Jeremy on
his next teaching assignment, in Saudi Arabia. But they travelled together
through a Lebanon torn apart by the civil war, to search for his roots; his
paternal grandfather was Lebanese.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Back in Britain, he taught English to
Xiaosong, and reciprocally added Mandarin to his armoury of languages. This set
him in good stead for researching and co-writing the first edition of The Rough
Guide to China, which was published in 1995 and remains a bestseller. Yet the
minutiae of hostels, train schedules and tourist attractions proved too
constraining for Jeremy Atiyah's powers as a storyteller. He began writing for
the travel sections of national newspapers - stories that were always multi-
dimensional, bursting with life, and characters, and emotion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">When, in 1997, The Independent on
Sunday decided to appoint its first travel editor, Atiyah was the natural
choice. Despite having no formal training as a journalist, he created and
managed an outstanding travel section. Each week he wrote a sparky, witty
column that challenged conventional travel industry wisdom - indeed, he first
questioned the moral and environmental legitimacy of mass tourism long before
it moved on to the media agenda.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">By the millennium, Atiyah had tolerated
the institutional discipline of regular hours for quite long enough. He left on
the most amicable of terms, and continued to write for both The Independent and
The Independent on Sunday. At around the same time, his marriage with Xiaosong
ended; her wish to settle down, and his to explore, proved irreconcilable, but
they remained close and on the best of terms until his death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">In the 21st century, most of Atiyah's
time and energy was invested in bigger writing projects. He spent the winter of
2000/2001 in the deep-frozen Siberian city of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Irkutsk</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">
(naturally acquiring fluent Russian in the process), and wrote an extraordinary
history of Tsarist Russia's adventures in </span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">North
America</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">In 2002 Atiyah decided to take his
lifestyle to its logical conclusion and forsake the comforts of a conventional
home; after all, he seemed at home everywhere. By 2005, though, he had settled
on </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Italy</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"> as
the ideal country to nourish his creative spirit. He bought a cheap old
property in </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Puglia</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
at the heel of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Italy</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">,
and spent much of last year making it habitable. His latest professional
reinvention combined writing with researching walking trips in Italy -
designing adventures, if you will. As he once observed: "the human foot is
designed for endless traipsing".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">It was while on assignment in Umbria
that he suffered a fatal heart attack - a tragic yet poetic death for a man who
wrought miracles with words, a romantic who rose above these unromantic times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Simon Calder<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Rough Guide to China was first
published not in 1995, but in 1987, writes<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>Catharine
Sanders.</b><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>(Jeremy Atiyah's
collaboration with David Leffman and Simon Lewis was in fact issued in 1997.)
The first edition was researched and written by myself and Chris Stewart now
rather better known as the author of Driving over Lemons. Rhonda Evans also
contributed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="font-null" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">We had completed several further months
of travel and research in China to produce a second updated edition shortly
before the events of Tiananmen. The then American parent publisher Harrap
Columbus decided to pull the plug, fearing a drop in American tourists to
China, and our material was subsequently bought in and passed on to the new
team.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-57294376625731858262006-03-05T02:16:00.000-08:002012-02-19T02:18:36.926-08:00On the road to romance in Italy<br />
<h1>
On the road to romance in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
</h1>
<h2>
His grandfather motored the length and breadth of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
with a lover by his side. Forty years on, Jeremy Atiyah retraces their route </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="5" month="3" year="2006">05 March 2006</st1:date>
</h4>
It has always seemed to me that I was born with the desire to live in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
embedded in my DNA. It felt like an innate, instinctive desire for little
coffees and bright light and expressive neighbours. And now it turns out to be
true. <br />
<br />
I have learnt that I can blame my grandfather. I never knew him because he
died more than 40 years ago. But I am told that he was a passionate, cultured
man who loved history, good food and robust discussion. The result was, in the
late Fifties and early Sixties, that he ended up driving to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
every summer with his lover.<br />
<br />
It is the lover - now aged nearly 90 - who tells me this. She has told me
about the blue Ford Consul motor car, and the roads that were not yet crowded
with traffic. He was in his late fifties, she some 15 years his junior.<br />
<br />
Their first destination was the aerodrome at Lydd, in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Kent</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
where they loaded their car on to a plane. They were fun, those flights to Le
Touquet: after a mere 17 and a half minutes in the air, you arrived in a world
that was as exotic as <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is today. The first thing my grandfather did on landing was to buy a packet of
Gauloise cigarettes. He did it for the aroma, he declared; he did it for <st1:country-region><st1:place>France</st1:place></st1:country-region>
(he had a passion for authenticity).<br />
<br />
They then drove off, with the freedom of an entire continent beneath their
wheels. Their route through <st1:country-region><st1:place>France</st1:place></st1:country-region>
took them along roads lined with chestnut and walnut trees; they usually
crossed the border somewhere above Domodossola, that little mountain village
whose syllables so blatantly announce the onset of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
<br />
Once there, my grandfather and his lover turned to their trusty guidebooks,
two fragile, red Baedekers published in the first decade of the 20th century.
These books have since come down to me: bundles of tiny print and exquisitely
drawn maps on Bible-thin paper.<br />
<br />
Why would my grandfather and his lover have wanted to rely on guidebooks
that were 50 years old? <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
was still <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
I am sure they would have said. The <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
of 1960 was still essentially the <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
of 1900. The intervention of two world wars was no more than a detail. As for
me, I cling to the hope that neither of those <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italys</st1:place></st1:country-region>
can be so irredeemably different from mine.<br />
<br />
The format of an Edwardian guidebook is surprisingly familiar. Here is the
section on how to reach <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
by rail. Here are the sections on conduct, climate and transport. Here are the
potted histories, chronologies, introductions to art, maps, and hotel
recommendations.<br />
<br />
While the books are scrupulously polite regarding the Renaissance, they are
less so when it comes to contemporary <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
Much is made of the "able-bodied loafers" who clog Italian cities;
Italian trains are "often, if not, indeed, usually, late". With
regard to tips, the traveller is advised "to have no scruple in limiting
his donations to the smallest possible sums".<br />
<br />
I keep finding slips of paper from between the pages of these books: entry
tickets to museums and galleries and theatres in <st1:city><st1:place>Milan</st1:place></st1:city>,
<st1:city><st1:place>Vicenza</st1:place></st1:city>, <st1:city><st1:place>Padua</st1:place></st1:city>,
<st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>, <st1:city><st1:place>Florence</st1:place></st1:city>,
<st1:city><st1:place>Ferrara</st1:place></st1:city>, <st1:city><st1:place>Rome</st1:place></st1:city>
... It was a crooked path through <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
that they drove, but its cultured theme is unmistakable.<br />
<st1:city><st1:place><br /></st1:place></st1:city><br />
<st1:city><st1:place>Florence</st1:place></st1:city>, I am told, was the city
to which they returned with most gusto. And enclosed in the <st1:city><st1:place>Florence</st1:place></st1:city>
chapter, I have just discovered a bill, from a long-defunct hotel named the
Albergo Berchielli, dated September 1962. Four nights, including breakfasts,
drinks and laundry, comes to 26,000 lire, equating to roughly £10.<br />
<br />
During my own visit to <st1:city><st1:place>Florence</st1:place></st1:city>
I stayed in a chic, air-conditioned hotel by the <st1:place>Arno</st1:place>
that cost £200 per night. How I would love to have crossed the decades, for the
sake of a room in the Albergo Berchielli with an iron bedstead, stone tiles and
a sink in the corner.<br />
<br />
One year, north of <st1:city><st1:place>Rome</st1:place></st1:city>, they
crashed the Ford Consul into a ditch. His joie de vivre drained away, and she
was obliged to step down and knock shyly on the door of a farmhouse. The young
men of the family emerged in caps and waistcoats to heave them out.<br />
<br />
Later they were exploring the ruins of the Roman Forum, studying the line
drawings of the <st1:place><st1:placetype>Temple</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>Castor</st1:placename></st1:place>
and the <st1:city><st1:place>Temple</st1:place></st1:city> of the Divine
Julius. Suddenly they glimpsed a rose among the stones. Today a petal from the
same flower, still red after a 45-year pressing in the book, slips down from
beneath a map and floats to the floor. I carefully restore it to its place.<br />
<br />
They continued south to <st1:city><st1:place>Naples</st1:place></st1:city>
and Amalfi. One year they even got to <st1:state><st1:place>Sicily</st1:place></st1:state>.
For us, the foreignness of <st1:state><st1:place>Sicily</st1:place></st1:state>
in 1960 is impossible to imagine: the bronzed skins of the local youth, the
intense light, the pungent aromas, the loudness of the chatter, the power of
the priests and of the vulgar, crumbling Baroque and the faint menace of the
Mafia.<br />
<br />
Soon after crossing the straits of <st1:city><st1:place>Messina</st1:place></st1:city>,
their camera was stolen from the car. The chances of retrieving it seemed
slight. And yet the carabinieri got on its trail: by some miracle, they
recovered the camera. The matter was solemnly recorded in the local newspapers,
and my grandfather's lover kept all the cuttings.<br />
<br />
These cuttings tell the story of a tiny local drama, regarding the lost
camera of an English tourist and his lady in <st1:state><st1:place>Sicily</st1:place></st1:state>.
Here is a grainy old photograph of a policeman. It happened more than 40 years
ago, but I will never tire of thinking about it.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>THE GRAND TOUR: 10 MUST-SEE DESTINATIONS </b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>1. </b><st1:city><st1:place><b>San Remo</b></st1:place></st1:city><b> </b><br />
WHY GO? This was a top resort before the Second World War. It's still the
place to head to for old-fashioned <st1:state><st1:place>Riviera</st1:place></st1:state>
glamour. Place a bet at the Art Nouveau casino, an ornate palace.<br />
WHERE TO STAY? The Royal Hotel (00 39 0184 5391; royalhotelsanremo.com), for
its faded opulence and a vast, salt-water pool in sub-tropical gardens. Doubles
start at €222 (£158) with breakfast.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>2. </b><st1:city><st1:place><b>Milan</b></st1:place></st1:city><br />
Why go? For more than two centuries, British tourists have flocked to <st1:city><st1:place>Milan</st1:place></st1:city>
to visit the most famous opera house in the world, La Scala (for bookings,
contact 00 39 0286 0775; teatroalla scala.org). A tour of La Scala is socially
acceptable. Where to stay? The Grand Hotel Et De Milan (00 39 0272 3141;
grandhoteletdemilan.it), where Giuseppe Verdi often stayed. Doubles start at
Û528 (£377) without breakfast.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>3. The Italian </b><st1:place><b>Alps</b></st1:place><b> </b><br />
WHY GO? Much of the Italian Alps, especially round Lakes Como and Maggiore,
is a must for nostalgics, with 'belle époque' hotels, palazzos, luxuriant
gardens and lakeside views.<br />
WHERE TO STAY? For very posh accommodation, try the palatial 16th-century
Villa d'Este Hotel<br />
(00 39 031 34 81; villadeste.it) at Cernobbio, on the shores of <st1:place><st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename>Como</st1:placename></st1:place>. Doubles start at €465 (£332)
with breakfast.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>4. </b><st1:city><st1:place><b>Venice</b></st1:place></st1:city><b> </b><br />
WHY GO? The quintessential tourist destination looks much the same today as
it did in 1960 (or indeed 1760).<br />
WHERE TO STAY? The world-famous Danieli Hotel (00 39 041 522 6480;
hoteldanielivenice.com) tops the hotel list in my 1906 Baedeker guide book and
it's still one of the very finest places to stay in the city. Doubles start at
€415 (£296) per night, including breakfast.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>5. </b><st1:city><st1:place><b>Florence</b></st1:place></st1:city><br />
Why go? Long marvelled at as Italy's most beautiful city, <st1:city><st1:place>Florence</st1:place></st1:city>
can be overwhelmed by tourists. For the Uffizi, the Accademia and the Bargello
book visiting slots in advance (00 39 055 294 883; or book online at
weekendafirenze.com). Where to stay? In a 16th-century Medici palazzo just
outside town, the Villa La Massa (00 39 055 626 11; villalamassa.com). Doubles
start at Û260 (£185) per night.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>6. </b><st1:city><st1:place><b>Siena</b></st1:place></st1:city><b> </b><br />
WHY GO? This intriguing city, with its narrow and crooked streets, is one of
the finest places in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
to sample medieval art and architecture. It is also the location for the Palio,
the world's most spectacular horse race.<br />
WHERE TO STAY? At the 17th-century Grand Hotel Continental (00 39 0577
56011; royaldemeure.com) in the heart of the city. Doubles start at €216 (£154)
with breakfast.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>7. </b><st1:city><st1:place><b>Rome</b></st1:place></st1:city><b> </b><br />
WHY GO? It's hard to avoid being nostalgic in a city that has dominated <st1:place>Europe</st1:place>
on and off for 2,000 years. For a true Grand Tour experience, dress up a bit,
go to the Spanish Steps, meet your lover andchuck a coin into the Trevi
fountain.<br />
WHERE TO STAY? For traditional hotels you are spoilt for choice. Try the <st1:place><st1:placename>Grand</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Hotel</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype>Plaza</st1:placetype></st1:place>
(00 39 066 74 952; grandhotelplaza.com). Doubles start at €265 (£189) with
breakfast.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>8. </b><st1:city><st1:place><b>Naples</b></st1:place></st1:city><b> </b><br />
WHY GO? Capital of the south, this mad, chaotic, tragic city remains the
tear-jerker that it has been for the past three centuries. Come here to become
a teenager again, ride a scooter, eat a pizza, to hold a shouted conversation
from a balcony.<br />
WHERE TO STAY? At the Grand Hotel Parker's (00 39 081 761 2474;
grandhotelparkers.it), which overlooks the city from the hills. Doubles start
at €220 (£157) with breakfast.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>9. The Amalfi coast </b><br />
WHY GO? Tourists have been coming to this region since the days of ancient <st1:city><st1:place>Rome</st1:place></st1:city>,
and for very good reason: it's beautiful. Hop across to the legendary <st1:place><st1:placetype>island</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>Capri</st1:placename></st1:place> for an afternoon.<br />
WHERE TO STAY? In <st1:city><st1:place>Sorrento</st1:place></st1:city>, at
the Excelsior Vittoria (00 34 081 877 7818; excelsiorvittoria.com), a
newly-renovated, 19th-century hotel, with terraces of orange and lemon groves.
Doubles start at €390 (£278) including breakfast.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>10. </b><st1:city><st1:place><b>Palermo</b></st1:place></st1:city><b> </b><br />
WHY GO? <st1:state><st1:place>Sicily</st1:place></st1:state> has always been
a vital stage on the Grand Tour - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Italian tourist
par excellence, called the island "the key to the whole".<br />
WHERE TO STAY? Just outside the city at the slightly shabby chic belle
époque Grand Hotel Villa Igiea (00 39 091 543 744; villaigieapalermo.it).
Doubles start at €277 (£197) without breakfast. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-34848541140374809112006-02-05T11:13:00.000-08:002012-02-19T02:15:56.818-08:00Visit Madrid's civil war sites 70 years on<br />
<h1>
Visit <st1:state><st1:place>Madrid</st1:place></st1:state>'s civil war
sites 70 years on </h1>
<h2>
This year marks the seventieth anniversary of the start of the civil war.
Jeremy Atiyah traces the tide of battle from <st1:state><st1:place>Madrid</st1:place></st1:state>'s
trenches to the spot where a poet was killed </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="5" month="2" year="2006">05 February 2006</st1:date>
</h4>
Modern <st1:country-region><st1:place>Spain</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is an optimistic, exhilarating country. People come here to enjoy themselves.
They come to dance, to eat grilled sardines, to drink sangria, to lie on
beaches, to visit modern art galleries, to stay in beautiful historic cities
and towns. It is almost as if the events of 70 years ago never happened. But
sadly, they did - which is why I'm touring <st1:country-region><st1:place>Spain</st1:place></st1:country-region>
now, in search of any visible scars. <br />
<st1:state><st1:place><br /></st1:place></st1:state><br />
<st1:state><st1:place>Madrid</st1:place></st1:state>, which was under
fascist siege for most of the war, is my starting point; I've just read Laurie
Lee's account of arriving here in 1937. He had already begun to sense for the
first time the "gaseous squalor of a country at war ... an infection so
deep it seemed to rot the earth, drain it of life, colour and sound".
Today, Puerta del Sol in the centre of <st1:state><st1:place>Madrid</st1:place></st1:state>
teems with shoppers and tourists. In the anomalous year of 1937, all Lee noted
here was emptiness and silence, with the cafés closed, a few huddled women
queuing in shuttered shops, and a "fusty aroma of horses, straw, broken
drains, and fevered sickness".<br />
<br />
Even poor Ernest Hemingway, in town at the same time, was subject to
privations. The Hotel Florida, where he was staying, suffered regular shelling.
It was only thanks to his excellent connections with the Spanish government and
the Russian general staff that he managed to procure any benefits at all.
(Every morning, it was reported, the other guests in the hotel woke up to the
smell of eggs, bacon, and coffee being prepared for Hemingway, courtesy of the
Communist International.)<br />
<br />
As for Civil War relics in <st1:state><st1:place>Madrid</st1:place></st1:state>,
there is one obvious one, hanging in the <st1:place><st1:placename>Reina</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Sofia</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Museum</st1:placename></st1:place>:
<st1:city><st1:place>Guernica</st1:place></st1:city>, Picasso's remarkable
representation of the destruction of a small Basque town by aerial bombardment.
The war has left other less obvious traces, too. In the Casa de Campo, the city's
equivalent of Hampstead Heath, Republican trenches can still be seen, though
they are generally unnoticed among the joggers and picnickers. Hemingway's
Hotel Florida may have vanished, but if you want to see where the great
meat-eater used to enjoy dinner, try El Botin at Calle de Cuchilleros 17, where
the old oak beams and suckling pork are as they were.<br />
<br />
And there is no need to stop with <st1:state><st1:place>Madrid</st1:place></st1:state>.
The war was as pitiless elsewhere. In <st1:city><st1:place>Toledo</st1:place></st1:city>
to the south, you can explore the mighty Alcazar, celebrated by Nationalists
for the memory of Colonel Moscado, who barricaded himself inside here at the
start of the war. You can still see the cellars where his people sheltered, as
well as his own office, which has been left untouched since the siege, bullet
holes and all. One of the most famous incidents of the entire war occurred
here. A regretful telephone call came through to Moscado to inform him that his
24-year-old son Luis was being held prisoner, and would be shot within 10
minutes if the Alcazar were not surrendered to the Republicans immediately.<br />
<br />
Moscado's brisk response was to shout to his son over the telephone:
"Commend your soul to God, shout Viva España! and die like a hero! Goodbye
my son, a last kiss!"<br />
"Goodbye father," answered Luis. "A very big kiss."<br />
<br />
Nobody in the war had a monopoly on atrocities. Down in moody <st1:place><st1:city>Granada</st1:city>,
<st1:country-region>Spain</st1:country-region></st1:place>'s most famous
living poet, Federico Garcia Lorca, was at work on Bernarda Alba in the summer
of 1936 when war broke out. He was a mere writer, but on 16 August, he was
arrested in <st1:city><st1:place>Granada</st1:place></st1:city> by Nationalist
forces who detested him for a hundred reasons. On the night of 18 or 19 August,
he was driven to a remote point near the <st1:place><st1:placetype>village</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>Viznar</st1:placename></st1:place>, at the foot of the <st1:place>Sierra
Nevada</st1:place>, and shot dead. Apart from the volumes of sublime poetry,
all that remains of Lorca today is a simple monument erected at the presumed
site of his murder.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, it was to the north of <st1:state><st1:place>Madrid</st1:place></st1:state>
that the worst battles of the war were being fought. The Guadarrama range,
between <st1:state><st1:place>Madrid</st1:place></st1:state> and <st1:city><st1:place>Segovia</st1:place></st1:city>,
was a bloody border area between the Nationalist and Republican lines; its
hills and passes provide the location of For Whom the Bell Tolls. Hemingway is
known to have carried out his research for the book by travelling the mountains
by foot, horseback and car.<br />
<br />
It is still a lovely area. The routes from <st1:state><st1:place>Madrid</st1:place></st1:state>
and El Escorial to <st1:city><st1:place>Segovia</st1:place></st1:city> take you
through it. And despite its increasing popularity as a weekend playground for
Madrileños, who come skiing in winter and hiking in summer, it still remains
largely the wilderness that Hemingway describes, dotted with remote villages.
Not far from here is the "attraction" that most Madrileños shun: the
Valley of the Fallen, Franco's Brutalist memorial to the civil war, a concrete
cross nearly 150m high, built on a monstrous crypt hewn from solid granite.
Franco himself was buried here in 1975.<br />
<br />
Moving north into <st1:country-region><st1:place>Aragon</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
you enter a landscape that is far harsher. This is a good region if you are in
search of the unspoilt, but a very bleak region for fighting a war (as George
Orwell found out). Its most disturbing monument is the small town of <st1:city><st1:place>Belchite</st1:place></st1:city>,
20 miles south of <st1:place>Zaragoza</st1:place>. Before the war it had been a
busy little town of 4,000 souls; today it is ghost town, left as it was after
its destruction nearly 70 years ago.<br />
<br />
And finally to the east, to the sunny shores of the <st1:place>Mediterranean</st1:place>;
these were the last Republican areas to fall to Franco. Orwell got his first
sight of <st1:city><st1:place>Barcelona</st1:place></st1:city> in December
1936. "Every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was
draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the anarchists,"
he marvelled. "Every wall was scrawled with the hammer and sickle and with
the initials of revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted and
its images burnt ..."<br />
<br />
To his delight, he saw only poor people in the town. Nobody was saying
"Señor" or "Usted". On the Ramblas, Orwell described crowds
of people who "streamed constantly to and fro" while loudspeakers
"were bellowing revolutionary songs all day and far into the night".
It wouldn't stay like that. When Orwell returned after four months at the front
he found that everything had reverted. Suddenly, it was full of sleek men in
suits smoking cigars and with fashionable girls on their arms again; all the
revolutionary fervour had gone. Orwell had a shock in store. Suddenly, a battle
broke out between the Anarchists and the Republican authorities. The Anarchists
seized the telephone exchange. The Ramblas became the front line. Up at the
Plaza de Catalonia every building became an armed fort. The Hotel Colon had a
machine gun post right inside the first "O" of <st1:city><st1:place>Colon</st1:place></st1:city>,
enabling it (according to Orwell) to "spray the square to good
effect".<br />
<br />
In today's <st1:city><st1:place>Barcelona</st1:place></st1:city>, amid the
buskers and newspaper kiosks and old men feeding the pigeons, it all seems
highly implausible. But if you raise your eyes above the heads of the sleek men
and their fashionable girls you can still spot bullet holes in the walls of the
old telephone exchange.<br />
<br />
The last three days of March 1938 were effectively the last three days of
the war. <st1:country-region><st1:place>Valencia</st1:place></st1:country-region>
was among the very last towns to fall. As Nationalists entered the city,
frightened women came forward to kiss their hands, while roses, mimosa and
laurels were flung from the balconies of the middle classes. At the quays,
there were scenes of mass panic, as thousands of Republicans attempted to flee
the country by ship. The door was closing on <st1:country-region><st1:place>Spain</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
It would not be a happy place to visit for another 40 years. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-56982231114216217002005-12-18T08:55:00.000-08:002012-02-19T03:43:41.139-08:00Go To Gujarat The One-Hit Wonder<br />
<h1>
Go To <st1:place>Gujarat</st1:place> The One-Hit Wonder </h1>
<h2>
<st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region> is a
place to be savoured. It can't be done in a single holiday. Jeremy Atiyah
suggests one very good region to start your journey </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="18" month="12" year="2005">18 December 2005</st1:date>
</h4>
Tourists hoping to conquer <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>
in a fortnight are doomed to disappointment. The lesson is this: if you want to
visit small towns, travel cross-country, meet locals not in the tourist trade -
then you have to concentrate on a single region. But which region? Some
candidates were obvious: Rajasthan, <st1:place>Goa</st1:place>, Kerala. But
would my experience of these tourist destinations be sufficiently authentic? <br />
<br />
It was my tour operator, Trans-Indus, which first suggested <st1:place>Gujarat</st1:place>.
Until now, all I knew about <st1:place>Gujarat</st1:place> was that it had a
thuggish state governor and that it had suffered a terrible earthquake in 2001.<br />
<br />
But now I also know that it is one of <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
most prosperous states and the birthplace of Mahatma Gandhi. It has mosques and
temples, wildlife reserves, beaches, old forts and exquisite handicrafts.<br />
<br />
So <st1:place>Gujarat</st1:place> it would be. A two-week itinerary was
prepared, with a guide and driver placed at my disposal. The hot season was
beginning to broil, but in an age of air-conditioning I had little to fear.<br />
<br />
And
at <st1:city><st1:place>Bhavnagar</st1:place></st1:city>, I immediately found
myself in an old maharajah's pad, the <st1:place><st1:placename>Nilambagh</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Out and about, the
trappings of the "authentic" <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>
were instantly to hand: the lounging cows, the piles of fruit, the bubbling
tea, the frying food, the burning sun, the waving children, the rascally
sadhus, the multitudinous domes and minarets...<br />
<st1:place><br /></st1:place><br />
<st1:place>Gujarat</st1:place>, I was delighted to note, even turned out to
be blessed with several large patches of wilderness. Not far outside <st1:city><st1:place>Bhavnagar</st1:place></st1:city>
stretch the grasslands of the Velavadar nature reserve, grazed by herds of
skittish blackbuck deer. Over the coming days I would enjoy similar
safari-esque experiences, both at Sasangir (home of the last Asiatic lion) and
the Little Rann of Kutch (frequented by <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
only wild ass).<br />
<br />
But culture was the main thing. On my second day in <st1:place>Gujarat</st1:place>,
I panted up a mountain outside the town of <st1:city><st1:place>Palitana</st1:place></st1:city>
to reach one of the holiest sites of the Jain religion. At the summit, pilgrims
in white cotton robes shuffled amid towers and trees; the only sounds were of
distant chanting, bells in the wind, and the squawking of green parrots. The
views extended over half of <st1:place>Gujarat</st1:place>.<br />
<br />
And beaches? Oh yes. Descending from the temples to the baking plains, I set
off for <st1:place>Diu</st1:place> on the southern coast of the Saurashtra
peninsula. Strictly speaking, this is not quite <st1:place>Gujarat</st1:place>;
as a former Portuguese colony, it falls under direct rule from <st1:city><st1:place>Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>.
An advantage of this, for the tourist, is that <st1:place>Gujarat</st1:place>'s
anti-alcohol laws do not apply here. Suddenly, the scenery was lush and
tropical. In damp churches, primitive wooden effigies of forgotten saints were
rotting in the tropical air. <st1:place>Diu</st1:place> was a place to enjoy a
cold beer and a meal of fried fish cooked by an old woman called Fatima
D'Souza, before spending the night in a place like the Pensao Beira Mar.<br />
<br />
Next morning I headed inland once more. My destination was Junagadh, though
this dusty, historic town seemed to warrant a stay of days rather than hours.
Its centre is dominated by the palace of the old Muslim Nawab, who in 1947 had
declared his intention of joining Junagadh to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
So many Gujarati towns are dominated by epic palaces, the remnants of that
disreputable but seductive century - from around 1840 to 1940 - when India's
princes found themselves free to spend their burgeoning revenues on culture,
music, art, lakes, palaces and hunting - but seldom on their subjects.<br />
<br />
In Gondal, later, I once again enjoyed a maharajah's ease at the <st1:place><st1:placename>Orchard</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place> hotel, eating amid shady
terraces, ancient retainers and dilapidated furnishings. The spindly manager
showed us the antique car collection of the royal family of Gondal. "Oh
yes," he murmured, sadly, caressing the bonnet of a 1940s Chevrolet.
"Things were better then."<br />
<br />
Not that <st1:place>Gujarat</st1:place> was just about palaces. I now took a
different route, north, into the Great Rann of Kutch, a desolate wilderness of
salt flats that marked the borderland between <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
Architectural masterpieces were few: even the famed city of <st1:city><st1:place>Bhuj</st1:place></st1:city>,
since the earthquake of 2001, is not the attraction it was. In spite of the
damage, however, the villages of <st1:place>Kutch</st1:place> remain a treasure
trove. Their crafts are among the finest in <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
I regretted having only a day in which to meet shawl makers, weavers, potters
and painters; for them the earthquake seems to have brought hope. Foreign funds
are arriving. Co-operatives have been established to maintain traditional
skills, sell merchandise and entertain tourists. You will never feel more
strongly motivated to buy souvenirs than in <st1:place>Kutch</st1:place>.<br />
<br />
After the Great Rann, my next destination was the Little Rann. Here I took a
room in a delightful village-style camp called Rann Riders, the property of an
organic farmer and Islamic gentleman-scholar called Malik, now 65 years old,
who, until a few decades ago, had been destined for a small kingship. Thanks to
Indira Gandhi's abolition of the old royal titles of <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
this had not come to pass, but the 24 villages of his former jurisdiction still
showed him respect. At dusk a camel-drawn cart took me away along dusty tracks
to surrounding villages. I will never forget the welcoming villages of Dasada
and Zinzuwada. Old men in fancy shoes milked their cows; women with pots on
their heads stood in carved teak doorways; a monumental Hindu gate, festooned
with faceless gods, crumbled in the sunset.<br />
<br />
My only anxiety, in this rustic haven, was the thought that I would soon be
heading for one of <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
greatest cities. <st1:city><st1:place>Ahmadabad</st1:place></st1:city> was
next. When we got there, a goodly proportion of <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
teeming millions were out on the streets selling vegetables. My hotel, the
House of MG, was a boutique that would not have looked out of place in <st1:city><st1:place>Chicago</st1:place></st1:city>.
Perhaps this was the place to end the tour.<br />
<br />
But Rajasthan was only a short drive away. So I fled to the state border and
checked into a room that resembled an exotic museum, in a hotel called <st1:place><st1:placename>Udai</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Bilas</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
beside a lake in Dungarpur. When the son of the last maharajah came to chat to
me at sunset, he pointed at a stork's nest in the tree above the swimming pool.
"Our aim," he explained calmly, "is to keep things simple."
Keeping things simple? In <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>?
I laughed. Having reached Dungarpur, I was in no mood for simplicity. <st1:city><st1:place>Udaipur</st1:place></st1:city>
was within touching distance. From there, I could drive on to <st1:city><st1:place>Jodhpur</st1:place></st1:city>.
And then to Jaipur. And then to <st1:city><st1:place>Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>,
and...<br />
<br />
A peacock screamed. The maharajah's son looked up. And I suddenly
remembered, with a savage pang of regret, that <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>
could never be conquered in a fortnight.<br />
<br />
Jeremy Atiyah flew to Mumbai with Virgin Atlantic (08705 747 747; virgin
atlantic.com) which offers flights from £425 from 25 December to <st1:date day="31" month="3" year="2006">31 March 2006</st1:date>. He travelled around <st1:place>Gujarat</st1:place>
courtesy of Trans-Indus (020-8566 2729; transindus.co.uk), which has a 15-day
tour, including flights, full board b&b and guides, from £1,998 per person <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-14669320052575700522005-09-25T08:59:00.000-07:002012-02-18T09:00:31.852-08:00Sofitel Metropole Hanoi<br />
<h1>
Sofitel Metropole <st1:city><st1:place>Hanoi</st1:place></st1:city>
</h1>
<h2>
A bed for the night in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Vietnam</st1:place></st1:country-region>
</h2>
<h3>
By Jeremy Atiyah </h3>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="25" month="9" year="2005">25 September 2005</st1:date>
</h4>
<b>The location</b> <br />
In the old town of <st1:city><st1:place>Hanoi</st1:place></st1:city>, on a
quiet street, just a couple of minutes' walk from the central <st1:place><st1:placename>Hoan</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Kiem</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
It is to <st1:city><st1:place>Hanoi</st1:place></st1:city> what the Raffles is
to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>:
quite simply the classiest hotel in town. More than 100 years old, it was
already regarded as the best hotel in Indo-China during the time of French
rule. In the 1920s, guests included Somerset Maugham (who finished The Gentlemen
in the Parlour here) and Noël Coward, who was "not allowed out of the
hotel, as there was a revolution in progress". Later, Graham Greene, in
The Quiet American, said the hotel was populated by French officers and their
wives. (Today a Graham Greene cocktail at the Bamboo Bar, contains gin, dry
vermouth and cassis). Outside, the Metropole still resembles a rambling villa,
with a sleepy line of waiting bicycle rickshaws. Inside are dark wood, creaking
stairwells and photos of ancient Mandarins, and beautiful staff.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The USP</b><br />
All the top people stay here - but you can often get a bargain room rate.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The comfort factor</b><br />
Very high, although the emphasis is on understated colonial elegance, rather
than on vulgar <st1:place>New World</st1:place> glitz. The 232 whitewashed
rooms have vintage furniture, shuttered windows and floor-to-ceiling curtains.
Finding chocolate truffles and meringues on your pillow, you will probably
dream that you are in <st1:country-region><st1:place>France</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The bathroom</b><br />
A fine array of brightly coloured and subtle-smelling unguents await, possibly
to distract your attention from the bathroom itself, which is in need of
modernisation - the flapping shower curtain is not quite in keeping with the
five-star facilities.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The food and drink</b><br />
The hotel contains two of the best restaurants in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Vietnam</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
Prices are high by Vietnamese standards, but low for an international,
five-star hotel. The Beaulieu is a traditional French restaurant, which is as
old as the hotel itself and has an astounding wine list. From $28 (£16) a head
for a set three-course meal. The <st1:place><st1:placename>Spice</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Garden</st1:placetype></st1:place> is an excellent Vietnamese
restaurant, where you can sample the dishes of old <st1:city><st1:place>Hanoi</st1:place></st1:city>,
including items as humble as noodles and spring rolls. Set menus from $26 (£14)
per head.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The people </b><br />
Rich tourists, jet-setters and conference delegates; I saw one group of
Russian oil-magnates and their bodyguards trying to stay sober in the <st1:place><st1:placename>Spice</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Garden</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Also expect a steady stream
of prime ministers, presidents, royalty and movie stars.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Things to do</b><br />
Join a one-day cookery course conducted by the chef of the Spice Garden
Restaurant. She starts at the market (travelling by bicycle rickshaw) and then
shows you how to put together some basic dishes such as sautéed pumpkin
branches with garlic, <st1:city><st1:place>Hanoi</st1:place></st1:city>
deep-fried spring rolls and Vietnamese banana flower salad and marinated pork
grilled in bamboo. Otherwise, lounge in the Bamboo Bar by the pool while a
glamorous female pianist plays nearby. And, of course, beyond the front door
there's the whole of <st1:city><st1:place>Hanoi</st1:place></st1:city> to
explore.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The access </b><br />
Children welcome. No wheelchair access.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The damage</b><br />
Doubles usually available for $130 (£72) per night.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The address</b><br />
The Metropole, 15 Ngo Quyen, <st1:place><st1:city>Hanoi</st1:city>, <st1:country-region>Vietnam</st1:country-region></st1:place>
(0870-609 0961; <a href="http://www.accorhotels.com/asia" target="NEW">www.accorhotels.com/asia</a>).
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-4976593731377054232005-09-04T09:47:00.000-07:002012-02-18T09:47:55.033-08:00Masseria San Domenico<br />
<h1>
Masseria San Domenico </h1>
<h2>
A bed for the night in <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>
</h2>
<h3>
By Jeremy Atiyah </h3>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="4" month="9" year="2005">04 September 2005</st1:date>
</h4>
<b>The location</b> <br />
A converted masseria, which means farmhouse, with a watchtower at its heart.
It is constructed from beautiful white stone with baroque flourishes and set in
more than a hundred acres of olive groves and orchards. The province is rural <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>,
deep in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
heel, roughly 45km (28 miles) south of <st1:city><st1:place>Bari</st1:place></st1:city>.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The USP</b><br />
Probably the most exclusive hotel in <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>
- visitors without reservations are not even allowed into its grounds.
Facilities include a private beach and seawater swimming pool, an 18-hole golf
course, a first-class spa/thalassotherapy centre and tennis courts.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The comfort factor</b><br />
Rooms have French doors that open straight out onto olive groves. The beds
are of the highest quality.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The bathroom</b><br />
All the luxuries you expect.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The food and drink</b><br />
The breakfast is a vast buffet in a huge sunny room. Dinner is even more
splendid, in the San Domenico restaurant, with its columns and 300-year-old
vaulted ceilings. It is a pricey and formal affair, but not wholly removed from
the peasant simplicity of cheaper restaurants in <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>;
most of the fruit and vegetables, and the olive oil, come from the estate.
Dinner for two without wine costs around €110 (£80).<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The people</b><br />
Restaurant guests wear jackets and ties and suchlike finery. The bar, with
its private little niches, creates a sense of discreet exclusivity.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The area</b><br />
The rocky seashore is a few hundred metres away and the small fishing <st1:place><st1:placetype>village</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>Savelletri di Fasano</st1:placename></st1:place> three
minutes' drive. Nearby too are the extensive ruins of the ancient city of <st1:city><st1:place>Egnazia</st1:place></st1:city>.
A further short drive away is the lovely Valle d'Itria with its trulli and
historic towns.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The access</b><br />
Many of the rooms are in ground-floor annexes with no staircases to
negotiate, although none are specifically modified for people with
disabilities. Children welcome. Pets not allowed.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The damage</b> <br />
From €350 (£250) per room per night until the end of September.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The address</b><br />
Masseria San Domenico, Strada Litoranea 379, 72015 Savelletri di Fasano, <st1:place><st1:city>Brindisi</st1:city>,
<st1:country-region>Italy</st1:country-region></st1:place> (00 39 080 482
7769). The hotel is a member of Great Hotels of the World (0800-032 4254; <a href="http://www.ghotw.com/" target="NEW">www.ghotw.com</a>). <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-47046083653804850332005-05-08T08:50:00.000-07:002012-02-20T01:04:20.413-08:00A landscape like this deserves a good write-up<br />
<h1>
A landscape like this deserves a good write-up </h1>
<h2>
George Sand hated <st1:place>Mallorca</st1:place>. Jeremy Atiyah follows in
her footsteps and wonders what the 19th-century author was complaining about </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="8" month="5" year="2005">08 May 2005</st1:date>
</h4>
After visiting <st1:place>Mallorca</st1:place> with her lover, Frederic Chopin,
in 1838-39, George Sand returned to <st1:country-region><st1:place>France</st1:place></st1:country-region>
to compose one of the most malicious travel memoirs ever written.
"Travellers habitually enlarge on the good fortune of the southern
races," she scoffed, in A Winter in <st1:place>Majorca</st1:place>.
"This is an error ... from which I am now safely delivered." She went
on to describe the people of <st1:place>Mallorca</st1:place> - at length - as
barbarians, thieves, hypocrites, cowards, monkeys and Polynesian savages. The
typical Mallorcan peasant, she declared, led a "poor, witless
existence". His prayer was a "senseless formula" and his songs
expressed "that bleak melancholy which overwhelms him in spite of
himself".<br />
<br />
Given their climate, they had the potential to keep "the whole of <st1:country-region><st1:place>France</st1:place></st1:country-region>
supplied with their exquisite oranges", but thanks to their "superb
negligence", the trade remained scant. The local wheat was excellent, but
the bread was "disgusting". The same went for the olives, which,
"thanks to their Moorish inheritance", the Mallorcans knew how to
cultivate. But where the oil thus produced should have been the finest in the
world, it was in fact so "rancid and nauseating" that "every
house, man and carriage in the island, and the very air of the fields, is
saturated with its stench".<br />
<br />
What can account for such bitterness? Sand was writing in an age before
lager louts had been invented. Sand had had the fortune to stay in the most
picturesque part of the island, in villages of pink stone, amid ancient
terraced plantations of citrus and olive, by mountains where rugged peaks
soared straight out of the <st1:place>Mediterranean</st1:place>. What was she
complaining about? I am on my way to investigate.<br />
<br />
Where Sand had to cross the island by coach, on wild paths beset by
"ravines, torrents, swamps, quickset hedges and ditches", I have a
train to assist me. Not that anything about this line is particularly hi-tech:
the olive oil and citrus trade with Marseille paid for it, I am told, nearly
100 years ago. <st1:city><st1:place>Palma</st1:place></st1:city> and Soller are
only 20 miles apart, but in old wooden carriages that creak and clank through
the hills, the journey takes an hour.<br />
<br />
From Soller, I walk across the valley to my hotel. Even in torrential rain,
I am impressed. Grand old mansions dot the slopes. And the <st1:place><st1:placetype>village</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>Fornalutx</st1:placename></st1:place>, when I get there, is
built of pinkish-red stones, the same hue as the crags surround it. Ancient
terraces, grazed by goats, climb up to craggy peaks. I check in at an
immaculate little hotel called C'an Reus, where the exquisite lisp of the
English owner makes me proud to be her compatriot. I dine on suckling pig and
rabbit with onions and a stew of cabbage, bread and garlic. How to improve on
this?<br />
<br />
"Perfect weather for walking," says the lady with the lisp, the
next morning, as I stare up from the terrace behind my hotel at cliffs that
disappear into black clouds. She is right. My plan is to spend a couple of days
trekking along this coast. And I soon find myself in the most ancient olive
groves I have ever seen, containing trees that date back a thousand years, to
the long peace of the Moorish occupation. Sand likened these trees to "a horde
of strange fantastic monsters", including dragons, wrestlers, centaurs,
dwarfs and dancing satyrs. Goats bleat at me from on high. I chew on a carob
pod tasting of soap and cheese as I go.<br />
<br />
The trail is not quite empty, but neither is it swarming with drunken
escapees from Magaluf. I pass a handful of fellow hikers as I wind down through
the gorgeous <st1:place><st1:placetype>valley</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>Balitx</st1:placename></st1:place>.
One of the old farmsteads catches my eye: an ancient square tower rising above
the groves, beside a single palm tree. Inside, the owner's olive press may be
covered in cobwebs and his agricultural implements may be rusting, but his
orange juice - of which he now squeezes me a glass - is the fuel I need to
carry me out of the valley. On reaching the pass, I am surprised by the sight
of a vast sea and the roar of distant waves.<br />
<br />
That rain, mind you, has not gone away: I assume this is the same rain that
Sand found so infuriating 166 years ago. As darkness falls, under renewed
torrents, I catch a taxi to my next hotel, in Valldemossa.<br />
<br />
According to the owner, the Hotel Valldemossa exists not to make money but
to enable the world to appreciate the beauty of its location. The next morning,
I can almost believe it: I open the curtains to find that I am perched on an
outcrop in the middle of a green valley, surrounded by terraces and overlooked
by a grand old Carthusian Monastery. That monastery, the Real Cartuja de Jesus
de Nazaret, is the building where Sand, Chopin and her two children, took
lodgings in 1838.<br />
<br />
They lived in a monastery? Perhaps I can see why the Mallorcans didn't take
to this trouser-wearing, cigarette-smoking, coffee-drinking 34-year-old French
intellectual, living with her two godless children and a foppish, sickly,
long-fingered musician who always wore his overcoat buttoned up to the chin.
But, in a strange tribute to their persecutor, the Mallorcans don't hesitate to
peddle Sand's book. It is on sale all over Valldemossa.<br />
<br />
Or is this more in honour of Chopin than of Sand? The melancholy musician,
after all, described Valldemossa as the most beautiful place in the world.
"Here I am in the midst of palms and cedars and cactuses and olives and
lemons and aloes and figs and pomegranates," he enthused, in a letter to <st1:city><st1:place>Paris</st1:place></st1:city>.
"The sky is turquoise blue, the sea is azure, the mountains are emerald
green ... all day long the sun shines and it is warm, and everybody wears
summer clothes."<br />
<br />
Even Sand was willing to concede the natural charms of the island, calling
it a "painter's Eldorado". But she could not accept that Chopin
genuinely liked <st1:place>Mallorca</st1:place>. Given his "detestation of
the sordid", he "naturally enough took a violent dislike to the
island". And when, in spite of their difficulties in finding a suitable
piano, he composed the beautiful "Raindrop Prelude", Sand heard in it
the sound not only of "raindrops beating on the echoing roof-tiles"
but also of "tears from heaven, beating on his heart".<br />
<br />
I approach the monastery on foot, accompanied by coach-loads of German
tourists in plastic macs. We are looking for the cell where Sand and Chopin
resided; a cell from which the monks had only just been expelled. Though
"cell", I discover, is a misnomer. Their former lodgings turn out to
comprise three rooms under vaulted ceilings, fronted by a large terrace,
decorated with trees, flowers and festoons of creeper. The views, over groves,
down to the distant sea, are glorious.<br />
<br />
Not that George Sand was satisfied. She liked the location. But although
most of the monks had been expelled a couple of years before, one remained as a
constant irritation: "a wild animal", whose brain had "given
way, under the combined assaults of wine and religious enthusiasm". His
approach "was heralded from afar by broken exclamations and the beat of
his staff on the flagstones".<br />
<br />
At least it was possible to avoid him. What was impossible to avoid was the
weather. Fog hung over the landscape like a "damp shroud", while icy
winds moaned through the long corridors. Maybe I can see what she meant. I am
not suffering from the cold, but this rain is persistent. On my last afternoon,
I walk along the coast west from Soller to Deia. Again, I am surprised by
glimpses of the sea crashing on the cliffs below. On my left, I begin to get
dark glimpses of <st1:place><st1:placetype>Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename>Teix</st1:placename></st1:place>,
buried in clouds; for the poet Robert Graves, Deia's most famous resident, Teix
was a numinous place, haunted by ancient spirits.<br />
<br />
These days, real estate in Deia is bought by film stars rather than poets.
But 100 years ago, virtually this whole coast - one of the most beautiful in
the <st1:place>Mediterranean</st1:place> - was owned by Archduke Ludvig
Salvador of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Austria</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
a relative of the Habsburg emperor. Like <st1:place>Graves</st1:place> after
him, the Archduke fell in love with the island and its people. He spent much of
his life here, up to his death in 1915, working on a seven-volume encyclopaedia
of its natural history. He even owned a hostel near Deia, where passers-by
could stay without payment. His special secret was a local peasant girl,
Catalina Homar, whom he had taken to be a manager of his estates - and his
lover.<br />
<br />
Years after she died, the Archduke wrote a small book, "thickly bedewed
with tears", celebrating her generosity, her success in cultivating grapes
(her wines won prizes in Paris and Chicago), her love of animals and nature,
and her universal goodness. When the Empress of Austria visited <st1:place>Mallorca</st1:place>,
it was said, even she fell for the island girl's charms.<br />
<br />
For the Archduke, the instinctive hospitality of the Mallorcans was unique.
"I do not exaggerate a bit," he wrote, "when I say that any
foreigner can travel across the whole island without ever needing to stay at a
hotel. It is enough to knock on the door of the first house that he finds on
the road, be it a luxurious mansion of a Spanish nobleman, or the humble
cottage of a mountain peasant." This custom, he believed, was a
consequence of the intense love Mallorcans felt for their land. To be separated
from their land would cause them to fade away and die.<br />
<st1:place><st1:placetype><br /></st1:placetype></st1:place><br />
<st1:place><st1:placetype>Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename>Teix</st1:placename></st1:place>,
behind me, has vanished in the fog. I am due to spend tonight at one of the
Archduke's old properties, the four-star Sa Pedrissa Hotel, just outside Deia.
From its rustic gardens, I can look down over distant headlands in the
twilight. As the sea fades to black, I think of poor Sand, whose hope in coming
to <st1:place>Mallorca</st1:place> had been to nurse her sickly son, Maurice,
back to health.<br />
<br />
The Mallorcans, it seemed, had been in denial about their own climate.
"Until the very end of the two months of downpour which we were obliged to
endure," Sand wrote, furiously, "they insisted that it never rained
in <st1:place>Majorca</st1:place>." In the event, the weather was so bad
that a new disaster struck: Chopin's incipient consumption began to bite. In
his room in the old stone monastery, three doctors called on him. "The
first one told me I should die," he joked, grimly; "the second that I
was dying, and the third that I was dead already." For Sand, her Mallorcan
winter could not get much worse than this.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>GIVE ME THE FACTS</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>How to get there</b><br />
Jeremy Atiyah travelled to <st1:place>Mallorca</st1:place> with Inntravel
(01653 617906 <a href="http://www.inntravel.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.inntravel.co.uk</a>).
Its Mountains & Villages of Mallorca independent walk costs from £788 per
person, based on two sharing, including return flights from Gatwick to Palma,
transfers, seven nights b&b with one dinner and two picnics, luggage
transfers, walking maps and notes.<br />
<br />
The Tren de Soller (00 34 971 630301; <a href="http://www.sollernet.com/trendesoller" target="NEW">www.sollernet.com/trendesoller</a>)
operates between Soller and Palma, stopping at Bunyola, Caubet, Santa Maria and
Son Sardina from 8am until 7.30pm, daily, throughout the summer. One-way
tickets cost €6.50 (£4.60) and return fares cost €11 (£7.80).<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Where to eat</b><br />
Ca N'Antuna restaurant, Fornalutx (00 34 971 633 068); Can Reus Hotel,
Fornalutx (00 34 971 631 174); Valldemossa Hotel, Valldemossa (00 34 971 612
626); Sa Pedrissa Hotel, Deia (00 34 971 639 111).<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Further information</b><br />
Spanish Tourist Board (020-7486 8077; <a href="http://www.spain.info/" target="NEW">www.spain.info</a>) and <a href="http://www.newsmallorca.com/" target="NEW">www.newsmallorca.com</a>.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>One hundred years on the tourist trail</b><br />
<st1:place>Mallorca</st1:place> marks the centenary this year of the
creation of its tourist board with a special programme of activities.<br />
The main event is the Mallorca Tourist Board Centenary exhibition at the La
Lonja Exhibition Centre in <st1:city><st1:place>Palma</st1:place></st1:city>
(00 34 971 711 705). A visual record of 100 years of tourism on the island, it
opens from 19 August for two months. Open Tuesday to Saturday, <st1:time hour="11" minute="0">11am-2pm</st1:time>, <st1:time hour="17" minute="0">5pm-9pm</st1:time>,
and Sunday afternoons, closed Mondays. Admission free.<br />
<br />
Another exhibition featuring more than 100 works of art donated to the
Mallorcan tourist board over the past century will be on display at the Es
Baluard Museum in <st1:city><st1:place>Palma</st1:place></st1:city> (00 34 971
908200; <a href="http://www.esbaluard.org/" target="NEW">www.esbaluard.org</a>)
until May. The gallery's debut exhibition, it is based around nine themes,
including Mediterranean landscapes. Open Tuesday to Sunday, <st1:time hour="10" minute="0">10am-8pm</st1:time>, closed Mondays. Admission free.<br />
Both exhibitions are linked to the Mallorca Enchanted photographic showcase
(020-7201 0753; <a href="http://www.mallorcaenchanted.com/" target="NEW">www.mallorcaenchanted.com</a>),
which will tour the <st1:country-region><st1:place>UK</st1:place></st1:country-region>
until December. This month, the exhibition is in <st1:city><st1:place>Warrington</st1:place></st1:city>.
Admission free.<br />
<br />
Back on the island, a series of events will be held under the banner "A
Winter in Mallorca" (00 34 971 72 53 96; <a href="http://www.illesbalears.es/" target="NEW">www.illesbalears.es</a>) from
October to December, including 180 concerts by world-renowned soloists, chamber
orchestras, choirs and jazz groups, and a special Christmas programme.<br />
<br />
For further information contact the Mallorcan Tourist board (00 34 971 725
396; <a href="http://www.newsmallorca.com/" target="NEW">www.newsmallorca.com</a>).<br />
<i>Justin Talbot</i> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0Majorca Island, Spain39.6952629 3.017571239.3064004 2.3858572 40.084125400000005 3.6492852tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-30163897801095899782005-03-13T08:53:00.000-08:002012-02-18T08:55:11.416-08:00Spring is here, and it just has to be Paris<br />
<h1>
Spring is here, and it just has to be <st1:city><st1:place>Paris</st1:place></st1:city>
</h1>
<h2>
Ready for that seasonal trip to the French capital? We choose three hotel
destinations where style and comfort are guaranteed </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="13" month="3" year="2005">13 March 2005</st1:date>
</h4>
<b>SMOOTH AS SILK </b><br />
<b>InterContinental Le Grand</b><br />
<b>The location</b><br />
Right next to the Opera House at the top of the Avenue de l'Opéra, one of <st1:city><st1:place>Paris</st1:place></st1:city>'s
grand boulevards, which leads down to the Louvre and the <st1:place>Seine</st1:place>.
The InterContinental Le Grand, built in 1862, in the era of Napoleon III,
re-opened in 2003 after an 18-month refurbishment designed to place it firmly
at the top of the list of <st1:city><st1:place>Paris</st1:place></st1:city>'s
smart hotels. The smell of varnish still lingers on the newly polished doors
and banisters while the lobby is full of huge vases of fresh lilies. You enter
up a flight of stairs through doors opened by staff in top hats and tails
before checking in at the spacious reception. The lobby boasts bentwood
furniture and Oriental screens and leads to the cafe and bar, which feature a
glass ceiling and a huge chandelier. It's worth walking up and down the grand
staircase to examine the classic paintings and soak up the ambience. The
internal decor draws heavily on the neighbouring Opera House and pictures of
stars of the opera and ballet, including Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev,
hang on the walls.<br />
<b>The USP</b><br />
Apart from its wonderful location and the fact that some rooms overlook the
Opera House? Well, there's also the majestic Cafe de la Paix. The huge
chandeliers, glass canopy and delicate sky-blue murals on the ceiling make this
the grandest of Parisian grand cafes. Famous names who have supped here include
the future Edward VII, Emile Zola and Oscar Wilde, who, so the hotel literature
reports, dreamed he saw an angel in the conservatory terrace.<br />
<b>The comfort factor</b><br />
The hotel has 482 rooms. Mine focused on a king-sized bed so high it's a
wonder they don't provide a stepladder to help you climb into it. Above the bed
hung a beautiful silk screen while the windows were framed with velvet curtains
and regency armchairs. The bar and lobby have huge, comfy sofas and are
surrounded by lush palms and foliage.<br />
<b>The bathroom</b><br />
Sleek lines with separate shower and bath. Soaps and lotions from Audley's
of <st1:city><st1:place>London</st1:place></st1:city>.<br />
<b>The food and drink</b><br />
The Brasserie de la Paix offers outstanding food and service in one of the
city's loveliest settings. It really is worth treating yourself here. Starters
include <st1:place>Shetland Islands</st1:place> smoked salmon with blinis and
fresh cream, while among the main courses on offer is grilled turbot with
caramelised onions. The prices are bearable, given the standard and location,
with dishes starting at around €40 (£29). Drinks are expensive: beer checks in
at €8 (£6) and a late-night Viennese hot chocolate at €7 (£5).<br />
<b>The people</b><br />
A good mix, from international executives, to small, affluent, Japanese tour
groups and the odd Indian film star. For everyone else, it's a place to come
for that special anniversary celebration.<br />
<b>The area</b><br />
The Opera House across the road opens its doors for visits and tours. A walk
to the Louvre and the Tuileries takes only a leisurely 15 minutes.<br />
<b>The access</b><br />
There are ramps and elevators for every staircase and ten rooms have been
designed for disabled travellers so far, with more under renovation, though
they provide wider baths rather than special showers.<br />
<b>The damage</b><br />
Walk-in rates start at a finger-burning €740 (£542), but the hotel is
currently offering rates on its website from €370 (£271) per night.
Presidential suites are strictly for those readers who picked the right numbers
in last night's lottery: the price is €3,270 (£2,400) per night.<br />
<b>The address</b><br />
InterContinental le Grand, 2 Rue Scribe, 75009 Paris (00 33 1 40 07 32 32; <a href="http://www.paris-le-grand.intercontinental.com/" target="NEW">www.paris-le-grand.intercontinental.com</a>).<br />
<i>Mark Rowe</i><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>PURE CHIC </b><br />
<b>La Tremoille</b><br />
<b>The location </b><br />
Tucked behind the Champs Élysées, off the Avenue George V, in the upmarket
8th arrondissement. Do you like your Parisian grandeur to have a contemporary
edge? This 19th-century cornerhouse offers exactly that, following an extensive
refurbishment by its owner, The Scotsman Hotel Group. Careful attention has
been paid to its Haussmann-style façade and to preserving period details
inside. Yet the furnishings and decor are thoroughly 21st century, using a
fashionable palette of muted colours - browns purples, greys and white - with
tactile textiles such as mohair, fake fur and silk.<br />
<b>The USP </b><br />
A cool, intimate retreat in the right part of town. In the Sixties, the
hotel was on the jazz scene and film stars such as Tony Curtis and Marlene
Dietrich called it a home from home. Today it doesn't feel like a party house,
though <st1:place>Hollywood</st1:place> greats, including Richard Gere and
Johnny Depp, still check in.<br />
<b>The comfort factor </b><br />
There are 93 rooms and suites, with satellite TV, DVD and internet access. A
clever touch: each room has a hatch that can be opened from outside, so meals
can be discreetly delivered.<br />
<b>The bathroom </b><br />
In sparkling porcelain and marble, ours had a walk-in shower, bath and
separate loo, and was supplied with Molton Brown toiletries.<br />
<b>The food and drink </b><br />
The hotel employed the talents of Sir Terence Conran to design the
restaurant and bar, Senso, which serves a French gastronomic menu.<br />
<b>The people</b><br />
Well-off Europeans - and those stellar guests.<br />
<b>The area</b><br />
The Arc de Triomphe and the <st1:place><st1:placename>Eiffel</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place> are within walking distance.
The hotel has a small gym, sauna and offers beauty treatments.<br />
<b>The access</b><br />
Children welcome. Some pets too. Full disabled access.<br />
<b>The damage</b><br />
From €410 (£286) per room per night.<br />
<b>The address</b><br />
La Trémoille, 14 rue <st1:place><st1:city>de La Trémoille</st1:city>, <st1:postalcode>75008</st1:postalcode></st1:place>
<st1:place><st1:city>Paris</st1:city>, <st1:country-region>France</st1:country-region></st1:place>
(00 33 1 56 52 14 00; <a href="http://www.hotel-tremoille.com/" target="NEW">www.hotel-tremoille.com</a>).<br />
<i>Kate Simon</i><br />
<i>Kate Simon travelled to </i><st1:city><st1:place><i>Paris</i></st1:place></st1:city><i>
with Eurostar (08705 186 186; <a href="http://www.eurostar.com/" target="NEW">www.eurostar.com</a>),
which offers return fares from £59.</i><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>MARBLE MARVEL </b><br />
<b>Hotel Westminster</b><br />
<b>The location </b><br />
In the immensely posh Rue de la Paix - <st1:city><st1:place>Paris</st1:place></st1:city>'s
equivalent to <st1:city><st1:place>London</st1:place></st1:city>'s <st1:street><st1:address>Bond
Street</st1:address></st1:street> - which runs north from the Place Vendôme
to the Opéra. A short stroll, in other words, from the <st1:place><st1:placename>Tuileries</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Gardens</st1:placetype></st1:place> and the Louvre.<br />
<b>The hotel </b><br />
Traditional, with dim lighting and hushed, discreet service. It isn't in the
absolute top tier of Parisian hotels, but it falls not far short. In many
respects, it still resembles the 19th-century hotel that it once was, with
antique carpets, giant flower displays and marble columns in the hall, and
flowery bedspreads, heavy drapes, chandeliers and chaise-longues in the
bedrooms. Other decorative features in my room included block-print wallpaper,
gilt picture frames and period etchings, not to mention a leather-topped desk
and an antique bronze clock. The whole place has been refurbished and
redecorated to a high standard under Pierre-Yves Rochon.<br />
<b>The USP </b><br />
A more affordable and classy substitute for the Ritz (which is just round
the corner).<br />
<b>The comfort factor </b><br />
A few guests have complained about bedrooms being too small, but otherwise,
it's comfortable. Despite the hotel's central location, most of the 100 rooms
are almost soundproof. And rooms offer all the facilities of a top-notch hotel,
including high-speed internet connections and British newspapers delivered to
your door with breakfast.<br />
<b>The bathroom </b><br />
Lots of marble, and plenty of natural light, with windows overlooking the
central garden-courtyard. The beauty products are expensive brands such as
Bulgari and Carven. Some of the bathrooms have old-fashioned dressing tables.<br />
<b>The food and drink </b><br />
This is one of the hotel's best features. Le Celadon restaurant (00 33 1 47
03 40 42), with its damask wall hangings and pale green Chinese porcelain (and
decent-sized tables), has a well-deserved Michelin star and is a place to enjoy
the meal of a lifetime. A three-course meal from the fabulously creative à la
carte menu is unlikely to cost less than £100 per head, including wine, though
there is also a superb set menu (called Plaisirs Gourmands) with an oriental
aspect for about £45. At the weekend, the restaurant changes its style and its
menu, transforming itself into Le Petit Celadon, which is more relaxed and
slightly cheaper and simpler; a three-course menu of about £33 is offered,
including wine and coffee. Service (in English and French) is flawless.<br />
<b>The people </b><br />
The Dukes of Westminster, among others, have had a tradition of staying here
since the end of the 19th century (the hotel had named itself the <st1:city><st1:place>Westminster</st1:place></st1:city>
as long ago as 1831, during one of <st1:city><st1:place>Paris</st1:place></st1:city>'s
more Anglophile periods). Other celebrity guests have included footballer Eric
Cantona, rock star Prince, and actor Jean-Claude Van Damme. More ordinary
clientele include British merchant bankers and anybody who prefers discretion
to publicity.<br />
<b>The area </b><br />
You can smoke a cigar and browse an antique book in the Duke's Bar, while
admiring its huge gothic fireplace, giant leather furniture and wallpaper
resembling green baize. Or, if you don't like the idea of an English
gentleman's club in Paris, go up to the Westminster Fitness Club, a workout
centre under a glass-ceiling, with a view over the rooftops of the city.<br />
<b>The access </b><br />
Pets and children welcome. Restricted access for wheelchair users.<br />
<b>The damage </b><br />
Through Great Hotels of the World, small classic double rooms are currently
available for about £100. Prices for suites cost up to about £600.<br />
Call Great Hotels of the World on 0800 0324254; <a href="http://www.ghotw.com/" target="NEW">www.ghotw.com</a>.<br />
<b>The address </b><br />
Hotel Westminster, 13 Rue de la Paix, 75002 <st1:city><st1:place>Paris</st1:place></st1:city>
(00 33 1 42 615746; <a href="http://www.hotelwestminster.com/" target="NEW">www.hotelwestminster.com</a>)<br />
<i>Jeremy Atiyah </i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-9730974391171510922005-03-06T08:31:00.000-08:002012-02-18T05:41:44.900-08:00Tilting at windmills in the land of the high plains drifter<br />
<h1>
<span lang="EN-GB">Tilting at windmills in the land of the high plains
drifter </span></h1>
<h2>
<span lang="EN-GB">The 400th anniversary of 'Don Quixote' is cause for
celebration. Jeremy Atiyah tours </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> to see if the setting for Cervantes's classic is the best venue </span></h2>
<h4>
<span lang="EN-GB">Published: </span><st1:date day="6" month="3" year="2005"><span lang="EN-GB">06 March 2005</span></st1:date></h4>
<h4>
<span lang="EN-GB">No wonder the tourist board of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> sniffs an opportunity:
this year is the 400th anniversary of the publication, by Miguel de Cervantes,
of the first part of The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">.</span></h4>
Few books have been so successful in raising the profile of
an otherwise unknown land. The spindly figure of Don Quixote on his ageing
hack, Rocinante, accompanied by the portly Sancho Panza on the back of a
donkey, is an image that has penetrated the consciousness of the whole world.
And the indelible backdrop to that image is the flat, dusty plain of La Mancha,
distinguished only by its windmills.<br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Many of us, over the centuries, have laughed (or cried) at
the absurdities engendered by Cervantes's plot-line. Others have gone further.
Don Quixote, with his delusions of grandeur, has been seen as the embodiment of
all human folly; his story has been described as an allegory, setting forth the
eternal struggle between the ideal and the real; between the spirit of poetry
and the spirit of prose. The Romantics went so far as to see Don Quixote as a
tragic, heroic figure, a man of virtue who yet suffered the greatest defeat of
all, public ridicule.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">But all agree: Don Quixote's spirit is a triumph of fantasy
over fact. And the latest campaign to lure tourists to dreary </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> is commendably in
keeping with that spirit. Why, after all, did Cervantes choose it, over all the
regions of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Spain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">, to be Don Quixote's homeland?</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">One of the keynotes to the book is struck when the stolid,
humourless Sancho informs his "knight" that he has only a donkey on
which to ride. "About the donkey," we read, "Don Quixote
hesitated a little, trying to call to mind any knight-errant taking with him an
esquire mounted on donkey-back; but no instance occurred to his memory."</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">As it is with his squire's donkey, so it is with the chosen
location for Don Quixote's planned heroics. To anyone who knows </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Spain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">
well, the mere style and title of "Don Quixote of La Mancha" gives
the key to the author's meaning. Quite simply, </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> is the last place in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Spain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">
that would evoke ideas of chivalry, adventure, glamour or romance. It is, in
short, outstanding only for its dullness.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Consider the alternative locations where Cervantes might
have placed his hero. The author himself had been born in the opulent and
sophisticated city of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Alcala de
Henares</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, northeast of </span><st1:state><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Madrid</span></st1:place></st1:state><span lang="EN-GB">. He had
spent his youth abroad, around the </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Mediterranean</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">, fighting the Turks (this included a four-year spell as a prisoner
in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Algiers</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">). During his later life in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Spain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">, he
lived in grand cities, including </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Seville</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> and </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Valladolid</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">.</span><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Spain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> offered desolation in all directions. But it was never dreary. To
the north sparkled </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Leon</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Burgos</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> and all the great cities of Castille's Golden Age. Around </span><st1:state><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Madrid</span></st1:place></st1:state><span lang="EN-GB">, the cities
of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Salamanca</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Toledo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, Aranjuez, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Segovia</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> were splendid in culture and relics of the past. To the west and
south lay the melancholy but impressive solitudes of </span><st1:state><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Estremadura</span></st1:place></st1:state><span lang="EN-GB"> and
Andalucia. Any of these lands might have been ideal locations for a genuine
romance.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">But a satirical romance? Only </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> would do. It offered
no redeeming feature whatsoever. It lacked any hint of nobility or dignity; it
was an in-between land; a land that had once been - as it should have remained
- a border region between the Christian heartland of Castilla, and the Moorish </span><st1:place><st1:placetype><span lang="EN-GB">land</span></st1:placetype><span lang="EN-GB"> of </span><st1:placename><span lang="EN-GB">Andalucia</span></st1:placename></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> (the
Arabs had called it al-Manshah, "dry land" or
"wilderness").</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">In Cervantes's day, the few towns and villages that broke
its monotony were uncultured and populated by bumpkins. In short, </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">, as the knight's
country and scene of his chivalries, was wholly consistent with the pasteboard
helmet, the tired old hack, the squire on a donkey, and all the other
incongruities between Don Quixote's imaginary world, and the world in which he
actually lived.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The unfortunate - or fortunate - fact in the 21st century
is that </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> remains almost exactly as Cervantes described it 400 years ago. It
is a severe land, freezing cold in winter, broiling hot in summer. It is
devoted to agriculture, inasmuch as unfavourable environmental conditions
allow. Villages such as El Toboso (home of the knight's
fair-maiden-cum-country-wench, Dulcinea) and Argamasilla de Alba (claimed as
Don Quixote's own village), are prim, adequate little places, distinguished
only through their supposed connection with Quixotic episodes.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Only a fortuitous drawing of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Spain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">'s
political boundaries has succeeded in lending any glamour to </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">. In 1979, the
Autonomous Community of Castilla-La Mancha was created, fusing the flat plains
of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> with the more exciting region to the north, centred on the stunning
Unesco world-heritage cities of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Toledo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> and </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Cuenca</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">But if truth be told, neither of these is remotely
characteristic of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">. Far more characteristic are </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Albacete</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> and </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Ciudad Real</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, the
region's biggest cities, legendary throughout </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Spain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> for
their tedium (though the latter at least boasts a </span><st1:place><st1:placetype><span lang="EN-GB">Museum</span></st1:placetype><span lang="EN-GB"> of </span><st1:placename><span lang="EN-GB">Don Quixote</span></st1:placename></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">,
inaugurated in 2002, designed for children and scholars). As for rustic
Valdepeñas, down the road, it offers bodegas and wine-tasting. Its wines are
best known for being regrettable.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">None of this is to say that </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> has given up hope.
Don Quixote is galloping to the rescue, lance at the ready! Over these plains,
for the benefit of tourists, the regional authorities have been busy developing
the so-called </span><st1:street><st1:address><span lang="EN-GB">Don Quixote
Route</span></st1:address></st1:street><span lang="EN-GB">, an ambitious tangle
of criss-crossing routes and paths, 2,500 kilometres in length, connecting
sundry towns from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Toledo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Albacete</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">They claim that their land has its own poetry. Its grass
grows green for a month in spring (they boast), before scorching to a golden
stubble. Tourist brochures describe its monotonous roads as lined with trees;
they speak of a village, here and there, tanned by the sun, casting the
silhouette of its belfry upon an azure sky; they speak of the occasional
hermitage on some isolated crag, exalting in the meagre shade of a cypress;
they mention a tower crumbling in the blood-red light of evening; or parched
torrent beds like lizard tracks.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">To appreciate all this, we are told, the </span><st1:street><st1:address><span lang="EN-GB">Don Quixote Route</span></st1:address></st1:street><span lang="EN-GB"> is best journeyed on foot or by bicycle; or even on the back of an
old, enfeebled horse. It all sounds so marvellously romantic.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">It is a grand illusion, one suspects, of which Don Quixote
himself would have been proud.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">GIVE ME THE FACTS</span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">How to get there</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">British Airways (0870 850 9850; <a href="http://www.ba.com/" target="NEW">www.ba.com</a>) flies from Heathrow and Gatwick to </span><st1:state><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Madrid</span></st1:place></st1:state><span lang="EN-GB"> from £69,
from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Manchester</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> to </span><st1:state><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Madrid</span></st1:place></st1:state><span lang="EN-GB"> from £96 and from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Birmingham</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> to </span><st1:state><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Madrid</span></st1:place></st1:state><span lang="EN-GB"> from £99. Renfe, the Spanish National Railways, (00 34 902 24 02
02; <a href="http://www.renfe.es/" target="NEW">www.renfe.es</a>) offers regular
train departures from Madrid to Toledo, Cuenca, Albacete and Ciudad Real taking
one to two hours.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Where to stay</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Hotel Abad, Real del Arrabal 1, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Toledo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> (00 34 925
283500; <a href="http://www.hotelabad.com/" target="NEW">www.hotelabad.com</a>) is
in a former blacksmith's shop dating from 1815. Many of the original features
have been retained including the wooden ceilings, wall beams and brickwork.
Doubles without breakfast start at €101 (£72).</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Further information</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The Spanish National Tourist Office (020-7486 8077; <a href="http://www.spain.info/" target="NEW">www.spain.info</a>).</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Special events are taking place throughout the year to
commemorate the 400th anniversary of Don Quixote, including exhibitions, opera,
readings and food festivals. For more details, go to <a href="http://www.donquijotedelamancha2005.com/" target="NEW">www.donquijotedelamancha2005.com</a>.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">FROM A TO ZAFON: </span></b><st1:country-region><st1:place><b><span lang="EN-GB">SPAIN</span></b></st1:place></st1:country-region><b><span lang="EN-GB">'S LITERARY LANDMARKS</span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Cervantes's </span></b><st1:state><st1:place><b><span lang="EN-GB">Madrid</span></b></st1:place></st1:state><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The 400th anniversary of Don Quixote has put </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">La Mancha</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> on the map, and Cervantes's
</span><st1:state><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Madrid</span></st1:place></st1:state><span lang="EN-GB"> connections are also there to be explored. The Plaza Mayor is the
meeting point for one of the city's tourist office's regular guided walks
"Cervantes and his era". </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Tours</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> cost €3.10
(£2.20) for adults and €2.50 for children. Alternatively, Carpetaniamadrid, a
group of professional historians, offers fascinating literary-themed walks (€7
for adults and €5 for students).</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Further information: </span><st1:state><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Madrid</span></st1:place></st1:state><span lang="EN-GB"> Tourism (00
34 914 294951; <a href="http://www.descubremadrid.com/" target="NEW">www.descubremadrid.com</a>);
Carpetaniamadrid (00 34 915 314018; <a href="http://www.carpetania-madrid.com/" target="NEW">www.carpetania-madrid.com</a>).</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">The </span></b><st1:city><st1:place><b><span lang="EN-GB">Barcelona</span></b></st1:place></st1:city><b><span lang="EN-GB"> of 'Shadow of the Wind'</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Carlos Ruiz Zafon's bestseller drips with period
atmosphere, evoking the </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Barcelona</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">'s post-civil war streets The Ramblas puts in frequent appearances,
as do various hidden-away calles that are little changed to this day. Els
Quatre Gats, a neo-Gothic restaurant that plays a key role in the story, still
exists. The book reaches its climax in the sea air at Barceloneta. Meanwhile,
the city has organised a programme of events to celebrate Barcelona 2005 Books
and Reading Year.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Further information: </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Barcelona</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> Tourism
(00 34 932 853834; <a href="http://www.barcelona-turisme.com/" target="NEW">www.barcelona-turisme.com</a>);
Els Quatre Gats (00 34 933024 140; <a href="http://www.4gats.com/" target="NEW">www.4gats.com</a>);
Barcelona Books and Reading Year (00 34 933161 000; <a href="http://www.anyllibre%202005.bcn.es/" target="NEW">www.anyllibre 2005.bcn.es</a>)</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">From top to bottom with Laurie Lee</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning is Laurie Lee's
account of the journey he made as a young man through pre-civil war </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Spain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">.
"I had a knapsack, blanket, a spare shirt and a fiddle, and enough words
to ask for a glass of water," he writes. His journey started in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Vigo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Galicia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">
and ending in Almuñecar on the Mediterranean coast, via </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Valladolid</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><st1:place><st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">Segovia</span></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><st1:state><span lang="EN-GB">Madrid</span></st1:state></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Toledo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Cordoba</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Seville</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Cadiz</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> and </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Malaga</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Further information: </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Galicia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">
Tourism (00 34 981 542500; <a href="http://www.turgalicia.org/" target="NEW">www.turgalicia.org</a>),
Andalucia Tourism (00 34 901 200020; <a href="http://www.andalucia.org/" target="NEW">www.andalucia.org</a>)</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Papa's Parador</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">No foreign writer had </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Spain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> in
his blood quite like Ernest Hemingway, with his hymn to bull-fighting that is
Death in the Afternoon. If such a spectacle is not to your taste, head for the
Parador de Ronda in southern Andalucia. It overlooks El Tajo, the dramatic
120-metre gorge said to have inspired the cliff scene in For Whom the Bell
Tolls.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Further information: Parador de Ronda, Plaza de Espana (00
34 952 877500) has doubles without breakfast from €144; Ronda Tourism (00 34
952 187 119; <a href="http://www.turismoderonda.es/" target="NEW">www.turismoderonda.es</a>)</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Robert Graves's </span></b><st1:place><b><span lang="EN-GB">Mallorca</span></b></st1:place><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The </span><st1:place><st1:placetype><span lang="EN-GB">village</span></st1:placetype><span lang="EN-GB"> of </span><st1:placename><span lang="EN-GB">Deia</span></st1:placename></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">, which was home for most of the poet's adult life, is a delightful
cluster of honey-coloured buildings perched on a northern hillside above the
sea. It's been a favourite haunt of artists and painters for centuries. The
elegant La Residencia hotel offers wonderful views, while nearby Valldemossa is
famous for its deserted Carthusian Monastery, La Cartuja. It is where Frederic
Chopin and George Sand spent the winter of 1838-1839, chronicled in Sand's 1855
Un Hiver Majorque (A winter in </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Mallorca</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">).</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Further information: Hotel La Residencia, </span><st1:place><st1:placename><span lang="EN-GB">Son</span></st1:placename><span lang="EN-GB"> </span><st1:placetype><span lang="EN-GB">Canals</span></st1:placetype></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">, Deia
(00 34 971 639011; <a href="http://www.orient-express.com/" target="NEW">www.orient-express.com</a>)
has doubles with breakfast from €252; Mallorca Tourist Office (00 34 971
712216; <a href="http://www.visitbalears.com/" target="NEW">www.visitbalears.com</a>)</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Thrill of </span></b><st1:city><st1:place><b><span lang="EN-GB">Seville</span></b></st1:place></st1:city><br />
<st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Seville</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">'s atmospheric Moorish streets and the stunning Giralda form the
backdrop for Arturo Perez-Reverte's 1999 thriller The Seville Communion. The
story, involving the papal emissary and investigator Father Lorenzo Quart, is
played out in the bars, grand residences and churches that dot the city.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Further information: </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Seville</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> Tourism (00
34 954 221404; <a href="http://www.sevilla.org/" target="NEW">www.sevilla.org</a>)
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-66138391672561261592005-02-20T08:57:00.000-08:002012-02-18T08:59:08.021-08:00Just me, the tree gods, and a mosaic full of mermaids<br />
<h1>
Just me, the tree gods, and a mosaic full of mermaids </h1>
<h2>
Jeremy Atiyah hears echoes of <st1:city><st1:place>Byzantium</st1:place></st1:city>
in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s <st1:place>Land's
End</st1:place> - the deserted, beautiful, and mysterious region of Salento </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="20" month="2" year="2005">20 February 2005</st1:date>
</h4>
The Salento peninsula - the tip of the stiletto heel of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
- is easy enough to miss. After all, it is a region on the way to nowhere.
Everyone heading for <st1:country-region><st1:place>Greece</st1:place></st1:country-region>
has already boarded a ferry at <st1:city><st1:place>Brindisi</st1:place></st1:city>,
south of which there is only <st1:city><st1:place>Lecce</st1:place></st1:city>,
where the mainline trains terminate and the motorways begin to fizzle out. Even
guidebook writers hardly make it further than this.<br />
<br />
The latest flood of tourist arrivals to <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>,
landing on Ryanair flights at <st1:city><st1:place>Bari</st1:place></st1:city>
or <st1:city><st1:place>Brindisi</st1:place></st1:city>, does not seem to be
coming here either. Instead, drawn by talk of the "new <st1:state><st1:place>Tuscany</st1:place></st1:state>",
the masses are beating a path to the trulli-zone in the picturesque Valle
D'Itria (prompting one regional newspaper to describe it recently as an
"English colony").<br />
<br />
Perhaps it is Salento's blessing that it has nothing as obviously quaint as
the trullo: it has to make do, instead, with tree-gods, hypnotic dances, echoes
of a lost <st1:city><st1:place>Byzantium</st1:place></st1:city> and the murmur
of waves beating on the edge of the world.<br />
<br />
For a six-week period in July and August, the whole region suddenly teems
with noisy Italian tourists. For the rest of the year, it is dead quiet. A few
rich foreigners live discreetly in their baronial homes, undisturbed by the
Ryanair hoards. But let traditional Italophiles be warned: Salento does not
look like your dream of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
There is no whiff of <st1:state><st1:place>Tuscany</st1:place></st1:state>
here.<br />
<br />
It actually resembles a particularly scuffed part of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Greece</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
or perhaps <st1:place>Africa</st1:place>, with villages of flat-roofed houses,
and a beautiful rocky coast where leathery old medallion-men mess around in
boats.<br />
This is not to say that it is not lovely. Every village contains its
historic centre, displaying the antique gold and pink hues of authentic,
Leccese stone. There's usually a baroque palazzo; a castle or two. The only
pity is the number of antique houses that have been hastily modernised by
locals: the resulting Swiss-chalet style of architecture can be almost funny,
until you remember what has been destroyed.<br />
But I'm not complaining. The peninsula is also full of olive trees. The
olives of Salento, they boast, once fed the lamps that illuminated the streets
of <st1:city><st1:place>London</st1:place></st1:city>.<br />
<br />
And a random drive through the interior throws up one obscure marvel after
another. Here is what happened when I drove south from <st1:city><st1:place>Lecce</st1:place></st1:city>
the other day. First I stumbled across Galatina, with its fabulous 14th-century
frescos in the <st1:place><st1:placetype>church</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>Santa
Caterina</st1:placename></st1:place>. Next was Maglie, with its elegant
mansions and swankily dressed bourgeoisie. I discovered Poggiardo, where, in
the Ristorante la Piazza, I was served a vast and unique antipasti that
included lightly battered fennel leaves, ricotta with figs and cranberry, and
croquettes with fresh mint. Not until after lunch did I finally hit the coast,
at Castro, in time to catch a glimpse of the snow-capped mountains of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Albania</st1:place></st1:country-region>
hovering above the sea like a mirage, with <st1:country-region><st1:place>Greece</st1:place></st1:country-region>
shimmering distantly to the south.<br />
<br />
It is this suggestion of the exotic east that is particularly seductive. The
Roman world was slow in penetrating these parts, and there are villages in
Salento where the Greek language lingers on, dating back certainly to the era
of <st1:city><st1:place>Byzantium</st1:place></st1:city>, if not to that of
classical <st1:country-region><st1:place>Greece</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
<br />
On narrow lanes, between dry-stone walls lined with oleander, amid groves
containing trees a thousand years old or more, I get the impression of a region
steeped in mysterious religions. Turn off the road anywhere and I find menhirs
and dolmens and other relics of the long-lost Messapian culture. But what
excites me still more is one magic religion that survives today in Salento -
Tarantism.<br />
<br />
This bizarre little cult, with its own indigenous symbols and beliefs, has
the potential to fill the whole peninsula with stupefied foreign tourists. In
summer festivals, you find its music everywhere. Old men by bonfires beat out a
frenetic rhythm on tambourines, while women sing, and breathless dancers spin
and whirl their way to redemption. Centuries ago, it was believed that a
strange sickness, found only in women, and believed to have been caused by the
bite of a spider, could be cured by engaging in this ritual, high-speed dance.
The people of Salento still swear by its therapeutic properties.<br />
<br />
Except that this is winter. It is not the season for dancing. It is time for
off-season tours of the regional highlights.<br />
<br />
For my own trip, I have elected to bypass the Ionian coast, on the western
side of the peninsula. Developments on the shore over there are a little
tawdry. The <st1:place>Adriatic</st1:place> is what I want to see, starting
with bijou Otranto: a historic town, full of boutique stores and ice-cream
vendors, and massively fortified.<br />
<br />
As <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
most easterly city, Otranto haughtily proclaims itself to be in a state of high
alert against the "menace" of eastern Europe. On the Capo d'Otranto,
a promontory to the south, ancient stone watchtowers gaze out towards <st1:country-region><st1:place>Albania</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
<br />
The land hereabouts is a treeless, rocky maquis, covered in tiny flowers.
When the sun's rays are horizontal, it might be the west coast of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Scotland</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
But the towers are relics of a time when the threat was real. In the year 1480,
the <st1:place>Ottoman Empire</st1:place> attempted to launch an invasion of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
at this point. Otranto was captured from the sea, and 800 of its citizens put
to death. Mehmed II himself was said to be on his way, determined to use
Otranto as a bridgehead for a conquest not only of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
but of all Christendom. The Pope in <st1:city><st1:place>Rome</st1:place></st1:city>
prepared to flee to <st1:city><st1:place>Avignon</st1:place></st1:city>. But
events stalled. Mehmed died a year later. His forces withdrew from <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
never to return. In the year 2005, old Pugliese folk, as if caught in an
ancient dream, are still wont to shout out in times of stress, "Mamma, le
Turchi!"<br />
<br />
Otranto's cathedral contains one of the most fabulous gems of mediaeval art
in <st1:place>Europe</st1:place>. I am talking of the vast, 900-year-old mosaic
floor, as anarchic a collection of characters and motifs as that intensely
Christian world could ever have conceived (featuring Alexander the Great, King
Arthur, elephants, trees of life, mermaids, and the Queen of Sheba, among
others, with inscriptions in Greek, Latin and Arabic).<br />
<br />
The coastal road meanders south. My next stop is Santa Cesarea Terme, an
old-fashioned spa resort that has seen better days in years gone by, and may
well see better days in years to come. Faded mansions, the playthings of
19th-century aristocrats, dominate the front, in particular the famous Villa
Sticchi with its Arabesque domes and arches. On a sunny winter's day, I find a
few cafés open here; a couple of old hotels are undergoing refurbishment for
the coming season.<br />
<br />
The gorgeous rocky coast beyond remains unexploited all the way to the
southernmost tip of the peninsula. The road is narrow and winding. In summer,
Italian holidaymakers will cruise up and down in search of the perfect cove or
grotto, accessible by steps cut into the cliffs. But hotels are few and far
between. Olive groves still dominate the landward view.<br />
<br />
I stop for lunch at Marina di Andrano, where a stout little lady provides a
dish of stout little squid. When I ask if I might eat my lunch at the picnic
tables across the road, by the blue sea, bathed in warm winter sunshine, she
cries, "Why not?", and scuttles across the road with my dishes in her
hands.<br />
<br />
Finally I reach Santa Maria di Leuca, <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
<st1:place>Land's End</st1:place>. In ancient times, the Messapians and the
Greeks had sanctuaries here, and a Roman temple to Minerva attracted pilgrims
by the thousand. Today it is still a pilgrimage centre - a sanctuary for the
Madonna of Finibus Terrae has been built on the site of Minerva's old temple.
The current Pope has visited it. And centuries ago, they say, St Francis of <st1:city><st1:place>Assisi</st1:place></st1:city>
came, as did St Peter himself.<br />
<br />
I feel sure that all of them enjoyed the views, the food, and the spirit of
Salento.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>GIVE ME THE FACTS</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>How to get there</b><br />
Ryanair (0871-246 0000; <a href="http://www.ryanair.com/" target="NEW">www.ryanair.com</a>)
offers returns from Stansted to <st1:city><st1:place>Brindisi</st1:place></st1:city>
from around £40. Hertz (08708-44 88 44; <a href="http://www.hertz.com/" target="NEW">www.hertz.com</a>) offers one week's car rental from <st1:city><st1:place>Brindisi</st1:place></st1:city>
airport from around €218 (£150). A charming private railway, Ferrovie del Sud
Est (00 39 080 546 2111; <a href="http://www.fseonline.it/" target="NEW">www.fseonline.it</a>),
does a circuit of the region from <st1:city><st1:place>Lecce</st1:place></st1:city>.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Where to stay</b><br />
Long Travel (01694 722367; <a href="http://www.long-travel.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.long-travel.co.uk</a>) offers seven nights' b&b at Hotel
Patria Palace in Lecce from £571 per person, based on two sharing, including
car hire but not flights. It also offers stays at the family-run Hotel Al
Duemila, about 20 km from Gallipoli, from £299 per person per week, a price
which includes return airport transfers and half-board based on two sharing but
excludes flights.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the best place to stay in Salento is the eight-bedroom 15th century
covent Il Convento di Santa Maria di Costantinopoli, Marittima di Diso (07736
362328), owned by Lord and Lady McAlpine. Doubles start at €250 (£178) per
night on a half-board basis. The house is open from May until the end of October.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Further information</b><br />
Italian State Tourist Board (020-7408 1254; <a href="http://www.enit.it/" target="NEW">www.enit.it</a>) <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-72499238184846322582005-01-30T09:43:00.000-08:002012-02-18T09:45:46.923-08:00Shangri-La: the dream that became a reality<br />
<h1>
Shangri-La: the dream that became a reality </h1>
<h2>
In the heart of 'olde' <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
locals are busy giving everything a facelift. Have they managed to create the
best of both worlds? Jeremy Atiyah finds out </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="30" month="1" year="2005">30 January 2005</st1:date>
</h4>
You might think of Yunnan Province as the Dordogne of China, with its
pleasant weather, rustic landscapes, picturesquely dressed minority peoples,
and quaint old towns. But in consequence, the tourists are now coming. And boy,
are they coming - affluent Chinese urbanites by the thousand. Some come on
package tours, others come independently. Huge crowds of camera-clicking
tourists zoom in on every spot of cultural or natural interest. The
"old" quarter of every town is a maelstrom of boutique shops and
open-air restaurants.<br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><br /></st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region> has been
only too happy to promote internal tourism. Domestic air travel has increased
exponentially and already resembles that of <st1:place>Europe</st1:place> or
the <st1:country-region><st1:place>US</st1:place></st1:country-region>. On the
ground, comfortable buses with on-board hostesses and computer- reserved seats
cruise the highways. Local tourists reserve hotel rooms on their Wap-enabled
mobiles, or leaf through locally published guidebooks, receiving confirmations
of their bookings as text messages.<br />
<br />
And here I am trailing along behind, looking for ancient Eastern wisdom,
though I am glad to note the analogy with the <st1:place>Dordogne</st1:place>
breaking down when I consult a map. <st1:state><st1:place>Yunnan</st1:place></st1:state>
is actually larger than <st1:country-region><st1:place>Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
and stretches from the tropical jungles of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Burma</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
<st1:country-region><st1:place>Laos</st1:place></st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region><st1:place>Vietnam</st1:place></st1:country-region>
to the wintry fringes of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Tibet</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
<br />
So far I've been doing the regular tourist stuff, beside everyone else. I've
been in the regional capital, <st1:city><st1:place>Kunming</st1:place></st1:city>,
which already resembles <st1:city><st1:place>Chicago</st1:place></st1:city>.
I've been to scenic, sunny Dali, where western backpackers have been coming for
years to drink cappuccino and eat spaghetti.<br />
<br />
Mainly, though, I've been in Lijiang, which has become one of the great
tourism phenomena of the world. If you wanted to be negative about Lijiang,
you'd complain that it was a faked-up Disneyfied version of Olde <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
But the town is also immaculately clean and immensely picturesque. Free of
cars, it has cobbled streets, rushing waterways, ancient stone bridges, outdoor
cafés and tiled rooftops, all overlooked by snowy mountains and sunny skies. In
short, it resembles some perfectly quaint Tuscan hill town, complete with
thousands of tourists everywhere.<br />
<br />
I stayed in a rickety old wooden house built round a pair of courtyards
packed with potted plants and ancient bonsai trees. It was someone's private
home; one of many such inns where an old man and his wife will take care of
your every comfort. The only sound I could hear from my room was that of
cheeping birds. For all this I paid about £4 a night. Sophisticated home-cooked
dinners cost 70p extra, with large bottles of excellent cold beer at 20p.<br />
<br />
It is tempting to stay in Lijiang for ever, but I still have a final
frontier to probe. The end of <st1:state><st1:place>Yunnan</st1:place></st1:state>
is where I'm heading, by bus: to a small town, north of Lijiang, 12,000 feet up
in the Tibetan borderlands. When I disembark here, several hours later, a
serious frost is in the air. This feels like <st1:country-region><st1:place>Tibet</st1:place></st1:country-region>
all right. The local people are ruddy-cheeked Tibetans. Distant Tibetan
mountains ring the valley. Tibetan yaks amble on street corners. A Tibetan
monastery commands the heights on the edge of town.<br />
<br />
It doesn't look like a town where I'd find ancient wisdom, let alone an
international hotel, but strangely enough, I'm booked into one. The Banyan Tree
chain, owner of properties in countries not known for their frosts, including <st1:country-region><st1:place>Malaysia</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region><st1:place>Thailand</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
has decided to test the waters in chilly upland <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
So here I now am, in a room decked out with silk cushions, low beds, bespoke
dark-wood furniture and tent-like fabrics hanging from the ceiling. The air is
cold but the duvets are enormous, the electric blanket is toasty, the food is
delicious, the service is charming, and the restaurant has a crackling
fireplace.<br />
<br />
But where exactly is this? A few years ago the local authorities had the big
idea of renaming it to raise its profile as a tourist destination. If there is
one thing I wouldn't have done, it would have been to give this town a new
name. It already had two - Diqing (the original Chinese name) and Zhongdian
(the Chinese rendering of the Tibetan name, Gyalthang). And now it has a third:
Xianggelila (Chinese for Shangri-La). Which brings me to the British writer
James Hilton.<br />
<br />
In his 1930s novel, Lost Horizon, Hilton depicted Shangri-La as a valley
hidden in the wilds of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Tibet</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
where time moved so slowly that people could survive for centuries, steeping
themselves in high art and culture. Hilton seems to have got the name from
"Shambhala", a mythical haven for the enlightened, referred to in
ancient Tibetan texts. His idea was that Shangri-La would eventually be called
upon to re-seed human civilisation, after the rest of the world had destroyed
itself by war.<br />
<br />
The local authorities of the town to which I must now refer as
"Shangri-La" may have identified their valley as the source of
Hilton's story, but I fear that the mountains are too distant, and that the
land is too brown and dusty. The other implausibility about this latter-day
Shangri-La is that it is far too accessible. Look at me. I've just cruised up
here on public transport. Daily flights land here. A huge economic boom,
moreover, has caused a new Chinese town to spring up on its outskirts, packed
with fashion shops, hairdressing salons, music stores, mobile-phone emporia and
internet cafés. Three or four large hotels, oddly reminiscent of <st1:city><st1:place>Las
Vegas</st1:place></st1:city>, have also appeared. Everyone you speak to
admits that the place is no longer the Shangri-La that it once was.<br />
<br />
Might not some mistake have been made in promoting a place as a peaceful
haven, when the desired consequence of that promotion would be to lure large,
noisy crowds to descend upon it?<br />
Few of the locals seem to think so. Right now, the "old town" is
undergoing a huge facelift. Everywhere I hear the sounds of hammering and
chiselling from the interiors of fabulous Tibetan houses - stout structures
with massive walls of stone and ornamental carved wood, fronted by mighty columns
to support the upper floors. Work started a few months ago; the town should be
ready, as good as new, in time for this summer's tourist invasion.<br />
<br />
Not that I'm wholly disheartened. What impresses me is how affluent people
from <st1:city><st1:place>Guangzhou</st1:place></st1:city> and <st1:city><st1:place>Shanghai</st1:place></st1:city>
have come to Shangri-La to renovate these old houses and to convert them into
mellow little cafés. They represent the vanguard of <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
new bohemia. Meanwhile, the local Tibetans, lucky them, get to live in modern
apartment blocks on the edge of the new town.<br />
<br />
The more time I spend here, the more fascinated I become. <st1:country-region><st1:place>Tibet</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is the borderland between the old world and the new. It is also a borderland
between <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>. My
guide is Tibetan, but grew up in <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
before returning with his family to <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>
a couple of years ago. He speaks good English, Hindi, Tibetan and Chinese. He
and his friends have introduced cricket to Shangri-La. His boss, born to
Bengali parents in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Uganda</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
moved to the <st1:country-region><st1:place>Sudan</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
studied in <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
worked in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Nepal</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and finally drifted here. These are the kinds of people you find on the fringes
of modern <st1:country-region><st1:place>Tibet</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
And what will happen to Shangri-La when Lijiang's tourist hordes arrive?
Perhaps it will keep moving, until the tourists can penetrate no further.<br />
<br />
I am still restless, in search of <st1:state><st1:place>Yunnan</st1:place></st1:state>'s
uttermost end. I hire a car and driver for two days, to make the trip north to
Deqen. The driver brings his girlfriend, who, apart from visiting Lijiang (125
miles away), has never been anywhere in her life. She is car-sick within an
hour of our departure.<br />
<br />
The road from Shangri-La to Deqen is one of those incredible scenic mountain
routes that you cannot imagine anyone bothering to build. It zigzags up and
down near-vertical slopes surrounded by massive snowy mountains. We have lunch
by the upper reaches of the <st1:place>Yangtze River</st1:place> in a sunny
valley surrounded by orange trees; two hours later we are crossing a 13,000ft
pass in bitter cold. The villages here are all Tibetan - full of grazing cows,
nibbling goats, rootling pigs, pecking chickens, and magnificent peasant
cottages of whitewashed walls, gorgeous painted window frames, and carved
eaves. Houses like these in <st1:state><st1:place>Tuscany</st1:place></st1:state>,
I reflect, would sell for millions.<br />
<br />
We finally reach a cold little road on a cliff-top directly overlooking the
Meilixue Shan mountain range, where 13 peaks soar to 20,000ft or more. It's de
rigueur among <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
new tourists to stay here and watch the sun rise over the mountains. In the
evening, I find a trendy café playing western pop music and serving curry. My
driver and his girl read old copies of the Chinese edition of Cosmopolitan and
listen to the music and feel an unfamiliar yearning for the rest of the world.
In my hotel, the temperature in the room falls to freezing in the morning, and
I am forced to wash in water from a thermos flask. But it is all worth it.
Before dawn, I get up to watch the mighty peaks turn pink. Then we drive down
into the deep valley of the upper <st1:place>Mekong</st1:place>, along a road
with a 2,000ft vertical drop to the river. On the other side of the valley, it
will be my task to walk up to the glacier of <st1:place><st1:placetype>Mount</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename>Kagebo</st1:placename></st1:place>, which is <st1:country-region><st1:place>Tibet</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
second holiest mountain.<br />
<br />
My driver and his girl stay down below while I set off on the trek. The
proper Tibetan pilgrimage is to walk around the mountain, spending 20 or 30
days over it. An Indian woman I met in Shangri-La told me how she had done
this, walking alone through snowy wildernesses, falling ill, only to be rescued
by passing lamas, who took her to a remote and unknown monastery to recover her
health, leading prayers for her day and night. Compared with that, this
touristic pilgrimage - up to the glacier and back - feels rather trivial. But
the Chinese tourists help me to restore my pride. They all ride mules, while I
walk. In fact, I only just make it, unaccustomed as I am to the altitude (nearly
12,000 feet). Here is the glacier, groaning and creaking in a colossal swathe
down the mountain.<br />
<br />
My big spiritual moment occurs on the return journey, when I fall in with a
Tibetan family. Here is an old gentleman and his wife, and their grown-up children,
splendidly dressed and smelling of yak-butter. They scurry like mountain goats
down through the forest. Somehow, they encourage me to follow them along
invisible short cuts. They keep offering to carry my bag. They seem to be
asking me for money, but when I offer it, they look at me as if I am mad - all
they want is a picture of the Dalai Lama. Anyway, we keep going, and as we go,
I fall into a kind of rhythm, my head empties and my spirits rise and I tell
myself I am half-way to finding Buddhism.<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Jeremy Atiyah is a co-author of 'The Rough Guide to </i><st1:country-region><st1:place><i>China</i></st1:place></st1:country-region><i>'
(£17.99). </i><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>GIVE ME THE FACTS</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>How to get there</b><br />
Jeremy Atiyah flew from <st1:city><st1:place>London</st1:place></st1:city>
to <st1:city><st1:place>Shanghai</st1:place></st1:city> as a guest of Virgin
Atlantic (0870 380 2007; <a href="http://www.virgin-alantic.com/" target="NEW">www.virgin-alantic.com</a>)
which offers return fares from about £390. He flew from <st1:city><st1:place>Shanghai</st1:place></st1:city>
to <st1:city><st1:place>Kunming</st1:place></st1:city> return as a guest of
Opodo (0870 241 7051; <a href="http://www.opodo.com/" target="NEW">www.opodo.com</a>),
which can book flights and accommodation across <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
It offers return flights from <st1:city><st1:place>London</st1:place></st1:city>
to <st1:city><st1:place>Kunming</st1:place></st1:city> from £252 return with
Shanghai Airlines.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Where to stay </b><br />
He stayed in Shangri-la as a guest of the Gyalthang Dzong Hotel (00 86 887
822 3646; <a href="http://www.coloursofangsana.com/gyalthang" target="NEW">www.coloursofangsana.com/gyalthang</a>).
The hotel reopens on <st1:date day="28" month="2" year="2005">28 February 2005</st1:date>.
Double rooms cost US$135 (£70) per night with breakfast and a two-hour massage.
Minimum stay is two nights. Contact Banyan for reservations (01494 675636)<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Further information</b><br />
Contact the China National Tourist Office (0900 160 0188; <a href="http://www.cnta.gov.cn/" target="NEW">www.cnta.gov.cn</a>). Tourist visas,
which are valid for three months, are required. Contact Chinese Embassy Visa
Information (0900 188 0808). <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-85792670216361995622004-10-23T08:47:00.000-07:002012-02-18T08:48:35.934-08:00China: Proof there's life beyond the Great Wall<br />
<h1 style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; mso-line-height-alt: 13.9pt;">
<st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #1e1e1e; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 18.0pt; font-weight: normal;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #1e1e1e; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 18.0pt; font-weight: normal;">: Proof there's life beyond the Great Wall<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
<h2 style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #404040; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">Jeremy Atiyah recommends Chinese destinations off the
beaten track.<o:p></o:p></span></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:time hour="0" minute="01"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: #3f3f3f; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.0pt;">12:01AM</span></span></st1:time><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: #3f3f3f; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.0pt;"> BST </span></span><st1:date day="23" month="10" year="2004"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: #3f3f3f; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.0pt;">23 Oct 2004</span></span></st1:date><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: #3f3f3f; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<st1:city><st1:place><strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Hangzhou</span></strong></st1:place></st1:city><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
In the 13th century, this was not only the capital of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> but
probably the largest and richest city on earth - to which Marco Polo notably
bore witness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Today
it is still one of the most attractive cities in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">. Its
outstanding feature, around which the city curls, is the so-called West Lake,
famed throughout China for its vistas of trees, hills, flowers, causeways,
fishing boats, pavilions, temples and pagodas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Spending
a few days cycling or walking by the lake is a quintessential Chinese
experience. </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Hangzhou</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> can
be reached by train in a couple of hours from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Shanghai</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<st1:city><st1:place><strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></strong></st1:place></st1:city></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<st1:city><st1:place><strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Harbin</span></strong></st1:place></st1:city><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span></b></span><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">'s
northernmost large city is as cold as </span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Siberia</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> in
midwinter, with temperatures hovering between -20 and -30C. Thanks to the
climate, the local people have been able to establish one of the world's
largest ice- and snow-carving festivals.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">The
so-called Ice Lantern Festival lasts throughout January and into February.
During these weeks you can visit entire buildings of ice that have been
constructed on the frozen Songhua River, some of them many storeys high
(slightly scaled-down replicas of the world's most famous buildings are
currently in vogue).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Dress
warmly and book early - the number of annual visitors, mainly from </span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Hong
Kong</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> and </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Taiwan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">, now
exceeds two million. Activities on offer include riding in horse-drawn sledges
and swimming in holes cut in the ice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">The
city itself is fascinating, much influenced by its proximity to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Russia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">,
with onion-domed Orthodox churches and colonial architecture aplenty. You can
reach it on an overnight train ride from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Beijing</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></strong></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Holy
mountains</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
Some are sacred to Buddhism, others to Taoism, though the untrained eye will
find them hard to distinguish. Either way, they have immense cultural and
historical resonance and the Chinese set great store by them. Originally they
were climbed by emperors and monks - and they have been scaled by pilgrims and tourists
ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Visiting
any of the mountains today will provide you not only with classic Chinese
scenery (temples and pinnacles emerging from misty bamboo forests, twisted pine
trees on isolated ledges) but also with enthusiastic and gregarious Chinese
multitudes, all "doing" tourism in the 21st century.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Among
the most notable of the holy mountains are Huang Shan in </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Anhui</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">
province (easily accessible from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Shanghai</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">),
Tai Shan in </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Shandong</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">
province, and Emei Shan in </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Sichuan</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">
province.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></strong></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Qufu</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
You can't get much closer to the heart and soul of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> than
this, the birthplace of the great sage Confucius. For 2,500 years until the
beginning of the 20th century, his descendants (the "first family under
heaven") lived continuously in the centre of town at the fabulous </span><st1:place><st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Confucius</span></st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><st1:placetype><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Mansion</span></st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">,
open to visitors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">The
adjacent </span><st1:place><st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Confucius</span></st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><st1:placetype><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Temple</span></st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> is
one of the grandest complexes of its kind in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">,
falling little short of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Beijing</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">'s </span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Forbidden
City</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Qufu
is a small, inexpensive, out-of-the-way town, with few foreign tourists and a
splendidly tranquil feel - as well as some great Confucius souvenirs. Reach it
on an overnight train from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Beijing</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></strong></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Sichuan</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
The Three Gorges are all that most tourists see of China's most populous
province, but you could easily spend a lifetime holidaying here, starting out
from Chongqing, one of the world's vastest cities, heading on to the Wolong
Panda Reserve and climbing up into the rugged fringes of the Tibetan plateau.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">The
region's capital, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Chengdu</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">, is
one of the most attractive large cities in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> and
famous for its teahouses. You can also join endless games of chess, take in an
evening performance of Sichuan Opera and feast on some of the best food in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">. You
can fly into </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Chengdu</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> from
any of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">'s
large cities, though it's an awfully long way by train.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<st1:country-region><st1:place><strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></strong></st1:place></st1:country-region></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<st1:country-region><st1:place><strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Tibet</span></strong></st1:place></st1:country-region><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span></b></span><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
Whatever your views on the political status of modern </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Tibet</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">,
you'll have to enter </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> if
you wish to visit this vast, beautiful region.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">A
convenient and hassle-free way to see </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Tibet</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> is
to book a one-way tour from </span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Kathmandu</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> (in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Nepal</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">) to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Lhasa</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">,
along the </span><st1:street><st1:address><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Friendship Highway</span></st1:address></st1:street><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">.
Spend a week at it and you'll get to see many of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Tibet</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">'s
best-known monasteries, including those near Shigatse and Gyantse. A side trip
to Everest Base Camp is also possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></st1:place></st1:city></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Lhasa</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> is
not quite the Shangri-la it once was. Traffic and high-rise office blocks now
litter the downtown district, but its principal sights - above all, the </span><st1:place><st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Potala</span></st1:placename><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><st1:placetype><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Palace</span></st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> -
are still captivating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Travelling
on from here into the rest of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">, you
can either fly or take an exceedingly long and uncomfortable bus ride (unless
you can wait until 2006, when </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">China</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">'s
rail network is scheduled to reach </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Lhasa</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<st1:state><st1:place><strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></strong></st1:place></st1:state></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<st1:state><st1:place><strong><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Yunnan</span></strong></st1:place></st1:state><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span></b></span><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
Average winter temperatures in the regional capital, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Kunming</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">, are
about 20C warmer than in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Beijing</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">. For
many travellers the best way to enter </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Yunnan</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> is
by flying from </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Thailand</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">. You
can also get there by bus from Luang Prabang, in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Laos</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">, or
by train from </span><st1:place><st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Hanoi</span></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">, </span><st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Vietnam</span></st1:country-region></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Apart
from the weather, highlights include the small and traditional towns of Dali
and Lijian, both touristy - but not too touristy - and no more than a short
bike ride away from beautiful countryside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 17.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">In
the far south, on the borders with </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Burma</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> and </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Laos</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">,
lies remote and semi-tropical Xishuangbanna, where tourists trek though jungles
populated by elephants and tribal peoples. </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Kunming</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> is a
three-hour flight from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Beijing</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> and
about two hours from </span><st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Hong Kong</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #282828; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-59174173954509578462004-10-02T17:26:00.000-07:002012-02-18T08:50:12.539-08:00On top of the world<br />
<h1>
On top of the world </h1>
<h2>
In south-east <st1:country-region><st1:place>Switzerland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
lies a region of vines, fine food, fighting cows and great high-altitude
skiing. Jeremy Atiyah explores the canton of Valais </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="2" month="10" year="2004">02 October 2004</st1:date>
</h4>
Where do you go in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Switzerland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
if you prefer good country living to skiing? Clue: not to the German part. In
fact, the best place is almost certainly the canton of Valais, in the
south-east corner of the country. You are practically on the <st1:place>Mediterranean</st1:place>
down there anyway. Neither <st1:country-region><st1:place>France</st1:place></st1:country-region>
nor <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region> is
much more than a peak away, and vines are as common as ski runs.<br />
<br />
The whole canton is a rustic, jovial sort of place, full of dark-wood
chalets and cows and geranium-boxes. As everyone keeps reminding me when I
arrive, it boasts 22,000 vine growers, and 47 different varieties of grape. The
region is by far the largest wine-producing area of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Switzerland</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
sustained by a climate that is almost as sunny as <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s.
Why bother with skiing in a place like this?<br />
<br />
Which isn't to say that there isn't any skiing. Valais happens to contain
nearly fifty peaks of above 4,000m. Up there, among the serious mountains,
you'll find attractions ranging from frozen pavilions to the gigantic ice-sheet
of the Aletsch Glacier. You can go for a ride on the Glacier Express mountain
railway. And some of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Switzerland</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
most serious ski resorts are up here, including Verbier and <st1:place>Zermatt</st1:place>.<br />
<br />
But as for me, right now, I'm sitting in the oenothèque of the Chateau de
Villa, in the lovely little town of <st1:city><st1:place>Sierre</st1:place></st1:city>
in the Rhône valley. An oenothèque is like a discothèque, except more
sophisticated: instead of gyrating, we quaff wine and nibble <i>amuse-bouches</i>
in the cellar of an ancient chateau, while discussing the numerous varieties of
grape that are grown in this valley.<br />
<br />
Later, I go for a traditional dinner of <i>raclette</i> in the restaurant
upstairs. This is a variation on fondue, though the difference is more a matter
of style than substance. With <i>raclette</i>, the waiter brings you your plate
with a small yellow puddle of cheese already on it. When you have mopped this
up with bread and potatoes, a second, different puddle is brought to you. And
then a third. And then a fourth. And so on. Some hearty Germans have been known
to get through 15 or 20 in an evening, though I manage just five, and even then
the subtle distinctions between each are lost on me. Nevertheless, with the
local wines, it makes a heart-warming dinner.<br />
<br />
My Valaisian hosts, meanwhile, as soon as they hear I am British, begin
thanking my race for having invented tourism to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Switzerland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
back in the 19th century. They start going misty eyed at the thought of Edward
Whymper, who conquered the <st1:place>Matterhorn</st1:place> in 1865. And they
finish by telling me how grateful they are for the role my forefathers played
in the Swiss economic and social revival of that century. "Not at
all," I reply.<br />
<br />
I personally have no intention of climbing the <st1:place>Matterhorn</st1:place>,
though I confess that I can glimpse it from the balcony of my hotel. I am
staying in the little <st1:place><st1:placetype>village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>St
Luc</st1:placename></st1:place>, in a quiet little side valley called the Val
d'Anniviers, located vertically above Sierre. The valley is so untouristy that
it doesn't even get a mention in the <i>Rough Guide to Switzerland</i>, though
in typical Swiss fashion, frequent and punctual local buses serve it from
Sierre, dropping off passengers at every village and hamlet in sight.<br />
<br />
The village is not exactly throbbing with life; its top tourist attraction
is a an ancient bakery. But my hotel is the 100-year-old Bella Tola, run by an
astoundingly efficient and hospitable couple called Anne-Françoise and Claude
Buchs, along with their three picturesque daughters. It's the kind of place
that Edward Whymper might have felt comfortable in, to judge by the shuttered
windows, oriental rugs, creaking floorboards and antlered heads on the walls.
What's more, we get superb four-course meals for dinner every night, which
almost rules out anything as rash as going skiing.<br />
<br />
The weather forecast is for cloud and snow, but every morning the sun shines
gloriously. The locals look unsurprised. "It is the microclimate of the
Val d'Anniviers," they say wisely. "It is the same sun that grows our
grapes."<br />
<br />
In this weather there is no excuse not to try the skiing, and funnily enough
it turns out that there are plenty of options. Within walking distance of the
Bella Tola, you can jump on a funicular up to St Luc's own pistes, where the
quiet pleasure of skiing in an area with no foreign tourists is soon clear.
Over the next couple of days I try two other skiing areas in the valley, namely
Grimentz and Zinal. At Grimentz, from the ski lift, I stroll to the top of a
3,000m peak to gaze out over what feels like most of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Switzerland</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
I might be in a valley full of country bumpkins, but this feels quite
glamorous.<br />
<br />
And at the end of the day I end up in the absurdly picturesque <st1:place><st1:placetype>village</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>Grimentz</st1:placename></st1:place>, with its geranium
boxes and old stone barns and towers. As dusk falls, I am taken on a little
tour of the village, stopping first at the Maison Bourgeoise, a kind of
parliament for village elders. It's a very Swiss place, half town hall, half
secret society. Its walls are lined with ancient pewter jugs and the coats of
arms of members. In the cellar I am shown giant barrels of wine, some of which
have been here for centuries. Given that they are topped up whenever the barrel
is half empty, this may be the only chance I will ever have to drink a
17th-century vintage, albeit a diluted one. It tastes like strong sherry.<br />
<br />
The tour continues. The next stop, oddly enough, is a cowshed, where local
cows are tended and fed during the winter months. A big old farmer who calls
himself the President of the Cow Co-operative arrives and introduces me to the
beasts. They low, and toss their pretty heads. When the snow melts, they will
all be taken up to the hills to graze in the meadows. It is then that the
cow-fighting tournaments of Valais will get underway.<br />
<br />
In fact, to the Valaisians themselves, these tournaments are no laughing
matter. They are the highlight of the cultural calender. Men go about glued to
their radios. It is the cows themselves who hold the competitions; their owners
merely organise rules and venues (Alpine meadows usually do).<br />
<br />
The tournaments proceed on a knockout basis, with each pair of cows
wrestling head-to-head until the weaker cow surrenders. There are strict rules
and categories. There are referees. There are even anti-doping tests. Such
injuries as occur are superficial, and deaths are unheard of. Elimination
rounds throughout Valais eventually culminate in a grand final that is held in
May, near Sion. This final tournament is annually attended by at least 10,000
people.<br />
<br />
The president of the Grimentz Cow Co-op lovingly points out a particularly
fetching cow that came second last year. I ask him if the farmers of the Val
d'Anniviers love their cows more than their wives? "Never!" he
retorts with an appalled expression. "We love them equally!" I
understand what he means. Every cow has a name, and each has a cute fringe and
long eyelashes. I say goodbye to them, and head back into town. I think I'll
take the fondue tonight, rather than the steak.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>TRAVELLER'S GUIDE</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>GETTING THERE</b><br />
Jeremy Atiyah travelled to St Luc in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Switzerland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
with Inntravel (01653 617906; <a href="http://www.inntravel.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.inntravel.co.uk</a>).
A week's skiing in the Val d'Anniviers costs from £618 per person including seven
nights half-board at the Hotel Bella Tola, return flights from Heathrow to <st1:city><st1:place>Geneva</st1:place></st1:city>
and transfers. The same package taking the Eurostar from <st1:city><st1:place>Waterloo</st1:place></st1:city>
to <st1:city><st1:place>Paris</st1:place></st1:city>, with onward rail tickets
to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Switzerland</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
costs from £663. Saturday and Sunday departures are available from 19
December-3 April. Inntravel can pre-book downhill ski passes at discounted
rates. British Airways (0870 850 9850; <a href="http://www.ba.com/" target="NEW">www.ba.com</a>)
flies to <st1:city><st1:place>Geneva</st1:place></st1:city> from Heathrow,
Gatwick and <st1:city><st1:place>Manchester</st1:place></st1:city>. Swiss (0845
601 0956; <a href="http://www.swiss.com/uk" target="NEW">www.swiss.com/uk</a>)
and Kuwait Airways (020-7412 0007; <a href="http://www.kuwait-airways.com/" target="NEW">www.kuwait-airways.com</a>) fly from Heathrow and easyJet (0871 750
0100; <a href="http://www.easyjet.com/" target="NEW">www.easyjet.com</a>) from
Gatwick, <st1:place>Luton</st1:place>, <st1:place>Liverpool</st1:place> and <st1:place>Nottingham</st1:place>.
The best way to reach the Valais is to buy a "transfer ticket" (£53)
in the <st1:country-region><st1:place>UK</st1:place></st1:country-region> from
the Switzerland Travel Centre (00 800 100 200 30; <a href="http://www.myswitzerland.com/" target="NEW">www.myswitzerland.com</a>),
which will take you from <st1:city><st1:place>Geneva</st1:place></st1:city>
airport to any train station in the canton and back. Trains depart hourly for
Sierre and take two hours.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>STAYING THERE</b><br />
The writer stayed at the Grand Hotel Bella Tola (00 41 27 475 1444; <a href="http://www.bellatola.ch/" target="NEW">www.bellatola.ch</a>) in St Luc.
Prices for a double room start at Sfr320 (£141) half-board. St Luc is a
one-hour bus journey from Sierre, with a change at Vissoie. Buses depart every
hour.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>VISITING</b><br />
The Glacier Express (00 41 27 921 4111; <a href="http://www.glacierexpress.ch/" target="NEW">www.glacierexpress.ch</a>)
travels from <st1:place>Zermatt</st1:place> to <st1:city><st1:place>St Moritz</st1:place></st1:city>,
with a total journey time of around eight hours.<br />
The cow-fighting tournaments, known as Les Combats de Reines (00 41 27 327
3570; <a href="http://www.matterhornstate.ch/" target="NEW">www.matterhornstate.ch</a>)
take place from March-May every year.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>FURTHER INFORMATION</b><br />
Switzerland Tourism (020-851 1700; <a href="http://www.switzerlandtourism.com/" target="NEW">www.switzerlandtourism.com</a>).<br />
<i>David St Vincent</i> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-61065510155379617902004-09-05T08:31:00.000-07:002012-02-21T08:36:19.613-08:00Banyan Tree, Bangkok<br />
<h1>
<span lang="EN-GB">Banyan Tree, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Bangkok</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></h1>
<h2>
<span lang="EN-GB">A bed for the night in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Thailand</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></h2>
<h3>
<span lang="EN-GB">By Jeremy Atiyah </span></h3>
<h4>
<span lang="EN-GB">Published: </span><st1:date day="5" month="9" year="2004"><span lang="EN-GB">05 September 2004</span></st1:date></h4>
<h4>
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Where is it?</span></b></h4>
<span lang="EN-GB">On the </span><st1:street><st1:address><span lang="EN-GB">South
Sathon Road</span></st1:address></st1:street><span lang="EN-GB">, in the middle
of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Bangkok</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">'s business and diplomatic district. It is about 10 minutes from the
entertainment and shopping area of </span><st1:street><st1:address><span lang="EN-GB">Silom Road</span></st1:address></st1:street><span lang="EN-GB"> and
the BTS Saladang station.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">The USP</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">It's a spa hotel with open-air swimming pools and dining
areas of the kind you would never expect to find in the middle of the urban
hell that downtown </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Bangkok</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> sometimes feels like.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">The comfort factor</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Apart from the glass-fronted eating area overlooking an
(artificial) craggy rock-face with waterfalls and a banyan tree, the lobby
areas are pleasingly low-key. It's discreet and businesslike, with a
predominance of dark colours. When I arrived a flautist was playing in the bar.
The rooms are all suites, comprising living rooms, albeit smallish ones, and
bedrooms with king-size beds. All rooms have incense and aromatherapy burners.
Many also have excellent views. The hotel has 61 floors, reached by lift at an
astonishing speed.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">The bathroom</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">There is a shower and a separate bath of the short, deep,
Asian variety (you can sit in it, but not lounge). Distinguished black stone
pots hold the soaps and shampoos. Snazzy, his-and-hers, black-and-white
cosmetics bags contain executive mouthwash, loofah mitts, cotton buds, cotton
wool, toothbrushes, Colgate, sewing kits, shavers, bath hats, bath salts, nail
files etc. In fact, those bags are large enough to stash all the cosmetics
you've lifted from other hotels on the same trip.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">The food and drink</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The rich and glamorous will not need to leave the hotel.
The Vertigo Grill is the centrepiece of this selection, which includes some of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Bangkok</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">'s most
stylish restaurants. One of the highest outdoor restaurants in the world, it is
the place for a once-in-a-lifetime meal. You reach it by a steep flight of
steps running up from the 60th floor. Once there, you'll enjoy fresh-air views
that stretch for miles. To one side, at the Moon Bar, people lounge on cushions
and drink while looking into thin air. The food is American-bistro-style, with
emphasis on top-quality ingredients rather than sophisticated or elaborate
preparation. The grilled meats and seafood are superb, and the tiger prawns
(skewered on a liquorice stick) will probably be the biggest you have seen. You
could easily find yourselves paying £100 per head for three courses with wine.
Before booking, check the weather: at these heights, the slightest breeze
becomes a gale. It can also be chilly (but lovely silk fringed scarves are
provided for ladies in the event of too much wind). But you needn't worry about
things blowing out of your hands and plummeting on to the heads of innocent
tuk-tuk drivers far below - the place mats are immovable stone and the menus
are solid metal. If Vertigo doesn't take your fancy, you can descend to the
60th floor to dine at the (indoor) Chinese restaurant, Bai Yun, instead. This
restaurant, serving Nouvelle Cantonese cuisine, is also one of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Thailand</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">'s
best.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">The people</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">At the Vertigo bar they look like and probably are internet
millionaires: the cream of Asian youth, casually dressed, talking in numerous
languages (but if the customers look good, they rarely match the waiting staff
who are as stunning as they are charming).</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">The area</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">As at all Banyan Tree hotels, life revolves round the spa.
You can sit eating raw vegetables and drinking apple and ginger tea, and
getting your knots worked on, then go for an outdoor swim in a pool that is so
high above the streets that you'll feel as though you are in the countryside.
The spa, spread over two floors, has a sauna, steam room, wet and dry
treatments, body wrapping, facials, as well as aerobics, yoga and dancing
classes.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">The access</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Wheelchair access, except the top-floor restaurant.
Children are welcome.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">The damage</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">A deluxe suite is cheapest, at $160 (£90) per room.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">The address</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Banyan Tree Bangkok, </span><st1:street><st1:address><span lang="EN-GB">21/100 South Sathon Road</span></st1:address></st1:street><span lang="EN-GB">, Sathon, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Bangkok</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> 10120 </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Thailand</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> (01494 675636; <a href="http://www.banyantree.com/" target="NEW">www.banyantree.com</a>).
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0Bangkok, Thailand13.7234186 100.476231913.4779471 100.16037490000001 13.968890100000001 100.7920889tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-79653693873173697682004-07-18T08:37:00.000-07:002012-02-18T08:39:57.549-08:00Italy: Head For The Heel<br />
<h1>
<st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>: Head
For The Heel </h1>
<h2>
Forget <st1:state><st1:place>Tuscany</st1:place></st1:state>. The new 'in'
region is <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>. Jeremy Atiyah
finds out if it's hip or hype </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="18" month="7" year="2004">18 July 2004</st1:date>
</h4>
<st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>? The Next Big Thing?
The new Chiantishire? That's what I keep hearing. The heel of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
I learn, has suddenly become fashionable. Tourists are discovering that its
olive oil, wine, landscape, art and culture exist in proportions previously
thought to exist only in <st1:state><st1:place>Tuscany</st1:place></st1:state>.<br />
<br />
But unlike <st1:state><st1:place>Tuscany</st1:place></st1:state>, with its
British veneer, <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state> is being
seen as more authentic. Or so people want to believe. Well, all right, <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>
didn't give us the Renaissance. It didn't change the world. It doesn't have <st1:city><st1:place>Florence</st1:place></st1:city>
or <st1:city><st1:place>Siena</st1:place></st1:city>. It doesn't have Dante,
Michelangelo, Raphael, the Medici family or the Borgias. But it does have funny
little rustic cottages with conical roofs called trulli. And since the
beginning of 2004, it also has three new direct air connections to the <st1:country-region><st1:place>UK</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
where previously there were none.<br />
<br />
And I confess that this is bothering me. Let me declare my interests: I love
<st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>, and its gentle hills, its
Baroque towns, and its funny rustic cottages. I don't want to share it with the
hordes of Brtis from <st1:state><st1:place>Tuscany</st1:place></st1:state>. I
pride myself on having found <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>
before Ryanair did. I already feel nostalgic for the days when you had to fly to
<st1:city><st1:place>Rome</st1:place></st1:city>, and catch the overnight train
to <st1:city><st1:place>Lecce</st1:place></st1:city>, arriving shortly after
dawn in a strange southern land, dotted with olive trees and little white
villages that looked as if they might be in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Greece</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
<br />
Back then, you never met any British tourists during your holiday. The
trulli were allowed to crumble in peace. The azure sea was the preserve of
effortlessly brown and beautiful locals. The only industry of the scuffed
fishing ports was fishing. The only sounds from the interior were those of
peasants fermenting their wine and pressing their olives and killing their
pigs.<br />
<br />
But now what? I'm back, having just arrived on the new Ryanair flight to <st1:city><st1:place>Bari</st1:place></st1:city>
(very convenient it was, too). What I want to know is: how long will it take
for <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>'s lovely old towns to
fill to the brim with tourists? When will the overflow from San Gimignano and <st1:city><st1:place>Siena</st1:place></st1:city>
arrive? How long will it take before those picturesque hillsides with their
ruinous trulli resound to the sounds of stonemasons laughing their way to the
bank? How long until every bewildered Pugliese peasant has his very own English
neighbour?<br />
The omens are not promising. <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>'s
southern climate invites year-round tourism, and as a long thin peninsula, it
offers an inordinately large amount of coastline, just waiting to be developed.
I've already heard rumours that several golf courses and marinas are planned.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'll be staying in the Valle d'Itria, a region famous for its gentle
hills, fertile land, historic towns and trulli. This is by no means the only
attractive part of <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>: the
heel of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country-region>
stretches for another hundred miles to the south of here, while to the north
lies the wild and beautiful Gargano peninsula. But I am sticking to the rural
delights of Trulloland. And the first thing I do on arrival is call the owners
of Long Travel, one of the very few UK tour operators who have specialised in
Puglia since long before the advent of Ryanair. Ray and Annie Long promptly
take me on a tour of the trulli that they are letting out to tourists. We are
soon on tiny lanes, amid meadows and orchards blooming with poppies and other
wild flowers.<br />
<br />
In case anyone still doesn't know, a trullo is a stone cottage topped by one
or (usually) several conical stone roofs. Some are tiny cottages; others verge
on the palatial. Driving around the Valle d'Itria, trulli roofs can be seen
peeping up on all sides. If you drive off the main roads and on to the country
lanes, trulli are sometimes all you'll see. Many comprise little more than
quaint piles of rubble amid the almond, walnut and olive trees. The Longs' own
trulli are gorgeous little cottages in perfect rustic locations of the sort
that any self-respecting Englishman would die for. I, too, covet their natural
stone floors, their terraces, their courtyards and their trees. It is hard to
imagine that Ryanair customers will not soon be clamouring for them.<br />
<br />
But strangely enough the Longs themselves seem ambivalent about the growing
tide of tourists. In the short term, they concede that their business may
profit. But in the long term? "We aren't sure," they murmur,
"whether the local authorities can be trusted not to go mad." And
conversation turns to golf courses, giant hotels, marinas ...<br />
<br />
As for foreigners coming in and buying up all the trulli - it's already
happening. The masons who are qualified to restore those conical roofs are
indeed prospering, as are some who are not. Naturally, I am bitter about this,
as should any Englishman be who has always wanted to buy a palace in <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>
for next to nothing, and live there safe in the knowledge that his nearest
English neighbour is in <st1:state><st1:place>Tuscany</st1:place></st1:state>.<br />
<br />
Swallowing my envy, I accompany the Longs to meet their own neighbour, whom
I can certify to be a peasant of the most authentic variety. He shows us his
pig, his cow, his sheep, his rabbits. We see the place where his wife prepares
her homemade pasta and bakes her own homemade bread. We sample his cheeses and
sausages over a glass of rough wine, and I worry that on present trends, these
humble Pugliese pleasures may be extinct within a few years.<br />
<br />
In the evening I head back to my lodgings in Martina Franca, one of several
exquisite towns in the valley. Through a local agency, I've rented a flat in
the old town: I've got my very own vaulted ceilings, stone floors, antique
furniture and a roof terrace. All around me is a warren of whitewashed lanes,
staircases, arches and terraces and tunnels. It echoes to the sounds not of
traffic, but of eating and cooking. Turn any corner and you'll walk face-first
into a pair of pants, where someone's laundry line has sagged.<br />
<br />
There are more foreign tourists wondering round Martina Franca than in the
past, but right now I can report that the locals outnumber them by about a
thousand to one. My visit coincides with Easter and the streets are thronged
with immaculately dressed families heading for church. By <st1:time hour="23" minute="0">11pm</st1:time> they will have transferred, small kids and all, to
the restaurants.<br />
<br />
Over dinner, I notice with approval that increased tourism has not yet
inflated the price of wine: a litre of house red in my restaurant of choice costs
€2.50 (£1.70). And when I order the dirt-cheap "starter of the house"
I am brought a vast tray of delicacies, including pickled mushrooms, succulent
mozzarella, crunchy fennel, spicy meatballs, tender octopus, fizzy cheese,
stuffed zucchini and cured meats (and afterwards the waiter looks troubled when
I decline the offer of a main dish).<br />
<br />
By the time that's finished it's nearly <st1:time hour="0" minute="0">midnight</st1:time>,
and in the streets an Easter procession has begun, overlooked by the ancient
Baroque façades of the central piazza. Dumpy ladies in black carrying Roman
candles come followed by men in strange capes and headdresses, and emergency
workers with "Misericordia" written on their jackets. At the sight of
the effigies of Jesus and Mary, the silent crowd breaks spontaneously into a
reverent prayer. In the background a band of trumpeters and trombonists is
playing an emotional and, indeed, epic dirge that seems to owe as much to <st1:city><st1:place>Hollywood</st1:place></st1:city>
as to the Catholic church. Given the almost complete absence of foreigners, I
attribute this to TV, rather than to the corrupting influence of tourism.<br />
<br />
As I already know, historic and traditional towns such as Martina Franca are
plentiful in this region of <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>.
Nearby is Ostuni, piled on a hill overlooking the sea. Cisternino and
Locorotondo are equally charming. Only Alberobello, self-appointed capital of
Trulloland, strikes me as avoidable. It boasts entire streets lined with
trulli. It has a trullo church. It has something called the Supreme Trullo,
which claims to be the grandest trullo in existence, and the mother of all
trulli. My hope is that Alberobello will suck in the new surfeit of tourists
and detain them for as long as possible, perhaps in a dungeon of the Supreme
Trullo.<br />
<br />
For my last couple of days I decide to get out into the countryside, to
sample another kind of accommodation unique to <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>.
A masseria is the local version of a country house, or chateau. Traditionally,
these grand old buildings are flat-roofed, block-shaped structures, with floors
and ceilings of native Leccese stone. If you have half a million quid to spend
on your Pugliese holiday home, you buy one of these instead of a trullo. Some
of them, in the meantime, have been restored and converted into country hotels.<br />
<br />
I try a couple. One is the Masseria San Domenico, which offers probably the
most luxurious accommodation in the whole of <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>,
with its private beach, giant swimming pool and golf course. The masseria
itself is in beautiful white stone, with little Baroque flourishes; its rooms
give out on to ancient olive groves full of flowers. The atmosphere is
expensive and classy, though I am somewhat intimidated by the presence of
security guards attending the VIP guests. The other masseria I get to try is
the Melograno, which has the faint air of an Andalusian (or Mexican) hacienda
about it. Its courtyards are dotted with some of the most gnarled and ancient
olive trees I have ever seen in my life. With its pool and its shady gardens,
this will place will succeed, I suspect, in absorbing a few Ryanair customers.<br />
<br />
But the general problem of staying in a masseria-hotel becomes apparent at
dinner time. The attached restaurant will no doubt be classy. Except the
problem is this: who wants to eat in a classy restaurant in <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>?
Who wants to sit at a table next to a besuited Milanese banker and his wife, in
a region where the humblest, cheapest trattoria is unfailingly excellent?<br />
<br />
From the Melograno, after dark, I escape by car a few miles down the road to
the seaport of Monopoli, one of several similar ports along this coast. At <st1:time hour="10" minute="0">ten o'clock</st1:time> at night its piazzas are packed
with perambulating townsfolk. Waves are beating on its massive stone walls.
Fishing boats are pulled up in its ancient harbour. In tiny restaurants people
are ordering fishy delicacies, while old women are mourning for their sons lost
at sea in winter storms of long ago, and giant old churches of weather-beaten
stone are looming over the hearts and minds of all of us.<br />
<br />
It is atmospheric rather than beautiful, but that's all right by me. None
but the most dedicated aficionados of <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>,
I suspect, will ever find time for towns such as this one.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>GIVE ME THE FACTS</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>How to get there</b><br />
Return flights to <st1:city><st1:place>Bari</st1:place></st1:city> with
Ryanair (0871-246 0000; <a href="http://www.ryanair.com/" target="NEW">www.ryanair.com</a>)
cost from £98 return in August.<br />
A week's car hire through National Car Rental (0870 400 4560; <a href="http://www.nationalcar.com/" target="NEW">www.nationalcar.com</a>) costs
around £202.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Where to stay</b><br />
Long Travel (01694 722193; <a href="http://www.long-travel.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.long-travel.co.uk</a>) specialises in tailor-made holidays in <st1:state><st1:place>Puglia</st1:place></st1:state>,
with <i>trulli</i> of different sizes available for rent. Prices start at
around £635 per <i>trullo</i> per week in August, including car hire.<br />
<br />
Long Travel also organises hotel accommodation. Bed and breakfast at the
five-star Il Melograno, near Monopoli, costs from £125 per person per night
through Long Travel.<br />
I Paesi della Luce (00 39 080 430 1588; <a href="http://www.ipaesidellaluce.it/" target="NEW">www.ipaesidellaluce.it</a>)
offers quaint old apartments inside the old town of <st1:city><st1:place>Martina
Franca</st1:place></st1:city> from about £35 per night. Double rooms at the
Masseria San Domenico, near Savelletri, cost from £160 per night booked through
Great Hotels of the World (0800-032 4254; <a href="http://www.ghotw.com/" target="NEW">www.ghotw.com</a>).<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Further information</b><br />
Italian State Tourist Board (020-7408 1254; <a href="http://www.enit.it/" target="NEW">www.enit.it</a>). <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0Apulia, Italy40.7928393 17.101193139.2544433 14.5743376 42.331235299999996 19.6280486tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-81269176182043251482004-05-16T08:35:00.000-07:002012-02-18T08:37:11.755-08:00Soviet, Islamic Turkish - join the culture club<br />
<h1>
Soviet, Islamic Turkish - join the culture club </h1>
<h2>
Jeremy Atiyah offers a guide to all the 'Stans' </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="16" month="5" year="2004">16 May 2004</st1:date>
</h4>
Apart from sharing a common syllable at the end of their names, the former
Soviet republics of <st1:place>Central Asia</st1:place> all offer a combination
of searing deserts and vast mountains, overhung by the whiff of long-lost
civilisations.<br />
<br />
The culture is a mix of Soviet, Islamic and Turkish, which can make for
bureaucratic difficulties: separate visas are required for all the countries,
and lone tourists are sometimes viewed with suspicion.<br />
A tour operator might help; some offer overland trips spanning several of
the Stans together. Explore Worldwide (01252 760100; <a href="http://www.explore.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.explore.co.uk</a>), runs a
25-day trip through <st1:country-region><st1:place>Uzbekistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
<st1:country-region><st1:place>Kazakhstan</st1:place></st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region><st1:place>Kyrgyzstan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region> for
about £2,100 per person, including flights. Regent Holidays (0117-921 1711; <a href="http://www.regent-holidays.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.regent-holidays.co.uk</a>)
offers a 21-day Spectacular Central Asia tour, combining <st1:country-region><st1:place>Kazakhstan</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
<st1:country-region><st1:place>Kyrgyzstan</st1:place></st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region><st1:place>Uzbekistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region><st1:place>Turkmenistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
for £1,990 per person, including flights.<br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><b><br /></b></st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><b>Kazakhstan</b></st1:place></st1:country-region><b>
</b><br />
You get an idea of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Kazakhstan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
when you realise that it is the ninth largest country in the world, but that
only 15 million people live in it. Most of the country comprises drab, empty
steppe, and most of the towns were constructed in the Soviet era, when
aesthetics counted for nothing. Of more interest are the erstwhile capital
city, Almaty (now Central <st1:place>Asia</st1:place>'s most cosmopolitan and
prosperous city), and the mountainous southern and eastern fringes of the
country, where fabulous trekking can easily be arranged in the <st1:place>Tian
Shan</st1:place> and Altai ranges.<br />
<br />
Getting there: British Airways (0870 850 9850; <a href="http://www.ba.com/" target="NEW">www.ba.com</a>) flies direct to Almaty from £590 return. Tour
operators: Naturetrek (01962 733051; <a href="http://www.naturetrek.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.naturetrek.co.uk</a>) offers two-week, all-inclusive birding and
botany tours from £2,000.<br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><b><br /></b></st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><b>Kyrgyzstan</b></st1:place></st1:country-region><b>
</b><br />
As a country, this Stan is the most liberal in the region. It is also by far
the easiest to visit: its government (unlike that of most of its neighbours)
actively promotes tourism. And given its abundance of stunning mountain
scenery, the trekking here is some of the best in the world. After trekking
with horses in the <st1:place><st1:placename>Tian Shan</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
you can sunbathe on the beach by the shores of <st1:place><st1:placetype>lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename>Issyk-Kul</st1:placename></st1:place>, once used by the Soviet
Navy for secret torpedo-testing.<br />
<br />
Getting there: British Airways flies direct to Bishkek from £690. Tour
operators: Regent Holidays (see above) offers a 12-day tour from £1,250 per
person, including flights, b&b in Bishkek, full board and shared facilities
outside Bishkek and when camping at Song Kul, transfers and sightseeing with
English-speaking guides.<br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><b><br /></b></st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><b>Tajikistan</b></st1:place></st1:country-region><b>
</b><br />
Regrettably, this Stan has hardly been visited by tourists since the fall of
the <st1:place>Soviet Union</st1:place>, due to ongoing civil strife. A glance
at the map tells part of the story: it is a strangely thin country, prodded by
fingers of its neighbours. And its longest border is with <st1:country-region><st1:place>Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
The one part of the country that is safely visited is the Fannsky Gory mountain
range - great for trekking, but the best base from which to launch visits to
this area is <st1:city><st1:place>Samarkand</st1:place></st1:city> in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Uzbekistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
<br />
Getting there: If you want to fly from <st1:place>Europe</st1:place> to <st1:city><st1:place>Dushanbe</st1:place></st1:city>
there's a once-weekly flight from <st1:city><st1:place>St Petersburg</st1:place></st1:city>
on Pulkovo Aviation. Good luck. Tour operators: Steppes East (01285 651010; <a href="http://www.steppeseast.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.steppeseast.co.uk</a>) can
organise a trekking itinerary for you, starting from <st1:city><st1:place>Samarkand</st1:place></st1:city>.
A two-week trip costs about £2,000 per person.<br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><b><br /></b></st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><b>Turkmenistan</b></st1:place></st1:country-region><b>
</b><br />
This is one of <st1:place>Asia</st1:place>'s most obscure and dullest
countries, cut off from <st1:place>Europe</st1:place> by the <st1:place>Caspian
Sea</st1:place>, and from most other places by mountains. Its deserts are
thinly scattered with the ruins of long-forgotten <st1:place>Silk Road</st1:place>
cities, if you can find them. One other reason to go there might be to witness
a grotesque 21st-century personality cult: portraits and statues of President
Saparmurat "Turkmenbashi" Niyazov are everywhere, including a
floodlit 12m-high golden statue revolving atop a tower in the centre of the
capital city, Ashgabat. The country's second city, Turkmenbashi, has also been
named after him. I've been there. It's very dull.<br />
<br />
Getting there: Turkish Airlines (020-7766 9300; <a href="http://www.thy.com/" target="NEW">www.thy.com</a>) flies twice a week via <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>
for £545.<br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><b><br /></b></st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><b>Uzbekistan</b></st1:place></st1:country-region><b>
</b><br />
As a cultural destination, this is by far the most exciting of the Stans.
You can go to the opera on the cheap in the capital city <st1:city><st1:place>Tashkent</st1:place></st1:city>,
before heading for the historic <st1:place>Silk Road</st1:place> cities of <st1:city><st1:place>Samarkand</st1:place></st1:city>,
<st1:city><st1:place>Bukhara</st1:place></st1:city> and Khiva. Given that you
can also arrange fabulous trekking here in the Fannsky Gory (actually in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Tajikistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
but best accessed from <st1:city><st1:place>Samarkand</st1:place></st1:city>),
you might not want to bother with the other Stans at all. The only downside of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Uzbekistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is that it is a nasty police state.<br />
<br />
Getting there: British Airways flies direct to <st1:city><st1:place>Tashkent</st1:place></st1:city>
from £525. Tour operators: Intrepid Travel (020-8960 6333; <a href="http://www.intrepidtravel.com/" target="NEW">www.intrepidtravel.com</a>)
offers a 10-day budget tour for £625, not including travel into the country. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-69964966921861212072004-04-25T08:40:00.000-07:002012-02-21T08:49:27.199-08:00<br />
<h1>
<span lang="EN-GB">Who needs the EU? </span></h1>
<h2>
<span lang="EN-GB">Not </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Switzerland</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">, that's for sure. As other countries forge bonds, Jeremy Atiyah
explores a land that likes to remain apart </span></h2>
<h4>
<span lang="EN-GB">Published: </span><st1:date day="25" month="4" year="2004"><span lang="EN-GB">25 April 2004</span></st1:date><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></h4>
<div>
<span lang="EN-GB">I'm in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Geneva</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, riding noiseless trams and looking at beautiful parks and
expensive shops. Authoritative studies say that </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Switzerland</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> is the world's best country to live in. But is it a happy place?</span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The Swiss haven't always had it so good. They've had their
wars. Two hundred years ago, their country was roughly equivalent to today's </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Afghanistan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">. No wonder Mary Shelley dreamt up Frankenstein's monster during her
sojourn by </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Lake Geneva</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> in the summer of 1816: the Swiss of old were not chocolatiers or
bankers or clock-makers, but wild mountain warriors, fiercer than the Taliban.</span><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Switzerland</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> has evolved somewhat since then. Instead of belligerent
mercenaries, it now has the Red Cross, the Olympic Association and much of the
UN. It has top hotel-management schools and business schools. It has Fifa, Uefa
and countless international sporting federations. </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Geneva</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> alone has
32,000 international civil servants.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">But what does this internationalism do for a country?
Aren't the Swiss in danger of forgetting who they are? </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Switzerland</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> deigned to become the 190th member of the UN in 2002, but it still
looks down its Alpine nose at the EU. It fears economic migrants from countries
such as </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Britain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">. And it has become so rigorously neutral that it seems to have lost
any indigenous personality beyond a half-glimpsed memory of cows and cheese and
yodelling milkmaids.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Well, that's an impression you can get. Right now, I'm in
the windy old town of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Geneva</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, where people scurry past with their collars up and their hats
down. The buildings are dark and sombre. By the cathedral, I step into the
Auditorium of Calvin, a cold chapel with walls of bare stone and lines of
uncomfortable chairs. A grudging vase of flowers sits on the table. </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Geneva</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> as a
stronghold of Calvinism? That took plenty of character. This city is located
approximately in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">France</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">'s kidney. Louis XIV later tried to kill it off. The most curious
thing is that Protestant disdain for earthly riches subsequently transformed
into the capitalism that filled </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Geneva</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> with earthly riches. Bad luck John Calvin.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Hints that </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Switzerland</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> was becoming a more cheerful place were already there in the summer
of 1816, when Lord Byron turned up. He took the Villa Deodati as his lodgings -
It is still one of the finest residences in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Geneva</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, a
mini-palace, commanding the leafy slopes of Cologny, with views over the lake
towards </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Mont Blanc</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">. All Byron and his friends lacked was some decent weather.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Meanwhile, in the present day, I ride a tram to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Geneva</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">'s so-called
International Quarter, to visit the Museum of the Red Cross and the Red
Crescent. I spend two hours here learning about the principles of humanity,
impartiality and neutrality that inspired the movement, and that have saved
countless lives over the years. It is a humbling, sobering experience.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">And when I later board the train to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Lausanne</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, I am
still wondering why, in our envious little hearts, we harbour such petulant
feelings towards this civilised little country. Why do we prefer to make jokes
about cuckoo clocks, rather than talking about the Red Cross? Why do we think
we detect the foul whiff of Nazi collaboration in the fresh Alpine air? Why do
we still suspect the Swiss of abetting international criminals via their
secretive banking operations?</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">I see little justice in this, but then again, I am now
being treated to an expensive lunch by a nice lady from the tourist office at
the Lausanne Palace Hotel, which means tucking into perch fillets fished
straight from the lake, along with a dandelion salad and a crisp white wine,
while looking out over Lake Geneva's clean, blue waters stretching out mistily
to the feet of the massive French Alps.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">"Of course we have our own character and
personality!" protests my hostess, when I politely express my
reservations. And she proceeds to tell me that the Canton de Vaud (of which
Lausanne is the capital) is a land not just for international sports
federations, but also for people who eat sausage with leeks and potato mash,
and speak a rustic French that makes Parisians giggle.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">And don't I know what invariably happens to people the
first time they arrive here by train from grey </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Zurich</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">. (Never mind
drab </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> or dreary </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Paris</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">.) Yes! They emerge through the tunnel on the hills above Vevey, and
at the first sight of the luminous green vineyards that surround them, and of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Lake Geneva</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> sparkling in the
sunshine, and of the romantic castles and villages dotting its shores, they
instantly throw their return tickets out of the window! "Isn't it the best
of all worlds here?" she says, sweetly. "The corner of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Europe</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> that combines northern
efficiency with southern vitality? We don't need to join the EU! We are the
most European country there is!"</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">I have a funny feeling that she is right. If </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Switzerland</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> didn't exist, </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Europe</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> would have to invent it, as a theme park; a miniature (harmless)
model of the continent; a blank space on the map on which to project our
ideals; somewhere for our enemies to reside, in five-star hotels, without
obliging us to make war on anyone.</span><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Switzerland</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> has never baulked at receiving </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Europe</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">'s most pestiferous travellers, albeit on the condition that they be
wealthy and/or industrious individuals. French Huguenots were the first to
arrive, escaping from Catholic France in the 16th century. During the 19th
century, when the </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Alps</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> began to take off as a recreational area, private railways arrived,
followed in short order by British tourists in moustaches and plus fours.
Political refugees have continued to arrive, ranging from Russians fleeing the
Bolshevik takeover, right through to Greeks quitting Egyptian Alexandria after </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Suez</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Later, I stroll round the Lausanne Palace Hotel, looking
for ghosts of tourists past. These giant hotels by the shores of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Lake Geneva</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> were the prototypes
of five-star hotels the world over, designed for the benefit of those who had
been evicted from their own palaces. I see giant chandeliers and decorated
ceilings as high as the sky. I pass the dimly lit Bar du Palais, resembling the
House of Lords, with its leather sofas and red baize walls. Later, in La Table
du Palais, the Michelin-starred restaurant with its soaring windows and views
over the city to the lake, I find two bejewelled ladies chatting. Each has her
ornamental lapdog.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The curious European custom of living in grand Swiss hotels
may have become outmoded as a result of the stock market crash of 1929 (not to
mention that other unpleasantness, the Second World War), but it is by no means
dead and buried. If our own Queen were overthrown, I would urge her to take
rooms at the Beau Rivage: located in the lakeside suburb of Ouchy, it is right
by the pier for boats from </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">France</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">
(perfect for dignified royal arrivals). Ouchy, furthermore, has excellent
British credentials. Lord Byron spent time here, in the neighbouring Hotel
d'Angleterre. And the houses hereabouts belong only to the richest of the rich.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">When I visit the Beau Rivage, its splendid gardens and
terraces are almost empty. But this has been one of the world's top hotels for
more than 130 years. In the rooms, I find original carpets, paintings and giant
walk-in wardrobes. At least 10 families still live here on a permanent basis.
And down in the garden, in a discreet flowerbed, is a poignant collection of
headstones - for the pets of the hotel's residents. Here lies Toots
(1889-1903); here lie Tosca, Binkie, Lumpi, Beppo, Billy.... Later I drop in on
the hotel's Ball Room, with its dome and stained-glass windows and gilt friezes
and cherubs. The dances here, I fear, are not what they were.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Next door to all this lounges the Olympic Museum, another
mandatory stop for tourists to the lake, with its admirable anti-war message of
internationalism and neutrality. But on the grounds that it says nothing to me
of autochthonous Swiss culture, I decide to go to a chocolate shop instead.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">This is more like it. The chocolatier is a man called Dan
Durig who, oddly, comes from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Cheshire</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">. "The Swiss are the best people in the world to make chocolate
for," he tells me, with a delighted look on his face. "They eat more
per head than anybody else. They are the top of the market. They know what they
are eating."</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">He shows me Madagascan and Ethiopian chocolates as he might
show Merlots and Chardonnays. He produces bars of every degree of strength,
ranging from pure milk to pure chocolate. We swill them round in the mouth,
discussing the after-taste and the implications for health. (Cocoa butter,
apparently, is good for cholesterol.) What could be more indigenous than this?</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">On the last morning, I take the train 20 minutes up the
track to Montreux. It is a cold, quiet, misty day, with snowy peaks soaring
straight up from the shores of the lake. If you care to buy an apartment here,
you may need to learn the French word époustouflant (flabbergasting) before
discussing the panoramas with your estate agent. The celebrities who have
bought these views over the past 50 years include Charlie Chaplin, Vladimir
Nabokov and Freddie Mercury.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">I'm more interested, though, in jolly Lord Byron, who, with
impeccable taste, beat them all to it by more than a century. His particular
interest was in the Chateau de Chillon, down the road from Montreux. There it
still is, guarding the pass between the mountains and the lake, rising from the
water, a bizarre jumble of crumbling towers, turrets, freezing baronial halls
and ancient vaulted dungeons.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">As the first to arrive today, I take my chance to rush
round alone, before the tour groups arrive. The waters lapping on the mossy
walls of the keep are dark under black skies, but as clean and cold as the day
of creation. I repress a Byronesque desire to leap into them.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">On a column in the dungeon, I see Byron's name where he
carved it 190 years ago. Through the open slits in the walls, I hear the cold
wind blowing and the waters of the lake slapping on the buttresses. Even in the
21st century, it is hard not to follow Byron in taking the romantic view, and
using the imagination (rather than facts) to construct this strange and
beautiful country.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">GIVE ME THE FACTS</span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">How to get there</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Return flights from London Heathrow to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Geneva</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> with Swiss
(0845-601 0956; <a href="http://www.swiss.com/" target="NEW">www.swiss.com</a>)
are from £75. British Airways (0870-850 9850; <a href="http://www.ba.com/" target="NEW">www.ba.com</a>) also has return flights from Heathrow from £75. EasyJet
(0871 7500 100; <a href="http://www.easyjet.com/" target="NEW">www.easyjet.com</a>)
offers return fares from London Gatwick from £50 and also flies from </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">East Midlands</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Liverpool</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> and </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Luton</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Where to stay</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The Hotel Beau Rivage, 13 Quai du Mont-Blanc (00 41 22 716
66 66; <a href="http://www.beau-rivage.ch/" target="NEW">www.beau-rivage.ch</a>)
offers double rooms from about £205 per night with breakfast costing an extra
£7.50.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">For more information</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Switzerland Tourism (00800 100 200 30; <a href="http://www.myswitzerland.com/" target="NEW">www.myswitzerland.com</a>). </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0Geneva, Switzerland46.1983922 6.142296146.1765297 6.1028141000000007 46.2202547 6.1817781tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-81889826330168733622004-04-04T08:28:00.000-07:002012-02-23T00:56:31.109-08:00So is this place for real?<br />
<h1>
So is this place for real? </h1>
<h2>
Jeremy Atiyah sees behind the mask of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
</h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="4" month="4" year="2004">04 April 2004</st1:date>
</h4>
I'm in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
to find out if the whole country isn't one big PR stunt, something dreamt up by
the ministry of tourism.<br />
<br />
Because on the face of it, this place is just too good to be true. It must
be the result of government spin. It will vanish as soon as my back is turned.
The charming façades of those "heritage" quarters will be removed to
reveal ugly concrete blocks and piles of garbage. The lovely canopies of
rain-trees embracing the highways will be replaced by hoardings of naked women.
The quiet couples slurping noodles after dark on verandas will become rioting,
spitting, drug-taking delinquents. The very history of this island state will
be unwritten.<br />
<br />
Either that or I'm envious. My analyst would suggest the latter. Perhaps,
deep down, I just can't bear to accept that the old patriarch Lee Kuan Yew had
the foresight decades ago to train his people in civic virtues, and to plant
all these trees, and to place conservation orders on the quaintest areas of
local housing.<br />
<br />
Anyway, this is what my mission boils down to: has <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
been designed as a pleasure park for tourists? Or is it a real country, with
needs and interests of its own?<br />
<br />
I'm starting my investigation with breakfast in a place called the Lau Pa
Sat Hawker Centre, which is an outdoor market sheltered by a 100-year-old roof
constructed of iron lacework from <st1:city><st1:place>Glasgow</st1:place></st1:city>.<br />
<br />
How can there possibly be anything fake about this? I see vast numbers of
food stalls and communal seating for everyone. Hundreds of fans are swishing
overhead. In all directions, real Singaporeans are slurping, sucking and
chewing on fish balls, duck rice, dim sum, curry and sushi. Most meals cost a
pound or two. This cooling breeze, these strips of bitter gourd filled with
fish paste, this ice-cold soy milk - they are real all right. This has got to
be the best restaurant in the world.<br />
<br />
I must say that if <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is a stunt, it is turning out a pretty clever one. When we climb into a taxi, I
notice our driver drinking tea out of a plastic bag, hung from the ceiling of
his car. "That's great!" I say. "Authentic!" "It is
convenient and hygienic," says the driver.<br />
<br />
A few traffic-free minutes later we are standing outside a beautiful old
yellow palace, said to have belonged to the family of the local sultan. (It was
the sultan who permitted Stamford Raffles to establish his colony of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
in the first place.) We are in the middle of a place called the Arab Quarter.
It's a nice spot all right, with mango trees dotted about the garden. Muslims
from Java and elsewhere, my guide tells me, used to gather here to prepare for
the haj.<br />
<br />
There is only one thing that looks fishy: that the palace, right now, is in
the process of being converted into a heritage centre. So there aren't any real
live Arabs in the Arab Quarter any more, I ask my guide. She promptly leads me
round a corner to find a crowd in skullcaps scoffing noodles and drinking milky
tea under a nearby colonnade. In fact they are Malay Muslims, but I suppose
that'll do, especially given that we are now at the corner of <st1:street><st1:address>Muscat
Street</st1:address></st1:street> and <st1:street><st1:address>Kandahar
Street</st1:address></st1:street>, opposite what is undeniably a mosque. This
Muslim food looks jolly good too: I can see piles of barbecued lamb and spicy
aubergine, all being served on banana-leaf plates.<br />
<br />
In true <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
style, everything round here has been renovated to perfection. Picturesque palm
trees line the streets. The fronts of the two-storey houses are still Chinese
baroque, all half-moon tiles, bamboo roof-ridges, Malaysian swing-doors and
Corinthian columns. Old saloon doors have not been torn down; ornate lattice
vents, once used by women for peering out at strangers, are still visible.<br />
<br />
We stroll about the local shops looking at brocaded fabrics and silks,
carpets and jewels. Some of these traders claim to have been here since the
1820s. Shop signs betray their origins: "Abdul Aziz and Co" is next
door to "Hui Leong Textiles". It is hard to find any genuinely
crumbling plaster, but I do come across a genuine Arab food shop, Café Le
Caire, where I can get hummus, kebab and a hubbly-bubbly to smoke.<br />
<br />
Who cares about authenticity when things are as gaily multicultural as this?
Not me. Not really. Just round the corner from the Arab Quarter is its
subcontinental counterpart, Little India. Until the 1930s, cattle roamed this
area; now it too contains a heritage centre, explaining its curiosities to us
tourists.<br />
<br />
I don't know how the locals feel about being exhibits, but they do look
indisputably Indian. In the local food arcade crowds of short, dark people are
tucking into masala dosa and eggs and milky tea. In the shops I see bangles and
marigold wreaths. Shops are decorated with Hindu altars. Men are queuing up at
the barber to have their eyebrows trimmed. A fortune-teller with yellow
turmeric smudges on her face is talking about her customers to a green parrot.<br />
<br />
We knock back a cup of cardamom tea in a posh vegetarian restaurant.
Gandhi's exhortations are printed on the walls; jewel-encrusted ladies in silk
saris are carrying plastic trays. On the wall outside is a facility for
selecting and paying for our order by credit card. I would not describe this as
a particularly authentic touch, but the air conditioning is excellent.<br />
<br />
And next up on our tour of this touristic heaven is <st1:place>Chinatown</st1:place>
itself. On the way there, my guide feeds me shocking details of the "four
evils" that recently plagued this area, namely prostitution, gambling,
opium and drink. She tells me about the "death houses", where lonely
old people went to spend their last days (for a fee). And she generally paints
me a picture of a hubbub of fish-sellers, food-hawkers, barrow-pushers,
drink-pedlars, fortune-tellers and opera-singers packing the streets.<br />
<br />
I would like to exclude the possibility that this is a fantasy, dreamt up to
provide material for another of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
heritage centres. But funnily enough, the first thing we see in Chinatown is
another heritage centre, the excellent Chinatown museum, showing the original
Chinese immigrants as the boat people of their day, arriving en masse, fleeing
hunger in China. The journey by junk from <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place>, I
now learn, took about a week, and many perished en route. Most came with the
intention of returning, though few did.<br />
<br />
The highlight of the museum is the re-creation of the shop-houses of the
1950s, showing how entire families lived in narrow rooms separated from their
neighbours by thin partitions open at the ceiling. Today, we tourists can peer
in to see their hard wooden beds, their reed matting, their thermoses, their
pots, bowls, sewing machines and other knick-knackery. We can even hear the
sound effects, on tape, of cooking and quarrelling - safe in the knowledge that
today's <st1:place>Chinatown</st1:place> contains nothing but food stalls,
trendy restaurants and boutique hotels.<br />
<br />
Wandering later through the same quarter, I'll choose a bowl of noodles with
huge and delicious shrimps costing only slightly more than nothing. I'll drink
from a fresh coconut. And I'll sit there and watch acrobats prance in the
street while listening to snippets of Chinese opera and watching otherwise
rational people burning incense sticks and paper money for the spirits of their
ancestors. Isn't this authentically Chinese all right?<br />
<br />
After my three-hour potted tour of <st1:place>Asia</st1:place>, it's time
for a burst of <st1:place>Europe</st1:place>. <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
you see, has it all. My guide suggests that we drop in at Raffles Hotel, which,
when we get there, does indeed turn out to be an intensely charming place, with
modestly proportioned courtyards and palm trees and tiffin and turbaned porters.
The famous Long Bar may have lost something with the advent of air conditioning
and of recorded pop music. (Would Somerset Maugham have listened to Abba?) But
if Raffles had been in <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place>, I muse, it would now
be 40 storeys tall and have helicopters landing on its roof.<br />
<br />
Which is not to say that <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
can't do modernity. Of course it can. When I've finished looking at <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
past, my next task is to visit its future. This means a visit to the Esplanade
Theatres right in the middle of town.<br />
<br />
These two world-class concert halls may have cost more than £200m, but
Singaporeans do not seem<br />
to be complaining. For one thing, they look great. In
fact they resemble two monstrous prickly durians. Big international orchestras
have already played here; operatic megastars such as Jose Carreras have given
it their blessing. And, as everyone knows, <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
will not be a proper city unless it has a proper concert hall.<br />
<br />
Night falls, suddenly, and it's time for dinner. My guide proposes an
ex-convent called Chijmes. Why not, I say, gazing over a lovely complex of
shops, bars and restaurants amid green lawns and frangipani trees. Over there I
even see a chapel with stained-glass windows and a gothic tower. This place, it
turns out, was run as a school by French nuns until the 1980s. But that must
have seemed like a waste of a good heritage site, which is why the school has
now moved out, and we lucky tourists have moved in.<br />
<br />
After dinner, my guide surprises me yet again, announcing that a huge
outdoor party called Zoukout is being held on reclaimed land not far from the
city centre. Lots of trendy musicians and DJs will be in attendance, and we are
going to join them. Getting into Zoukout is a bit like getting into the
Pentagon. Only after many police checks do we finally step into an enclosed
grassy field to meet a PR called Harry Ng, who is perhaps the only man in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
wearing a woolly hat. "Yeah, people are really gonna be freakin' out and
enjoying themselves all night long," shouts Harry. He is probably right.
Mild-mannered young people are queuing up outside. Skyscrapers glitter to one
side. The weather is perfect. Does <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
have an existence independent of its desire to please visitors? I am beginning
to think it does.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>GIVE ME THE FACTS</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>How to get there</b><br />
The writer traveller as a guest of Singapore Tourism. Return fares to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
on Singapore Airlines (0870- 608 8886; <a href="http://www.singaporeair.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.singaporeair.co.uk</a>) start from £560.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Where to find out more</b><br />
Call <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>
Tourism on 020-7437 0033.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0Singapore1.352083 103.8198361.0994685 103.503979 1.6046974999999999 104.13569299999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-64443546818323573082004-02-28T08:44:00.000-08:002012-02-23T00:52:27.614-08:00Ancient treasure<h1>
<span lang="EN-GB">Ancient treasure </span></h1>
<h2>
<span lang="EN-GB">At a time when </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> was a tiny,
insignificant city, millions prospered in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Cambodia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">.
Now the country is using this legacy to attract tourists. Jeremy Atiyah visits
the remains of a civilisation </span></h2>
<h4>
<span lang="EN-GB">Published: </span><st1:date day="28" month="2" year="2004"><span lang="EN-GB">28 February 2004</span></st1:date><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></h4>
<div>
<span lang="EN-GB">Did Cambodians once build the world's greatest city, and
live in the most prosperous country on earth? So I've been told, but right now
I'm finding this hard to believe. I stroll through </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Phnom Penh</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, and see
pigs rooting through puddles and rubbish. The people are charming, but their
streets are dilapidated. On every corner, sundry ragamuffins await my
generosity.</span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">But perhaps the past really is another country: I've been
reading about the Khmer kingdom of a thousand years ago, when Cambodia's
irrigated paddy fields and fish-rich lakes supported a population of some 10
million, most of whom lived in the vicinity of Angkor (at a time when the
population of London was 30,000).</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">What has happened in the interim? The Cambodians and the
Khmers are one and the same people, but by the time the French arrived in the
19th century, they had sunk almost into oblivion. Their population had fallen
by nine-tenths, and the remains of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">, having been mysteriously abandoned in the 15th century, lay lost
and forgotten to the world, somewhere in the jungles east of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Siam</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">When receiving foreign tourists today, this is not an easy
story for Cambodians to tell. The ancient temples of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">, naturally, are their
greatest asset, and some hope that the revival of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> may eventually lead to
the revival of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Cambodia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB"> itself. But there is a painful edge to such myth-making: by
dwelling on past glories, they remind themselves of how far they have fallen.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">For the time being, at least, Cambodians seem willing to
risk the humiliation. After a 20-year hiatus - between 1970 and 1990 -
international tourism at </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> is now booming. The closest town to the ancient city, Siem Reap,
has countless new restaurants, hotels, guesthouses and cyber-cafés, as well as
an international airport. Streams of boats, planes and buses make the 200-mile
journey from </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Phnom Penh</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> daily. I take the fast boat: five hours up the </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Tonle Sap</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> river, past thatched
villages on stilts, crossing half of the country in the process.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">On arrival I hire a guide, a serious man with a bitter
laugh called Kim, who wears the pain of being Cambodian on his sleeve. He
starts talking about the suffering caused by landmines from the instant we
meet. Then he glances at me: "But you don't hear mines exploding round </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> any more. You tourists
are fine." It's the locals who suffer, he wants to tell me. </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> has been cleared, but
mines still cause one death a day across </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Cambodia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">As we take the road north out of Siem Reap, Kim explains to
me the basic facts of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">. It is not a ruined city such as </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Pompeii</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">. Rather, it
is the bare bones of an entire civilisation that flourished here between 1,200
and 600 years ago. When King Canute ruled </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">England</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">,
this region was full of teeming towns and cities, in which millions of people
lived and worked. Of the dwellings, warehouses and workshops of old </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">, nothing is now visible.
Right now, I am surrounded instead by what looks like dark, primeval forest.
The only sign of life is the occasional motor-scooter. "Ordinary
buildings?" echoes Kim, when I ask. "Oh, they've all disappeared.
Only stone buildings remain."</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">He refers to a few structures of religious significance
that were constructed at prodigious expense, in many cases using lava blocks
imported from quarries tens of miles away. Today, scattered over some 200
square kilometres of jungle, these surviving temples rise up in odd isolation,
like lilies in a drained pond, denuded of the towns and cities that previously
surrounded them. It would take weeks to visit them all. Kim is going to show me
a few of the highlights.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The first of these is Angkor Wat itself, the most
magnificent and the holiest of all the temples, built by the great Khmer king,
Suryavarman II, in the early 12th century. Approaching this vast structure on
foot, I feel a kind of despair in the face of its incomprehensible dimensions.
Its lotus-bud towers loom even in the remote distance, rising from within a
walled enclosure nearly one-mile square. Before even reaching this enclosure, I
have to cross a causeway over a colossal man-made moat, which once teemed with
hungry crocodiles.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">And no sooner have I swallowed these enormities than I am
being dazzled by the minuscule detail of the scenes in bas-relief that decorate
the temple's inner walls. Kim hurries me through the lengthy Hindu narratives
on display. Only at the so-called "scenes from hell", reminiscent of
Dante's <i>Inferno</i>, do we linger: here I see bodies sawn in half, bones
broken, stomachs filled with red-hot irons. I find the pictures amusingly
quaint; Kim, however, is looking hot and bothered. He is thinking of his very
own hell. "I was once forced to cross a minefield on foot," he
explains. "Men were exploding in front of me. I felt their corpses
splashing over me." He seems angry that the hell contrived by the
stonemasons of King Suryavarman II should be inadequate to describe his own
experiences.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">When we leave Angkor Wat, heading north, the first place
Kim wants to show me is a 40ft-high stepped pyramid called Baksei Chamkrong. It
is a low-key site, free of tourists. Its lotus-bud pinnacle has eroded into a
blob, and leaves rustle under our feet. But Kim has a reason for bringing me
here. "Vietnamese soldiers' tombs," he whispers, pointing, as we step
over a series of grassy hillocks. The conversation again shifts from the
Buddhist god-kings of the past, to Pol Pot and King Sihanouk, and </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Cambodia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">'s
ongoing political crisis. "The Khmer Rouge respected </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">," says Kim,
laughing. "They wanted it protected. They saw it as a living symbol of
Khmer power and glory."</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Even as he speaks, we are approaching the southern gate of
the walled city known as Angkor Thom. This was </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">'s last capital, created
at the end of the 12th century by its most obsessive builder, King Jayavarman
VII. In and around its walls lived at least a million people, making it one of
the most important cities in the world. Naturally, the city gates were grand.
Each had its own tower and triumphal approach, flanked by figures of demons.
But only this southern approach is in anything like its original state now.
"The statues are being pillaged," explains Kim, gloomily. "The
demon heads are being stolen. You can get thousands of dollars for them."</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Following a trickle of rice trucks and bicycles, we drive
up to the gate. I half-imagine that a bustling city still lurks within: I
picture King Jayavarman's family and officials, his military officers and
priests, all enjoying the fruits of power. But once inside, what I see is the
silent road, and the same forest as before. It is a gate into four square miles
of nothingness. We pass troops of monkeys, sleeping dogs, and the occasional
monk under a saffron umbrella. "Funny how this place was abandoned,"
I say. "It wasn't abandoned," replies Kim, defensively.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">"We Khmers never forgot about </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">." What he means is
that Cambodian monks managed to keep the memory of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> alive during the long
centuries after its abandonment, right up to the time of its
"discovery" by the French naturalist Henri Mouhot in 1860. Trees may
have reclaimed the jungle, but the temples of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> never lost their power
to inspire the Khmer monks. "You can try, but you'll never get rid of the
monks!" he exclaims. "You can shoot them, they don't feel a thing.
The French tried to stop them, the Khmer Rouge tried to exterminate them. But
they are still here."</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The monks seem to be the one thing that Kim believes in. I
am still feeling obscurely pleased about this when the road through Ankhor Thom
reaches a clearing. And in front of us, suddenly, rise the multiple stone
towers of Bayon. Even today, there is mystery in the way Bayon's stones emerge
from the jungle. Columns resemble tree trunks, pink and mottled. The towers
seem organic. Were they placed here by human beings, or by some other agency?
The first Frenchmen who camped among these strange stones could scarcely tell.
At night, rhino and leopard prowled nearby. The din of cicadas was enough to
drive a man mad. And then, in the half-light, through tangled branches, one
came to sense that giant faces were staring down from above - faces carrying
the features not only of Buddha, but also of King Jayavarman VII himself.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Over the years, for the benefit of tourists, the trees over
Bayon have been cut away. But merely to prevent the roots from engulfing </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Angkor</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB"> and its memories is a
constant challenge. "When tourists stopped coming in the 1970s, they grew
back again," says Kim, a familiar tension appearing around his eyes.
"And while we were cutting them down again, we found lots of skulls."</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">I feel as though I am engaged in a losing battle to blot
out the recent past. I study the decorations on Bayon's outer walls, where all
the civilised arts of 12th-century war and peace are depicted: cockfighting and
sumo wrestling; a lady being fanned by servants; a boar in a pot and satay
sticks being served for dinner; acrobats, chess players, masseurs, smokers, fat
men, thin men, rich men, poor men...</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Later, we walk through Bayon's tangled corridors, stained
by moss, lichen and soot. In one of the towers, a snake is doing battle with a
pullulating mass of bats, its white tail flashing in and out of view. Kim's
laugh echoes strangely in the darkness. But our time is short. We have just an
afternoon to pant our way round the remaining temples of Angkor Thom, and the
shadows are lengthening. We march past Baphuon, which was completed in the year
William the Conqueror came to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Britain</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">.
Having been dismantled a thousand years later, in preparation for a major
reconstruction, it suffered an unthinkable disaster: the pillaging of the
plans. What remains is the world's biggest jigsaw puzzle.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Next, we pass the so-called Elephant Terrace, where, in
1960, a parade of 1,000 elephants was led by King Sihanouk to celebrate the
independence of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Cambodia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">. With the benefit of hindsight, this attempt to bask in the glory
of the past was a pitiful failure.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">By now, the yellows of </span><st1:time hour="12" minute="0"><span lang="EN-GB">midday</span></st1:time><span lang="EN-GB"> have turned to russets
and browns; the cicadas are like jangling bells. We walk round the corner, to
Preah Paliley, whose crooked tower rises at a precarious angle, with giant
trees growing horizontally from its stones. Kim's mood is sinking with the sun.
"All the money from tourism goes out of the country," he gabbles, as
we walk. "Tourists drive up prices and we locals can't afford anything any
more."</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Pieces of an orange fruit lie about in the long grass.
"From the <i>sleng</i> tree," remarks Kim, kicking. "<i>Sleng</i>
means bitter, or poisonous." Strangely enough, <i>Sleng</i> is one of the
few Khmer words I know. I came across it in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Phnom Penh</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, at Pol
Pot's Tuol Sleng centre (now the </span><st1:place><st1:placetype><span lang="EN-GB">Museum</span></st1:placetype><span lang="EN-GB"> of </span><st1:placename><span lang="EN-GB">Genocidal Crimes</span></st1:placename></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">), where 20,000 people were "processed" by the Khmer Rouge
regime in the Seventies. It was indeed a place of bitterness. S<i>leng</i>
fruit contains strychnine. "I know a policeman who spends the night here
on guard duty," adds Kim. "He eats the fruit. Now mosquitoes don't
touch him."</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">I laugh, half-heartedly. For some reason, in this forest,
I'm now thinking of Hindu myths, in which the primeval catastrophe involves not
flood, but fire. I look out over red walls and green ponds, half-reclaimed by
grass and weed. Tendrils dangle from the growing darkness above, and the sounds
of the jungle - whoopings and cacklings and shriekings - grow louder by the
minute.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">SURVIVAL TIPS</span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">GETTING THERE</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The easiest option is to fly to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Bangkok</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> or </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Singapore</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">
and take a connecting flight to either Siem Reap (for Angkor Wat), or the capital,
</span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Phnom Penh</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">. Through discount agents, fares to </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Phnom Penh</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> are
available for around £680 return on Thai Airways from London Heathrow via </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Bangkok</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">. To reach
Siem Reap, you could combine a fare of around £500 between </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> and </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Bangkok</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> with a
flight to Siem Reap with Bangkok Air (01293 596 626, <a href="http://www.bangkokair.com/" target="NEW">www.bangkokair.com</a>), for about
£160 return.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">RED TAPE</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">If you fly in, you can get a visa on arrival for $30 (£17);
take two passport photographs. Arriving overland, you will need to acquire a
visa in advance.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">STAYING THERE</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Siem Reap has many hotels and cheap guesthouses; see <a href="http://www.angkorhotels.org/" target="NEW">www.angkorhotels.org</a>.</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">HEALTH</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Protection against typhoid, hepatitis A and B, yellow
fever, diphtheria, tuberculosis, Japanese B encephalitis and rabies may be
necessary; take advice from a travel health specialist like MASTA (09068 224
100, <a href="http://www.masta.org/" target="NEW">www.masta.org</a>).</span><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB">SAFETY</span></b><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">The Foreign Office says the biggest risks are from
"road traffic accidents; armed robbery after dark; landmines and
unexploded ordnance in rural areas". </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0Phnom Penh, Cambodia11.558831 104.91744511.435051 104.7595165 11.682611 105.0753735tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-6271442693137469152004-02-07T08:33:00.000-08:002012-02-18T08:35:27.583-08:00The call of the wild<br />
<h1>
The call of the wild </h1>
<h2>
A hundred years ago, the small Alaskan town of <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>
was in the grip of prospecting fever. Jeremy Atiyah finds the biggest
excitement in town these days is a dog-sled race </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="7" month="2" year="2004">07 February 2004</st1:date>
</h4>
Even by Alaskan standards, <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>
is <i>weird</i>. It is on the American mainland (just), but you can't reach it
by road. It has a mere 4,000 inhabitants. It is only a hundred miles from <st1:place>Siberia</st1:place>
and unspeakably cold. Hardly anyone ever goes there. But once a year it fills
up with television crews and the whole of the <st1:country-region><st1:place>United
States</st1:place></st1:country-region> wants to see it.<br />
<br />
Why? Because <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city> is the
terminus of the annual Iditarod: the 1,000-mile dog-sled race from <st1:city><st1:place>Anchorage</st1:place></st1:city>
that grips the nation each March.<br />
<br />
I'm more interested in the off-season. That's why I am boarding a flight to <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>
in mid-winter - and I get the feeling that I am leaving the <st1:country-region><st1:place>US</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and heading for a foreign country. Suddenly people with Asiatic features
surround me. On one side, an exotic-looking woman removes a fur-trimmed coat to
reveal a toddler strapped to her back with a shawl. She tells me she's a
whaler. On the other side, a man tells me he has just been to a meeting in <st1:city><st1:place>Anchorage</st1:place></st1:city>
to discuss tribal issues.<br />
<br />
"Me," he adds, "I'm a caribou hunter. But we need to
understand corporate <st1:country-region><st1:place>USA</st1:place></st1:country-region>
or we'll be left behind."<br />
<br />
When we land at <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city> there's a
gale blowing and it's minus 20C. I check in at a madhouse called the Polaris
Hotel, which, like most cheap hotels in the <st1:country-region><st1:place>US</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
doubles up as a hostel for bums. There is an empty whisky bottle blocking my
toilet.<br />
<br />
The next morning I take a stroll along the promenade in pitch darkness. It's
<st1:time hour="10" minute="0">10am</st1:time>, and stars are shining from a
black sky. Saloon bars line the main drag. Two gloomy natives approach me,
asking if I can spare a dollar. "I'm from St Lawrence Island," says
one, gloomily. "I'm from Diomede," says the other. Diomede? Ah yes,
that tiny island in the middle of the <st1:place>Bering Strait</st1:place> -
just three miles from <st1:country-region><st1:place>Russia</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
The proximity of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Russia</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is something I am trying to get used to. Later, I'll walk to the airport to
visit the office of Bering Air, the only airline currently offering local
flights and sightseeing trips across the <st1:place>Bering Strait</st1:place>.
I speak to a Russian woman working there, who turns out to have been born and
bred in Chukotka, just across the strait.<br />
<br />
But having made the big step to the <st1:country-region><st1:place>US</st1:place></st1:country-region>
- I ask - wasn't she minded to travel a tiny bit further than <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>?
Didn't any other place in the vastness of the North American continent take her
fancy?<br />
"Why?" she replies, puzzled. "Here I have the best of both
worlds. I'm in the <st1:country-region><st1:place>US</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
but I'm not far from home. It's perfect for me."<br />
<br />
Come to think of it, she could even walk to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Russia</st1:place></st1:country-region>
from <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>'s beach. The <st1:place>Bering
Sea</st1:place> is frozen solid at this time of year. From <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>
itself the Russian coast is not visible, but from the 2,300-foot-high <st1:place><st1:placetype>Cape</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype>Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place>, at Prince of Wales Cape
(to the north of here), <st1:place>Siberia</st1:place>'s hills loom bright and
clear.<br />
Which is not to say that walking the <st1:place>Bering Strait</st1:place> is
a particularly good idea. In the middle of the strait the ice churns and
buckles all winter long. Crossings between <st1:state><st1:place>Alaska</st1:place></st1:state>
and <st1:country-region><st1:place>Russia</st1:place></st1:country-region>, on
skis, sledges or amphibious vehicles, are perilous and rare.<br />
<br />
And I find it hard to imagine things any other way. During the Cold War we
got used to the idea of a world divided implacably down the middle by the <st1:place>Bering
Strait</st1:place>. For decades barely a ship was seen here, let alone an
aeroplane; and of course no umiaks or kayaks, the Innuits' own boats.<br />
<br />
But strangely, it was not always so. Back in the late 18th century, when
Captain Cook first charted these waters, the straits were busy. Indigenous
peoples crossed between <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and <st1:place>Asia</st1:place> as a matter of routine, using reindeer sledges
in winter, boats in summer. The crossing time was not more than a single day.<br />
<br />
After Captain Cook's voyage, it would not take long for the white man to
sweep those old native trading networks away forever. Travel across the straits
virtually ceased. By 1890 the Reverend Hudson Stuck could dismiss the whole <st1:place>Seward
Peninsula</st1:place> as "a savage forbidding country... uninhabited and
unfit for habitation; a country of naked rock and bare hillside and desolate
barren valley, coursed with a perpetual icy blast."<br />
<br />
And that might have been the end of all human interest in this part of the
world, had not two Swedes and a Norwegian came prospecting for gold in 1898 and
struck lucky.<br />
<br />
Before long, it was discovered that <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>'s
beach contained pebbles of gold. By the time next summer had come round,
thousands of amateur prospectors were stepping off steamers from <st1:city><st1:place>Seattle</st1:place></st1:city>
carrying shovels. Tents lined the shore for upwards of 20 miles. In the wake of
the prospectors, Innuits arrived selling knick-knacks and carved mammoth tusks.
Within two years, <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city> had become
the largest town in <st1:state><st1:place>Alaska</st1:place></st1:state>, with
shops, schools, restaurants, hotels, brothels and dentists.<br />
<br />
The only losers in the story were the Russians, who, 30 years before, had
sold <st1:state><st1:place>Alaska</st1:place></st1:state> to the <st1:country-region><st1:place>US</st1:place></st1:country-region>
for a<br />
pittance: if only they had known that gold lay in the sands right across
the water from their own Siberian mainland! Meanwhile, in <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>,
frontier necessities were soon making way for Victorian opulence. Those in
search of a night out could find card parties, gambling halls and even music
recitals. Characters as diverse as Jack London, Roald Amundsen and Wyatt Earp
were seen in town.<br />
None of this was to last. By 1920, the fun had died down, never to return.
"<st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city> in 1920 was a fading
gold camp," wrote one young adventurer; "it had shrunk to a few
hundred die-hards. False-fronted saloons, once staffed with gamblers and
painted ladies, calling newly-rich prospectors in off the street, now stood
empty and forlorn."<br />
<br />
In 2003, I confess that <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>
seems as dead as a doornail. The treeless tundra, which begins a few minutes
from the town centre, is colourless and frozen solid. At these latitudes -
across <st1:state><st1:place>Alaska</st1:place></st1:state>, <st1:country-region><st1:place>Canada</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and <st1:place>Siberia</st1:place> - the scenery is the same all the way round
the globe. Only in the brief summer and even briefer autumn, will it blaze into
colour. Then, for a month, blueberries, cranberries, salmonberries,
blackberries and rosehips will suddenly be available by the bucket-load.<br />
<br />
I take a breakfast of hot milk and waffles with a couple of hunters.
"You're a tourist here?" one says, peering in suspicion. "In
mid-winter?" He is wearing a red checked shirt that bulges tight.
"For us <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city> is a big
city," he goes on. "We come here to stock up on food." They live
out on the tundra somewhere and are in town for the weekend. They belong to
that group of Americans for whom <st1:state><st1:place>Alaska</st1:place></st1:state>
represents the final frontier - the place you flee to when the rest of the <st1:country-region><st1:place>US</st1:place></st1:country-region>
seems too crowded. Outside, they show me the antlered caribou heads in the back
of their pick-up. Later I go for a leisurely lunch at the Polar Club
restaurant, where I get talking to some more beardy men in checked shirts, over
a reindeer burger. One tells me that he came to <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>
bringing a small dredger with him about five years ago. I say: "So people
still come to <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city> looking for
gold?"<br />
<br />
"They sure do. There's about 15 people who come here every summer to
sieve on the beach. You can make a living like that. Not a good one, but it's
enough to live on."<br />
<br />
Moments later the miners are joined by a little old man with a tufty beard.
He is a practising doctor. But he turns out to be a hunter and a miner too - as
most people in <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city> do. They all
chat awhile, in a boyish kind of way, about dredgers and hydraulic nozzles and
sluice boxes and picks and shovels and bigger stuff that I can't understand.
When I ask the Swiss professor if he too came to <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>
with his private dredger, he looks me up and down.<br />
<br />
"Hell, no," he says. "I employ 400 men. You looking for
work?"<br />
I mutter something about not having the right experience. "You don't
need it! You just need to be able to move heavy equipment! And it's hot down
there. T-shirts off."<br />
<br />
For a minute or two, sitting in bright sunshine by the window, beside the frozen
sea, I am strangely attracted by the idea of a new life as a gold-miner in <st1:state><st1:place>Alaska</st1:place></st1:state>.<br />
<br />
A woman comes in and sits down. "Sometimes I just can't stand it any
more, that's when I have to start drinking," she says to the doctor. She
goes on, in a pleading voice: "You don't ever get depressed, do you?"<br />
<br />
With a wag of that tufty beard, there comes the answer that she dreads most
of all. "Oh yes I do, sometimes. Oh yes. My years are running out and I
got too much to worry about. I don't want any drama, but it follows me
around."<br />
<br />
"Oh, but I just <i>need</i> drama," gasps the woman.<br />
I seriously doubt that she'll find it in <st1:city><st1:place>Nome</st1:place></st1:city>.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>SURVIVAL KIT</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>GET THERE</b> <br />
The lowest airfares - around £800 return - are likely to be available on
Northwest Airlines from Gatwick via Minneapolis/St Paul and <st1:city><st1:place>Anchorage</st1:place></st1:city>.<br />
<st1:city><st1:place><b><br /></b></st1:place></st1:city><br />
<st1:city><st1:place><b>TOURS</b></st1:place></st1:city><br />
Try North American Highways - The Alaska Experience (01902 851138, <a href="http://www.northamericanhighways.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.northamericanhighways.co.uk</a>)<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>HOTELS</b><br />
At the Polaris Hotel (001 907 443 2000, <a href="mailto:polarisent.inc@gci.net">polarisent.inc@gci.net</a>),reckon on $50
(£30) a night for a single room.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>MORE INFO</b><br />
Nome Convention and Visitors Bureau (001 907 443 6624, <a href="http://www.nomealaska.org/vc" target="NEW">www.nomealaska.org/vc</a>) <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0Nome, AK, USA63.6545768 -170.55955363.6528248 -170.56448849999998 63.656328800000004 -170.5546175tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-18864055047117433092003-11-09T05:42:00.000-08:002012-02-18T05:44:50.226-08:00A dumpling masterclass with Mr Po<br />
<h1>
A dumpling masterclass with Mr Po </h1>
<h2>
If you like Chinese food, you have to go to <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place>.
Jeremy Atiyah stuffs himself with dim sum, washed down with black tea and a
spot of t'ai chi </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="9" month="11" year="2003">09 November 2003</st1:date>
</h4>
So keen is <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place> to get its tourists back after
the Sars calamity that even a miserable hack like me is being picked up at the
airport in a green Rolls-Royce. I'm being taken to one the best suites of one
of the world's best hotels.<br />
<br />
Of course this royal treatment won't fool me. On my last visit to <st1:place>Hong
Kong</st1:place> in 1995, I spent two weeks in a guesthouse in the Chungking
Mansions, in a room that had been designed, grudgingly, to accommodate one thin
bed. The only way to get under the showerhead was to sit on the toilet. And I
paid good money for it.<br />
<br />
Not that I'm complaining. Here in the Peninsula Hotel discreet British
snobbery may have departed, but naked Cantonese snobbery has picked up the
baton with gusto. In the vast gilded lobby I arrive to find tables packed with
Chinese indulging in that great British tradition of afternoon tea, exchanging
tiny sandwiches and cakes for sheaves of money. Up on the 18th floor, my rooms
have got floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the harbour and the skyscrapers
of <st1:place><st1:placename>Hong Kong</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Island</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<br />
<br />
Out in the streets of <st1:city><st1:place>Kowloon</st1:place></st1:city>,
later, I still feel a little dazed. The sky is oddly clean, not as steamy as it
should be. Expensive, chilled air is pouring out of all the shopping malls.
Even the pavements seem to be air-conditioned. I wonder where they've gone, the
old stenches, the fish markets, the flabby-leaved creeping plants, the
copy-Rolex sellers, the turbanned tailors, the swindlers, the rickshaw drivers,
the old sea-dogs, all the fetid trappings of the land where East meets West.
One obvious thing hasn't changed. Taking the dear old Star Ferry to Central, I
notice the whole island being shaken to its foundations once every 20 seconds.
A giant pile-driver is somewhere at work.<br />
<br />
How could I have forgotten: <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place> would not be <st1:place>Hong
Kong</st1:place> without its perennial engineering projects. Noise pollution?
Town planning? Feng shui? Economic difficulties? Forget it. The construct- ion
of flashy skyscrapers must go on.<br />
<br />
But this is all incidental. I'm not here to admire the skyline or to browse
in refrigerated shopping malls. I'm here to eat. Because <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place>'s
food is one thing, I am told, that Sars, <st1:city><st1:place>Beijing</st1:place></st1:city>,
Tung Chee Hwa, typhoons and the property crash can never touch.<br />
<br />
To get started properly, the next morning, I head for a free t'ai chi
session before breakfast, by the harbour. It's dark and stormy, and I feel very
superior about having my morning exercise regime led by a wise old Confucian
called Mr Ng, rather than by some inane Californian with a grin and a leotard.
"And this movement," Mr Ng cries into the wind, slowly raising one
arm and lowering another, "is called White Crane Flaps its Wings!"<br />
<br />
Having flapped my crane's wings, and touched my ocean's bottom, and held my
angel's hands, I set off in search of a suitably colourful local market. I am
pleased to notice that these are not hard to find. At Yaumatei, off <st1:street><st1:address>Nathan
Road</st1:address></st1:street>, I'm soon in the thick of it, surrounded by
pigs' trotters, hearts, intestines and tongues. Men in singlets push barrows of
greens, while old ladies sit behind boxes of meaty green crabs, salted eggs,
live chickens, turtles, fresh fish, pickled bamboo shoots, green papaya, sheet
bean curd, soy bean paste, and sticky rice puddings made with sugar.<br />
<br />
This being a Chinese market, medicinal concerns are never far away. Here are
strange leaves "to rid the body of moisture". Here are giant root
vegetables, larger than footballs, "to eliminate toxins". Here are
rosebuds, "to cure bruises". A tiny thin charlatan is selling
homemade herbal wine. "It's five years old!" he cries. "I sell
it worldwide! Even in <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region>!"<br />
<br />
I pick up a glass of cold soy milk from a café, attracted by the grimy fans,
the overhead cables, the tiny stools, the soot, the bubbling cauldrons, the
women in wellies, the floor running with water, the cats, and the parrot that
speaks Chinese. Tanned men in shorts and vests and flip-flops are shovelling
rice porridge with their chopsticks, surrounded on all sides by packs of
noodles and plum sauces. Just look at the fruits and vegetables round here!
They make me want to live in the tropics. The ripe smell of guava fills the
whole street. Here are crates of woody, earthy mushrooms. Here are carrots
three inches fat. Here are spring melons; here are bitter melons; here are
lotus fruits; here are dragon's eyes; here are hairy squash and here are boxes
of dates (or are they duck gizzards?).<br />
<br />
Just next door is the incense shop. This is to any <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place>
market what WH Smith is to a British high street. "To contact your
ancestors," explains the shopkeeper, "you need to raise smoke.
Prefer- ably fragrant smoke." He shows me not only incense sticks and
sandalwood, but also cars, shoes, beer bottles, Rolexes, houses, footballs,
Armani suits, credit cards, bank notes, wallets and passports - all made of
paper, to be burnt, for convenient collection by the ancestors. "To die,"
murmurs the man, "is a complicated business."<br />
<br />
By now I am hot and starved. I head for one of those air-conditioned
shopping malls at the top of Tsim Shat Sui to find a place called the Super
Star Seafood Restaurant, which sounds just the job. The first thing I see is a
chef patiently pressing crabmeat with shredded ginger into roundels of soft
pastry. "Hairy crab?" I ask. "Royal crab," he replies,
shocked. Someone quickly whispers in my ear, as though I am in danger of
embarrassing myself: "It's not the season for hairy crab."<br />
<br />
Anyway, it's bright and crowded and public in here, as all good dim sum
restaurants should be. You never take your mistress to dim sum. It is, though,
quite a royal food, with its delicate but numerous portions. I've got a soup
made from a suitably ugly fish, in accordance with the infallible rule that the
uglier the fish, the better the dish. "Yes, the look is the first
thing," says the chef, introduced to me as Master Po, who now joins me.
"Then the dumpling pastry should be thin and the contents moist." He
offers five basic types of pastry: rice, flour, bread, sticky rice and green
pea. The rice pastry is softer and more transparent; the wheat pastry is more
like bread.<br />
<br />
The chef's challenge, in Master Po's view, is to be both traditional and
modern. He is extremely proud, it turns out, of the peppery stonefish dumpling
that he has pioneered. (Stonefish is poisonous to touch, in the wild, but it is
also promisingly ugly.)<br />
<br />
Tradition demands balance in your dumplings. In the case of a good old pork
bun, for instance, this means a balance between dough and meat, between wet and
dry, between sharp and bland. But novel, unorthodox influences are also
permitted: Master Po has a Vietnamese-inspired dumpling containing pumpkin and
fishmeat, for example. His sticky rice comes from <st1:country-region><st1:place>Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
He is also the inventor of a sweet, penguin-shaped, family-friendly dumpling
that may owe some- thing to Disney. "For<br />
commercial reasons," he
explains, cheerfully. "Children like it."<br />
<br />
I take a walk through the kitchen, where muscular men are shoving entire
pigs into the barbecue using forks with prongs two foot long. I stroll through
to see chopping boards the size of tree trunks, and knives the size of
helicopter blades.<br />
<br />
Master Po has been working as a chef for 33 years, since he was 12. Have
tastes changed in this time?<br />
"Sure!" he cries. "Now we are much
smarter in our taste buds, and we are much more health conscious! So the
portions are smaller; it's quality before quantity." As he speaks, a delicate
peach-shaped bun with rosy tints appears, containing a filling of lotus and
salty egg yolk. Another novel-looking dumpling contains cucumber and barley and
mangetout, wrapped in pea-flour dough. "You always know which filling to
put in what pastry," smiles Master Po. "It's intuitive."<br />
<br />
The most delicious things on this table, though, are some pieces of
barbecued pork resembling an archaeological section, each piece comprising an
identical spectrum of crackling, fat and meat, in that order. They melt in the
mouth like butter. From the subject of fat, conversation turns to tea. To
counteract the effect of grease, we should, in fact, be drinking an
earthy-smelling black tea called bo lei. "Only hot people should drink
green teas like jasmine," explains Master Po. Hot people? This Chinese
notion translates, roughly, I think, into "people with high blood
pressure".<br />
<br />
Other hard-core delicacies from the menu include duck's tongues and bird's
nest soup. (The "nest" comprises not twigs but the dried spittle of
swallows and swifts. Everyone at the table agrees that it is good for you: a
lady from the Hong Kong Tourist Board puts a tablespoon of powdered bird's nest
in her cornflakes everyday.) Abalone is the latest craze - you have to order in
advance, as they need to be simmered for up to two days before they can be
eaten. A big one might cost £200. "This is what <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place>
is," says Master Po, modestly, as we say goodbye. "This is what we
are."<br />
<br />
I know what he means. And right now, stuffed, I feel like sleeping. But this
is industrious <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place>, and it's time to head off to
the western district of the island, in search of dried goods.<br />
<br />
These never cease to amaze me. I'm soon looking at dried sausage, ham,
squid, octopus, oyster, mussel, abalone, scallop - and these are just the
mainstream items. That thing that looks like a sheet of tofu is, in fact, the
dried lining of fish gut. That stuff resembling chopped cabbage is jellyfish
(and has a crunchy texture). Heaped up around me, I survey ginseng, starfish,
sea slugs, seahorses, fish bladders, giant conch, chrysanthemum flowers, deer
tendons, turtle shells, dried flying geckos, cicada skins, tangerine peel,
crocodile bacon (good for asthma), liquorice plants (good for Sars). Old men
sit silently sifting through ginseng roots, sorting the thin bits from the fat
bits. Twenty-storey apartment blocks loom up all around us.<br />
<br />
Time for another cuppa? We enter the traditional teashop of one Mr Ngan, who
brews and pours us some teas. Do I fancy yellow, white, clear, green, black or
red tea? He talks of tea in the way connoisseurs talk of wine. He has old cakes
of tea that will sell for thousands of pounds. He also has his "new
arrivals", sealed in pewter jars. Green tea, he explains soberly, is like
champagne and should be drunk young.<br />
<br />
I find myself on a strong, semi-fermented tea called Iron lady. The tea
stands for 30 seconds and then it's time to pour. First I must smell; then I
must drink. And because we are drinking a black tea, which must be brewed very
hot, the pot is made of purple clay from Yixing. Tea-drinking and Yixing
pottery, says Mr Ngan, have been evolving together for 3,000 years. As always
in <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>, I get
the feeling that my own preconceptions are rather shallow.<br />
<br />
Back in Central, I am taken to a trendy organic food shop owned by one Belinda
Wong. A young woman in her 30s, Ms Wong has been trying to popularise old
medicinal products. She has published her own funky recipes, like organic sea
slug on noodles or organic bird's nest and almond soup. A few western
delicacies such as bison tongue are also on sale here. It may be trendy, but
her shop has the same old smell of ginseng as all the shops in western
district, a smell I am beginning to like by now.<br />
<br />
Not far down the road, we come to a seriously upmarket Chinese medicine
shop. This time I am able to read the alleged benefits of the medicines for
myself, as the signs are all in English. Cuttlefish, I now see, "promotes
the circulation of vital energy and blood" while pearls "tranquillise
the mind and improve the complexion". Deer's tail pills are supposed to be
good if you have a "yang deficiency" in the kidneys, while cinnamon
bark "treats a decline of fire from the vital gate". Quackery? Who am
I to judge?<br />
<br />
The day is almost done and the lights are beginning to twinkle in the
harbour spray, when I find myself at Wanchai fish market. A fish market may not
sound the height of glamour, but this is <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place>. I
arrive to find a queue of gleaming Rolls-Royces and Mercedes with beautiful
bejewelled Chinese women stepping out of them in search of dinner. The place
resembles the London Aquarium, with its bubbling tanks full of
lugubrious-looking fish. In front, giant crabs and eels struggle to escape,
despite being bound up like prisoners on death row. Their millionaire
purchasers will have no pity on them.<br />
It's time to head back to the <st1:place>Peninsula</st1:place>. But as
darkness suddenly falls, somewhere on <st1:street><st1:address>Nathan Road</st1:address></st1:street>,
I find myself jumped by a gang of men. Help! Except this is no mugging. These
are restaurateurs from the Chungking Mansions, all competing to press their
cards into my hand. For old times' sake, I settle on a dinner in the Delhi Club
Mess, a dark room lost in a dark stairwell, somewhere in the dark heart of this
appalling building, where the curries are hot and the beer is cold: just
another corner of <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place> where the food will be for
ever wonderful.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The Facts</b><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Getting there</i><br />
Jeremy Atiyah travelled as a guest of British Airways and The Peninsula
Hotel.<br />
In November return fares from London Heathrow start at £563 with BA (0870
850 9850; <a href="http://www.ba.com/" target="NEW">www.ba.com</a>). Double rooms
at The Peninsula Hong Kong (00 852 2920 2888; <a href="http://www.peninsula.com/" target="NEW">www.peninsula.com</a>) start at HK$3,390 (£260) per room per night.<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Being there</i><br />
Super Star Seafood Restaurant, Basement, Wilson House, <st1:street><st1:address>19-27
Wyndham St</st1:address></st1:street> (00 852 25259238)<br />
Mr Ngan's Teahouse, 290 Queen's Road, Central (00 852 25441375).<br />
Eu Yan Sang medicine shop, <st1:street><st1:address>152-156 Queens Road</st1:address></st1:street>,
Central (00 852 25443870)<br />
Delhi Club Mess (00 852 2368 1682), Chungking Mansions, 3rd floor of C
block.<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Further information</i><br />
Hong Kong Tourist Board (020-75337100; <a href="http://www.discoverhongkong.com/" target="NEW">www.discoverhongkong.com</a>).
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-6098528661747134552003-10-19T05:51:00.000-07:002012-02-18T05:53:32.599-08:00'We packed up our culture in 2,000 crates'<br />
<h1>
'We packed up our culture in 2,000 crates' </h1>
<h2>
Mao had his Long March. So did his Nationalist enemies - taking a precious
cargo of ancient treasures to the safe haven of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Taiwan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
Jeremy Atiyah reports </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="19" month="10" year="2003">19 October 2003</st1:date>
</h4>
Beside the vastness of mainland <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
<st1:country-region><st1:place>Taiwan</st1:place></st1:country-region> looks
like nothing: a crowded, industrialised little island, famous for its
production of computer chips. Chiang Kai-shek may have sought to build up <st1:country-region><st1:place>Taiwan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
as a microcosm of <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
but even he was not capable of decorating it with the Forbidden City of
Beijing, or the misty crags of <st1:city><st1:place>Guilin</st1:place></st1:city>,
or the mountains of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Tibet</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
or the <st1:place>Silk Road</st1:place> oases of the western deserts, or the <st1:place>Yellow
River</st1:place> which gave <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>
its civilisation. Once the Nationalists had embarked on their escape, the <st1:place><st1:placetype>territory</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>China</st1:placename></st1:place> would be utterly lost to
them.<br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place><br /></st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
<st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
cultural heritage, however, was another matter. Elements of this were portable.
And when the Nationalists left, they decided to carry it with them. The results
of this decision can still be seen in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Taiwan</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
<st1:place><st1:placename>National</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>, which is by the far the
greatest repository of Chinese art in the world today.<br />
<br />
It is in search of those treasures that I'm here, rather than for anything
else. <st1:city><st1:place>Taipei</st1:place></st1:city> is not an attractive
city in itself. Grim, grey blocks line the streets. Flyovers and bridges stomp
across the skyline. Even the President has his residence in the former Japanese
governor's office, a tatty-looking brick building that no one has been bothered
to replace. I find it hard to avoid the suspicion that a subconscious expectation
of "return to the mainland" has not quite gone away.<br />
<br />
But <st1:city><st1:place>Taipei</st1:place></st1:city>'s art treasures will
make up for all of that. I already know that the collection here derives
directly from the collections of the Chinese emperors, who ruled their vast
territories for more than 3,000 years. I step inside the <st1:place><st1:placename>National</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>
with a feeling of awe.<br />
<br />
One of the first things I see is a bronze cauldron from the ninth century
BC. And this is not some archaeological curiosity from pre-history. The man who
made it (the Duke of Mao, from the era of the Western Zhou) is a historic
figure. Inside the cauldron is a long inscription, the Duke's own words,
written to his uncle, expressing opinions on how to rule and how to survive
your enemies.<br />
<br />
Such objects have been regarded as precious by virtually everyone in <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
history apart from Chairman Mao. "The bronze and jade articles that give
pleasure to the king," states a 2,300-year-old memo from the imperial
archives, "are stored in the Royal Residence." Later, in the second
century BC, the visionary Emperor Wu Di was also storing the calligraphy and
paintings that pleased him. He even employed scholars to authenticate treasures
newly excavated from Shang Dynasty tombs that were (then) more than a thousand
years old. In the wise words of contemporary historians, the possession of such
items was a sure sign that the mandate of heaven, to rule <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
had been won.<br />
<br />
What a pity that the history of this collection, from then to now, has been
not a smooth process of accretion. In fact, the losses have been severe. During
the chaos surrounding the collapse of the Tang Dynasty, for example, around AD
900, many of the scrolls were destroyed by fire and looting. But once the Song
Dynasty had established itself, the collection was soon flourishing again. And
it was in the reign of the great Emperor Song Huizhong, in the early 12th
century, that the structure of the imperial collection as we see it today was
set out.<br />
<br />
Song Huizhong was an artist himself, and the inventor, I learn, of something
called the "slender goat" style of calligraphy. It is hard not to
admire him. "As long as there is painting and calligraphy," he once
sighed, "a lifetime of one thousand years would not be long enough."
He sent out scholars to scour the empire for surviving paintings from previous
eras. The rigorous and scientific catalogues he drew up, of his own great
collection, are still extant.<br />
<br />
This is not to say there would be not be many more losses over the years.
First came the Mongol invasions. And through the ages, emperors have been
capable of flogging off paintings for cash, melting down precious bronzes and
doling out jade ornaments as gifts. Then there were the secretaries and eunuchs
who found cunning ways of stealing treasures. Thus were the collections
precariously handed down from emperor to emperor and from dynasty to dynasty.<br />
<br />
In the 15th century, a great imperial palace was erected in <st1:city><st1:place>Beijing</st1:place></st1:city>
that came to be known as the <st1:place>Forbidden City</st1:place>. Many of <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
treasures would be stored there for generations to come. And in the 18th
century came one more great patron of the arts, the Qing Emperor, Qianlong. He
spent his reign not only commissioning new works, but also cataloguing old
ones. He stamped practically everything in the collection with his own seals,
often inscribing comments alongside - in the most tasteful calligraphy, of
course.<br />
<br />
After Qianlong's death, times again became dangerous for the collections, as
indeed they did for <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>
as a whole. The emperors grew poorer, and more inclined to plunder their own
treasures in the search for gifts. This was not the only threat: in a notorious
incident in 1860, British and French soldiers ransacked the imperial summer
palace outside <st1:city><st1:place>Beijing</st1:place></st1:city>, seizing a
large number of precious paintings (some of which can now be seen in the <st1:place><st1:placename>British</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>).<br />
<br />
In 1911, the Republic of China was declared. But Puyi, the last emperor of <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
was permitted to continue living in the <st1:place>Forbidden City</st1:place>
and it was during these years that there occurred some of the most catastrophic
losses of all, not least those caused by a huge fire deliberately lit in the <st1:place>Forbidden
City</st1:place> by discontented eunuchs. And Puyi himself sold off countless
treasures to raise cash for his private use. Not until 1925 was this flow of
losses stemmed, with the expulsion of the profligate Puyi once and for all.
Museum professionals could at last be sent in to check the contents of the
palace.<br />
<br />
Inside, they found literally millions of items, including piles of
ancient ceramics still in use as common utensils. On <st1:date day="10" month="10" year="1925">10 October 1925</st1:date>, the <st1:place>Forbidden City</st1:place>,
and all its contents, was officially opened as a museum. After 2,000 years it
seemed that the trials and tribulations of the most precious creations of
Chinese art had finally come to an end.<br />
<br />
It was a false dawn. The next 30 years were to prove the most dangerous in
the collection's entire history. In 1931, the Japanese attacked and, for
safety, nearly 20,000 crates were packed up, and sent south to <st1:city><st1:place>Nanjing</st1:place></st1:city>
and <st1:city><st1:place>Shanghai</st1:place></st1:city>.<br />
<br />
For a while it seemed as though <st1:city><st1:place>Nanjing</st1:place></st1:city>
might become their permanent new home. In 1937 however, the Japanese began a
full-scale invasion of eastern <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
Once again the treasures had to be removed, this time in a hurry.<br />
<br />
Considering the exigencies of war, it seems astonishing how much time and
money the Nationalists were prepared to invest in protecting the museum
treasures. An old superstition seemed to survive, that the imperial collections
represented the spirit of <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>
itself; that their safety would confer legitimacy on the rulers who protected
them.<br />
<br />
Only in the very last days before the Japanese burst their murderous way
into <st1:city><st1:place>Nanjing</st1:place></st1:city> were the last crates
finally removed from the city. Their destination was <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
south-west, far away from the Japanese advance, though different batches took
different routes. Aged trucks and boats carried them through remote and
difficult terrain. At times boats had to be pulled against the current, or
boxes carried along muddy tracks. Some of the boxes were carried on foot over
snow-covered mountains. Japanese bombing was never far behind.<br />
<br />
In the autumn of 1939 the boxes arrived safely in <st1:state><st1:place>Sichuan</st1:place></st1:state>,
not far from the great city of <st1:city><st1:place>Chongqing</st1:place></st1:city>,
where Chiang Kai-Shek had established his government. And here in <st1:state><st1:place>Sichuan</st1:place></st1:state>
province a young artist and designer called Suo Yuming first came into the
employment of the museum. I know this because I am now talking to the man
himself, here in the tea-room of the <st1:place><st1:placename>National</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<br />
<br />
He is a tall spindly character, now in his eighties. He got his first job in
the museum as a painter and a designer; his work then was to help create
imitations of some of the treasures, hidden in a small town. There was no bomb
shelter. They just used to hide in a temple when Japanese planes came over.<br />
After the war ended in 1945, the order came to pack up the treasures and
transport them back to <st1:place><st1:city>Nanjing</st1:city>, <st1:country-region>China</st1:country-region></st1:place>'s
capital. For Suo, this was the beginning of an idyllic time. "In those
days we never thought about politics," he says. "We enjoyed the
feeling of victory, then got down to work." Suo was an assistant researcher,
verifying the history and authenticity of each item. But his troubles - and <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
- were not over. War flared again, this time between Chiang's Nationalists and
Mao's Communists. And by 1948, the Communists were approaching <st1:city><st1:place>Nanjing</st1:place></st1:city>.
Again, the Nationalists showed their attachment to the treasures. The order now
came to remove them to the comparative safety of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Taiwan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
<br />
The thought of packing up and moving for the second time in four years seems
not to have depressed Suo. He supposed it would be a temporary move, as before.
Many of the crates had not been unpacked since 1931 anyway. But they had just
three ships in which to carry them. Only the most precious parts of the
collection could be taken this time; less important items would have to be
left.<br />
<br />
Suo himself travelled in the last of the three ships from <st1:city><st1:place>Nanjing</st1:place></st1:city>,
the <st1:place>Kunlun</st1:place>. There was supposed to be room in the ship
for 3,000 crates, but in the event they were obliged to leave nearly 1,000
behind, in order to carry more men desperate to escape the Communists. By this
stage, the selection process had become random - the dockworkers just picked up
the first boxes they could lay their hands on. In some cases, sets of objects
were thus separated from each other for ever.<br />
<br />
Was Suo afraid? "No. The <st1:place>Kunlun</st1:place> was a military
ship, and the Communists only had rifles." But his confidence was to some
extent misplaced. Suo, like all of the departing Nationalists, was convinced
that he would soon be returning. He could never imagine that he might still be
living in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Taiwan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
55 years later. In the event he left behind a mother and a fiancée, neither of
whom he ever saw again. But that is another story.<br />
<br />
Right now all I can think of is a 1,500-year-old painting I've just been
looking at, depicting two men on a bridge, a river, a barge, snowy trees, a
wooden pavilion and the eternal misty hills of ancient <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
People are such small and insignificant creatures, alone in a world of egrets
and mountains. How does it feel to be buried in so much tradition? I shake
myself and go to meet another member of the museum, the deputy director, Dr
Shih. He is one of those elegant little Chinese men as quiet as a cat and with
the distilled wisdom of 2,000 years of culture in his head. Does he worry,
today, about the things that were left behind in 1949? "We would have
taken it all, including the <st1:place>Forbidden City</st1:place> itself, if we
could have," he smiles, sadly. "But most of the decisions taken then
were the right ones. I don't complain."<br />
<br />
He suggests that the mission to rescue the treasures from the Communists was
a kind of Long March, comparable to Mao's. "It was a very holy, special,
symbolic mission," Dr Shih says. "Any regime's legitimacy relies on a
continuation of heritage. You also have to enrich your heritage, to prove you
are a worthy heir."<br />
<br />
Dr Shih tells me about the artists and professors - "the most important
young intellects of China" - who<br />
believed, in the 1940s, that they could
create a new future for the fledgling Republic by lugging crates full of
cultural treasures round China. They literally had 2,000 years of heritage in
their hands. So highly did the Chinese Nationalists regard these treasures,
that when the <st1:place><st1:placename>National</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place> opened in <st1:city><st1:place>Taipei</st1:place></st1:city>
in 1965 - finally putting an end to 35 years of peregrinations - the director
of the museum was a post that had ministerial ranking.<br />
<br />
Dr Shih is anxious to remind me that he is more interested in the aesthetic
aspect of the collection than in its political or symbolic aspect. But before I
leave, he cannot help pointing out to me the bronze cauldron that stands in the
courtyard at the front of the museum. "It is the ancient Chinese symbol of
political power and legitimacy," he says, with a modest smile. I know what
he means. The Communists may have won <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
but they have lost her treasures. And for that, the Mandate of Heaven will
never rest easy.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The Facts</b><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Getting there</i><br />
Jeremy Atiyah travelled to <st1:place>Hong Kong</st1:place> as a guest of
British Airways (0870-850 9850; <a href="http://www.ba.com/" target="NEW">www.ba.com</a>),
and from there to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Taiwan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
with Cathay Pacific. Return flights cost from £684 in November.<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Being there</i><br />
Places to stay include the cheap but cheerful Queen Hotel (00 886 2
25590489) at Chang'an W Rd, 226, 2nd floor. It is near the railway station and
double rooms cost about £16 per night. Alternatively, the upmarket, central Far
Eastern Plaza Hotel (00 886 2 2378 8888; <a href="http://http/www.shangri-la.com/eng/index.htm" target="NEW">http://www.shangri-la.com/eng/index.htm</a>)
at <st1:street><st1:address>201 Tunhua S Rd</st1:address></st1:street> offers
rooms from £150 per night.<br />
The <st1:place><st1:placename>National</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place> (<a href="http://www.npm.gov.tw/" target="NEW">www.npm.gov.tw</a>) is open daily, <st1:time hour="9" minute="0">9am</st1:time>-5pm. Admission is about £2.<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Further information</i><br />
In <st1:city><st1:place>Taipei</st1:place></st1:city>, the tourism bureau
office (00 886 2 2439 1635; http://taiwan.net.tw) is at <st1:street><st1:address>280
Jungshiau E Road</st1:address></st1:street>, 9th Floor.<br />
<br />
The Lonely Planet Guide to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Taiwan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
(£12.99) is the main guide-book. Visas are issued on arrival to visitors with <st1:country-region><st1:place>UK</st1:place></st1:country-region>
passports. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6571826401694909540.post-5485925028225885802003-09-07T14:25:00.000-07:002012-02-18T05:27:47.174-08:00Showtime in Carmen's old stamping ground<br />
<h1>
Showtime in Carmen's old stamping ground </h1>
<h2>
Bizet's flamboyant heroine still haunts Seville, discovers Jeremy Atiyah.
Even if she's really a Belgian tour guide called Johanna </h2>
<h4>
Published: <st1:date day="7" month="9" year="2003">07 September 2003</st1:date>
</h4>
It's <st1:time hour="20" minute="0">8pm</st1:time> and the solar whiteout is
not yet finished. But I'm on a walking tour of <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>
with Carmen. Carmen? Haven't I heard that name somewhere before? With her dark
tangled hair and long baggy skirt she seems to have a touch of gypsy about her.
She is slightly grungy, and might have been a fire-eater or a juggler on <st1:place>Brighton</st1:place>
beach. She keeps projecting her voice above the rooftops, gesticulating wildly
to the sky, breaking out into throaty songs. The only snag about her is that
she is not Spanish, nor even a gypsy. She is, in fact, Belgian. Her real name
is Johanna Vandenbussche.<br />
<br />
But she definitely resembles the character from Bizet's opera, and she is
also <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>'s most theatrical tour
guide. "I am the free, roaming spirit of Carmen!" she roars. "No
one can tie me down!" She describes her act as "stand-up
tragedy", and has already been on Spanish TV several times. Today, we, her
paying customers, number about 15 people, including one state senator from <st1:state><st1:place>Oklahoma</st1:place></st1:state>
and several citizens of <st1:country-region><st1:place>France</st1:place></st1:country-region>
who cannot understand English (but who love Bizet). "The people of <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>,"
she is explaining, with an apologetic laugh, "are a little bit ashamed of
Carmen." Which is why she, a Belgian, has taken responsibility for
shouldering her story.<br />
<br />
Off we go, with Carmen in the lead, heading on down to the tobacco factory.
She is trundling a tatty old shopping bag on wheels behind her, from which she
occasionally whips out an accordion. Then she begins to sing, rough little
songs for Carmen and her lover Don Jose, whose two faces, on cardboard, face
each other in an eternal stroppy stand-off above the accordion.<br />
<br />
"Welcome to my factory!" she cries, when we get there. My idea of
the tobacco factory from the Carmen story is of a handful of women in a seedy
little sweatshop. In fact, this factory was the centrepiece of Spanish industry,
and here it is: a monumental, square 18th-century palace, larger even than <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>'s
giant cathedral. It has royal gates and moats. Forty years ago it was converted
into a university building; until then, it was a factory that at its zenith had
employed 12,000 people.<br />
<br />
And as Carmen now explains, you had to have very nimble fingers to get a job
there. In other words, you had to be a woman, preferably (if rumours were true)
a sultry, long-haired beauty with flashing coal-black eyes and a dagger in your
garter, who would break out into a spontaneous foot-stomping, neck-arching,
castanet-clicking dance routine every time the foreman turned his back.<br />
<br />
No wonder the tobacco factory of <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>
became a focal point of delirious male attention. In the southern heat, stories
of passionate gypsies and heaving bosoms in the workplace (combined, perhaps,
with memories of the Moorish harem) became ever more intense. Out of all this,
Prosper Mérimée, a French visitor to <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>
in the early 19th century, was stimulated to write a suitably febrile story
about a woman called Carmen, a story later adapted by Bizet.<br />
<br />
"It was all <st1:city><st1:place>Columbus</st1:place></st1:city>'s
fault," Carmen is complaining, on the subject of self-indulgent males. She
reminds us of how <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city> had grown
rich in the first place from the fantastic American trade. For nearly 200
years, the city had revelled in the massive benefits of a legal monopoly, after
a royal decree stipulated that all ships from the <st1:country-region><st1:place>Americas</st1:place></st1:country-region>
sail right up the <st1:place>Guadalquivir</st1:place> into <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>
itself.<br />
<br />
Luxury, then, is nothing new to these streets. This is a city where
architects could afford to worry as much about the smell and sound of their
buildings as their appearance. We pass a sign advertising "LOVELY TYPICAL
SEVILLIAN HOUSES WITH SMELL OF ORANGE BLOSSOM FOR RENT". From courtyards
green with foliage and littered with oranges comes the trickle of water and the
coo of doves.<br />
<br />
We head back to the centre. Tourists in shady squares are thinking about the
first drink of the evening. Horse-and-carriage drivers keep shouting "Hola
Carmen!" as they trot past. Right by the Alcazar, we find ourselves on a
street called Miguel Mañara, which prompts Carmen to break out into new
raptures. "My hero!" she cries, crossing her hands lovingly over her
heart, before beginning to tell the tale of her alter ego, that other Sevillian
symbol of libertinism - Don Juan, later immortalised by Mozart as Don Giovanni.<br />
<br />
It is not clear who came first, the historical figure Miguel Mañara or the
mythical character Don Juan, who first appeared as El Burlador de Sevilla
("the Seducer of Seville") in 1630, in a play by the Spanish
dramatist Tirso de Molina. But either way, sensual <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>
was their stage. Both date from the early 17th century; both were licentious
but attractive rascals who lived for the day, and had great difficulties
remembering about the morrow - not unlike Carmen herself (but very different
from Seville's third operatic child, Figaro, the comic hero of The Barber of
Seville and The Marriage of Figaro).<br />
<br />
Carmen, meanwhile, continues to talk passionately about Miguel Mañara. As a
young man, she explains, Mañara had not only ruined the chastity of respectable
girls, but also had even taken to murdering their fathers. Later in life he had
done a famous about-turn, becoming a prior and spending his entire fortune on a
hospital for the poor. Now he is regarded in <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>
as something close to a saint. "A little bit of an extremist," sighs
Carmen, as we stroll past the 16th-century former stock exchange, "but a
typical son of <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>."<br />
<br />
Now she sits us all down in the shadow of the Giralda and begins to sing
about the circumstances of how she met Don Jose, her lover in Bizet's story.
She had cut another woman's face, she calmly explains, after being mocked for
her gypsy origins. "And Don Jose was one of those assigned to the job of
taking me off to prison!" she adds, with a laugh. "That was how we
met!" But before Carmen has time to explain further, the bells of the
Giralda start ringing like crazy, swinging and ringing as if there is no
tomorrow. The heat is crushing, but the sun has set and a Spanish couple will
marry.<br />
<br />
We walk down towards the river into the old warehouse area that used to back
on to the port. The poor once teemed here in their thousands. But Carmen's
beaming smile tells us a story: for here is the grand Hospital of the Caridad,
the hospital built on the orders of her old friend Miguel Mañara. And there, in
a courtyard opposite, overgrown with roses and long grass, we glimpse a
forgotten statue of the man himself.<br />
<br />
Yet another Sevillian wedding is taking place, just as we try to peer into
the famous chapel of the hospital. The guests are in elegant silk and chiffon;
we tourists in shorts and sandals. But there in the doorway lies the tombstone
of Miguel Mañara. Carmen is clapping her hands in joy and exclaiming at the top
of her voice, to the consternation of the wedding guests: "He wanted all
the world to walk all over him!" But I can't help wondering if he wasn't
just lobbying for sainthood. "With great humility, in his will," I now
read, engraved in stone, "he demanded to be buried where all could tread
on him... here lie the ashes of the worst man who has ever lived in the
world." If that isn't a bad case of 17th-century spin, I don't know what
is.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, we are about to emerge on the river itself. Over there in Triana,
on the opposite bank, are some of the best and cheapest bars for fishy tapas in
the world. Later, I'll sit there and look back over the city, while snacking on
sardines dipped in sea salt and scorched on coals. But over here, our singing
guide is bringing her story to a climax. We pause under the ancient vaulted
ceilings of what used to be <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>'s
shipyard, to listen in on the increasingly disputatious relationship of Carmen
and Don Jose.<br />
<br />
And now here at last is the famous bullring of <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>.
By the river, we see proud, pompous arches of gleaming white plaster coming
into view under a steel-blue sky: how small and funny it looks compared with
its modern equivalent, the football stadium.<br />
<br />
But there is nothing funny about this place. Later I'll enter the ring to
see shaded seats for princes and for owners - and broiling sun for everybody
else. Ominous damp patches stain the sand. The intensity and the intimacy are
too much; all of society can see itself in here. There is the small chapel,
stuffed with virgins, where bullfighters make their prayers; and here, in the
museum, is the stuffed head of a cow, the mother of the bull that killed <st1:place><st1:city>Manolete</st1:city>,
<st1:country-region>Spain</st1:country-region></st1:place>'s most famous
fighter, in 1947. Carmen hates all this. "But the strange thing was,"
she adds, with a sheepish smile, "that I did fancy the picador."<br />
<br />
Ah yes, the picador. Carmen's fatal mistake. So there it was, outside the
bullring, in a dusty square by the river, that she and jealous lover had their
last argument. "Come to <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region>
or you die!" Don Jose threatened. Carmen, of course, refused. "I
chose the spirit of my city," she tells us, "of freedom!"<br />
<br />
At this moment I feel oddly emotional. All of us have fallen silent. Right
by the river we find ourselves beside <st1:city><st1:place>Seville</st1:place></st1:city>'s
only statue of Carmen, who, in bronze, seems diminutive, and more demure than I
would have depicted her. Her face is serious rather than sultry. "Sad,
isn't it, dear people!" shouts the living Carmen, with a big laugh.
"Poor Don Jose killed me! But as I've already told you, although I am
dead, my spirit is free. Isn't that amazing, dear people?"<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The Facts<o:p></o:p></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b><br />
<b><i>Getting there</i><o:p></o:p></b><br />
<b>Jeremy Atiyah travelled with </b><st1:country-region><st1:place><b>Spain</b></st1:place></st1:country-region><b>
at Heart (01373 814222; <a href="http://www.spainatheart.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.spainatheart.co.uk</a>)
and Europcar (0870-607 5000; <a href="http://www.europcar.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.europcar.co.uk</a>).
A three-night break in Seville starts at £350 per person, based on two sharing,
including scheduled flights with British Airways and b&b. Europcar offers a
week's car hire from £140 for a group A car.<o:p></o:p></b><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>The Facts</i><br />
Carmen's guided walking tour departs daily except Tuesday and Sunday at <st1:time hour="19" minute="0">7pm</st1:time> from the corner of Calle Sto. Thomas and
Calle Miguel Mañara, near the Alcazar entrance. What you pay is up to you.<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Further information</i><br />
Spanish Tourist Office (020-7486 8077; <a href="http://www.tourspain.co.uk/" target="NEW">www.tourspain.co.uk</a>). <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17444949362613027455noreply@blogger.com0