Tag: destination

Beach bumming at Culebra, Puerto Rico

By Joe Varghese

Much as we had heard of Puerto Rico, not much was known about the island of Culebra. The only thing we knew was that, till the recent past, it was used as a target by the U.S. Navy. For years, we have driven by the U.S Naval Academy in Annapolis and the Destroyers and Submarines in Baltimore Harbor. I could imagine the big guns booming and the projectiles flying towards that tiny landmass in the Caribbean. How would it be to stand on the very same beach that had endured the mighty firepower of the Naval fleet for years, we asked ourselves ! The answer was three hours away. It was an early morning flight to Puerto Rico, landing at San Juan International Airport. Puerto Rico is one of the better countries in the region, with financial and political support from Uncle Sam. This is especially true for San Juan, where the infrastructure and lifestyle is almost like that of the US. Getting out of the airport, renting a car, and driving toward Fajardo on the East coast, was a cinch. We waited at a tiny little airport to catch a plane to Culebra. I don’t know if one can call it an airport.

Another way of describing it would be a single building with a huge parking lot, on which teensy-weensy airplanes landed and took off. When the time comes, you walk up to the plane, climb in through the back door (just like you would climb into a car) and dump your bags in the back. The plane can seat about 10 people, including the pilot. Is it too hot in the plane? Just crack open the window a wee bit! On-board refreshments ? Sure I just reach into your backpack and pull out the munchies you had bought at the airport. If you are lucky, you could call shotgun and sit next to the pilot. Culebra was half an hour away, and our eyes were riveted to the window as we passed the beautiful beaches of mainland Puerto Rico, flew over the sea with its little islands and boats, till we saw the mountains of Culebra looming in the distance. It is kinda noisy in the plane, so conversations may be limited. Every once in a while the plane may hit an air-pocket, so you have to be careful with your drink, if any.

The plane has to maneuver between two mountain peaks during its descent, which can make some people nervous. We landed at the airport, pulled our backpacks from the trunk and simply walked up to the terminal, making sure the rotating propellers were a safe distance away. Once there, you have a choice of renting two wheelers or 4-wheel drives. There are also some vans that ply across different parts of the island. We took one of the vans to a local eatery, which was the house of one of the local people. As expected, most dishes consisted of sea-food, the most intriguing of which was conch. We had the local drink: Scotch with coconut milk. The coconut milk has to be fresh or it ferments, thus ruining the taste of the drink. We tried one glass and decided the Medalla, the local beer was better. We camped at Flamenco beach, reputed to be one of the top three beaches in the world. The beach has a very well maintained camp site, which was almost deserted when we went there. It is not uncommon to see wild horses on the island. There is nothing more refreshing than to wake up in the morning to the sound of the ocean, unzip your tent and walk into a breathtakingly beautiful sun rise. We walked on the white sands of the beach, appreciating the green water and eyeing the corals that were within swimming distance. Soon we came across a couple of rusty battle-tanks on the beach. Apparently, these were the targets that were to be destroyed when the Navy conducted its exercises. Certain parts of the island are still cordoned off with fences.

We shared the whole beach with less than 5 other people. A quick breakfast later, we were swimming toward the corals. A few hours later, we were trekking to a beach on the other side of the island. It is like searching for Easter eggs: you walk through the dense vegetation and suddenly there is a beach. You walk some more, and look, one more beautiful beach, this time with corals a few meters away. Every once in a while you will find some other backpacker discovering the island the same way. The Navy has stopped using the island for target practice, and most parts of Culebra, along with its beaches and archipelagos, are protected wild life refuges. The main income source of the island is tourism, mostly domestic. It is very common for mainland Puerto Ricans to jump on a boat and come down to Culebra, enjoy the beach, have a barbeque and simply head on back home. The happening spot of Culebra is the township of Dewey, named after Admiral Dewey of, what else, the US Navy. We went there to have lunch. Dewey is nothing more than a collection of houses with some bars. The docks are a short walking distance away. The place is dead in the afternoons and sees some action at night. We walked around Dewey, talking to some of the local people. A large number of the locals speak English. The population of Culebra is around 1500, and crime is almost unknown. You could leave your bag at any place and simply walk around to enjoy the scenery. On the way back, we waited at the airport for our flight. There was a guy standing next to the ticket counter, cracking jokes and having fun. Turns out, he was our pilot. A Kashmiri gentleman named Babar, who spoke to us in Hindi. What are the chances of meeting a man from the Indian sub-continent on a tiny island of less than 1500 people in the Caribbean? Globalization has truly hit even the remotest part of the world. This trip was a unique experience: the island, its people, its food, and definitely the airplane ride.

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Postcard from Cambodia

By Abhik Dutta

Part 1: Reaching Cambodia.

April, they say, is the worst month to travel to Cambodia because of the heat. So, I being me, against all sane advice that I downloaded from the internet, decided to go to Siem Reap from Bangkok by road.
The journey from Bangkok started on time. 8am to be precise. The road to the Thai border Aranyaprathet (also known as Poipet) was like a smooth runway. In 4 hrs I was there.
Shortly thereafter all hell broke loose. Our group of five was made to sit outside a small eatery on the Thai side of the border. The agent’s agent (I shall call him ‘Bon’ as a local in these parts would pronounce the International super-agent) at the border initially gave all five of us in the van the Cambodia visa forms. The other four, I learnt later, were all on a ‘visa run’, where they’d do a small ritual of crossing the Thai border, getting a Cambodia visa and then exit Cambodia immediately to re-enter Thailand. A process that takes 2 hrs and 200meters to complete. It’s generally done by those who are working for a long time in Thailand and need to renew their visas after 30 days or 90 days.
Bon came back in a while saying contemptuously, ‘You Indian’? (The emphasis on the second word was not lost on me).
I said,’Yep’.
’No visa for Indian at border. Okay?’
I gave him my as-nasty-as-I-can-get look (eyes narrowed down, lips curled in a snarl) and croaked  ‘And why not?’.
He looked right through me and said ‘You pay me 2700 baht. I try for you. Ok?’
I would have none of his nonsense and said (in my suddenly acquired Thai accent), ‘No ok. I go wih you to immigration. No pay more than foreigner’. (Meaning the other 4).
Bon looked at me for a very long time (that usually means bad news at the border) and said slowly, ‘then you sit heah, mistah. Ok?’ He threw my passport and visa money on the table and disappeared from the restaurant.

Half an hour passed. I gulped 2 bottles of water and some tasty fried vegetables in Oyster sauce and made some conversation with Bon’s dog (I shall call him Bon-Bon), just to show that we Indians are a friendly lot and there’s no harm in letting a dog-loving-Indian cross the border into Cambodia.  Soon Bon came back with the visas of the other 4 travellers and asked me ‘Wha hab you decided?’ I said, ‘No pay more than foreigner’.
He was disgusted with me and disappeared again. I drank a little more and made more conversation with Bon Bon.
An hour passed. Bon returned and with his hands on his hips said, ‘Ok, you follow me’. Bon, me and Bon-Bon walked single file towards the border. We went past the market and took a left turn to reach the Thai immigration counter. After a 30min wait in the queue, the Thai official issued an exit stamp and I was on my way to the Cambodia immigration counter, 50 meters away.
 A huge gate with the slogan “Welcome to the Kingdom of Cambodia” stood out like a sore thumb. I prayed that this should not be the first and last glimpse of Cambodia. Bon caught up with me at the counter and asked me for the passport and 1500baht (actual visa fee is 20US$). I duly obliged and sat for another 30mins. It was hot and humid. The gun toting border guards were smoking and chatting away. I saw Bon-Bon crossing over to Cambodia. What a dog’s life, I thought. Strange thoughts cross one’s mind during times of border crisis. I wondered whether Bon-Bon was born Thai or Cambodian. He looked quite Indian as well. Sullen and morose. Just like me. But at least he could cross. Bon came back to me and said, ‘here your pahport. Visa ok. Ok? Now you go to immigration and wait for me on the other side.’

At the Cambodia immigration counter, there was this crazy Japanese tourist (you can make them out by the large floppy hats, knee-length shorts, the omnipresent camera with a mile-long telescopic lens dangling around the chest) hugging all the border guards one by one and shouting ‘Better than sex, better than sex’. He looked ecstatic. I wondered what could have induced a well-dressed Japanese backpacker to hug the Cambodian border guards at two in the afternoon on a hot April afternoon and think of sex.
 His story unfolded. He had arrived 3 hrs earlier and realised that he had lost his passport (the ultimate nightmare for a tourist). He searched for it on the Cambodian side, on the Thai side and on No man’s land in between. He searched for it inside his backpack, inside his T-shirt and shorts, inside his pouch. Inside his camera bag. Inside Thai and Cambodian loos. Everywhere. Soon, he came to believe that he would be required to spend the rest of his miserable life in No man’s land just like Tom Hanks in The Terminal. 3 hrs later he found his passport on his head underneath his cap! I understood why that moment felt ‘better than sex’.

In another 30mins (everything in Cambodia takes at least 30mins or 1 ‘dolaar,’ I learnt later), I was giving an angelic smile at the immigration camera and thanking the officer in bowed reverence. ‘Enjoy your stay in Cambodia’, he said. ‘Not many Indians cross this way’.  And he stamped and handed me the passport.
It was that simple. Indians do get Cambodia visas on arrival at the border. Later, when Bon and I became friends for five minutes, he said that his stern gaze and the act of ‘throwing’ the passport on the table usually makes ‘third-world-country-travellers’ pay up whatever he demands!
Bon and Bon-Bon were both waiting on the Cambodian side. The former on a motorcycle. I bid a fond farewell to Bon-Bon (who couldn’t care less and trotted off to Thailand). I sat behind Bon and he whizzed off. Turning, he said, ‘Wehcome to Cambodia, Ok?’ In the same breath he asked, ‘You tip me mistah, Ok?’ He seemed to know every second person we zipped past. Five minutes later he stopped outside a small tin-roofed building and said, ‘Your bus will come here and take you to Siem Reap’.
’Its air-con, right?’ I shouted after Bon as his small frame vanished into the dust of Cambodia. I faintly heard two words drifting out of the red haze, ‘Yeah, yeah’.

There were fifteen of us inside the tin-shelter. All of us bound for Siem Reap. An hour ticked by.
 Soon the bus came chugging along and halted outside the shelter. There was a mad scramble as we tore, kicked, stamped, gouged each other apart to get the desired seat. We Indians were raised for moments like these. Second row, left window seat. The 3rd world passengers (Thai, Cambodian and me, Lone Indian ranger) all occupied the first few seats. First world tourists brought up the rear. It was 40degrees outside. And 40 degrees inside with the Air-con on.
It took at least an hour for the bus to start. We were packed like sardines in it. It was like a boiling cauldron inside. We left at 3pm.
In half an hour, the AC stopped functioning. Within the next half hour, the road disappeared giving way to a red-coloured, dusty, potholed path, I am ashamed to call a road. In another 30minutes, the diesel finished. And it took another 30minutes for the driver and his comrades to get a barrel of diesel from the undergrowth and fill up the tank.
I settled down for the inevitable. I opened the window to let the hot air from outside cool the interiors of the bus. In the distance I heard the thunder. It looked like rain. We were all smiling.

I was en route to what has been described as one of the Wonders of the World…the temples of Angkor Wat.

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