Mama Africa

July is the peak season for flying to East Africa, and the ticket fares are quite steep. Thanks to the efforts of an enterprising travel agent, I am able to find a KLM fare that is about half of the best I can find online, and at least 50% less than that offered by the 10 or so travel agents I have spoken with. This guys has bagged himself a loyal customer.

The cheap ticket naturally means that it is not a direct flight; in fact, I have 2 stopovers before Nairobi. I'll be flying from London to Amsterdam (AMS), from Amsterdam to Dubai (DXB), and from Dubai to Nairobi (NBO). Then I'd board a shuttle bus to Moshi. There are are flights available from Nairobi to Kilimanjaro International Airport (JRO) aboard Precision Air, which is a partner of Kenya Airways which in turn is a partner of KLM, but the fares are relatively expensive.

In any case, there are not many airlines that fly to the Kilimanjaro International Airport. I think KLM and Swiss are the only two airlines flying direct from Europe, though I many be wrong. Thus most people fly in to either Nairobi or Dar-es-Salaam (DAR) and catch either a connecting flight to Kilimanjaro or a shuttle bus to Moshi.

So, anyhow, I'll be flying to Nairobi with 2 stopovers and taking a bus to Moshi. On the return journey, thankfully, I have only one stopover in Amsterdam.

Using my trusted Picadilly tube line, I reach Heathrow terminal 4 with enough time on hand for my 9.55 am flight to Amsterdam.

At the check-in counter, the lady tells me that she is unable to print my Dubai-Nairobi boarding pass for some reason. But I don't have to worry about the bag, as she has checked it all the way to Nairobi. Great!

The security queue is very long, and I don't like waiting in queues. Thankfully, I know how to bypass that roadblock.

If you want to get through the security queue quickly at the Heathrow airport, here's a technique that works like a charm, every single time: Have a disheveled appearance - unkempt hair, a few days' stubble and wrinkled tshirt. Oh, and brown skin.

"Sir, you've been randomly selected for additional screening. Will you please step this way? After going through the check, I'll put you right through the head of the queue."

"Right, random!" I smile. Every single time.

The flight from London to Amsterdam is even shorter than I expected. And the queue at the gate for the Dubai flight is longer than I expected. Interestingly enough, the security check in Amsterdam is at the flight gates, which seems an unjustified nuisance if you are connecting here.

The flight to Dubai is uneventful. The in-flight service is great, and I like the Red Issue of the KLM in-flight magazine.

I also check out the pilots of a few of the much talked-about TV programs available in the on-demand entertainment system.

The two episodes of Everybody Hates Chris are great. I love this show! It's genuinely funny.

While 30 Rock has broken some popularity records, the first two episodes fail to make a fan out of me. It's alright, but it's neither as funny as Everybody Hates Chris, nor as fun as Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.

Back to You is a tired comedy, though I still like Patricia Heaton.

I also catch 21 and Vantage Point.

The Dubai airport is interesting. There are date trees in the airport, as well as UFO-shaped "chandeliers". There are false façades and paintings of old Arabic palace entrances, and many, many well-known and not so well-known American food-chain outlets. And one can't help but mention the electric lights dressed up to look like wall-mounted torches.

The structure of the airport is such that to get to the atrium, one has to go through the security gates, which is an annoyance, especially if one might need to go back and forth between the ground and the first floors a few times.

Whatever the designers or critics may say about Dubai airport's "juxtaposition of the new against the old" or some such, in my opinion this is the most ridiculous airport I have seen.

To make matters worse, the airport is manned mostly by desis (Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, and Indians), and some Chinese. This probably explains the babudom manner in which it is run.

Anyhow, my flight is at 3.10 am, so I should get my boarding pass. At the connections window assigned to KLM, the clerk tells me that the next leg is operated by Kenya Airways, and thus I need to collect my ticket from them. At the Kenya Airways window, located about 250m from the KLM one, the clerk tells me that he does not see me in the system, and the flight is full. How's that possible, I ask him. After all, KLM issued me a confirmed ticket. He checks again using my eticket number, and repeats his earlier answer. If KLM issued the ticket, he tells me, then it's them that need to figure out what happens. I don't like the runaround, but for once decide to go back to the KLM window. The clerk checks his system, and yes, I am definitely on the KLM system. So, will he please tell the Kenya guy to issue my boarding pass, I ask him. Yes, he says, I should go and collect my pass from the Kenya window. So I go back there. The clerk still can not find me on the system. I tell him to call up the guy at the KLM window (I always note down the names and numbers of these folks), which he does. The confusion is so great, that the clerk from the KLM window comes down personally to help resolve the issue. When they can't figure it out, the clerk decides to call Kenya Airways (the clerks are all airport employees). His solution for me is that Kenya has now put me on standby. That's not good enough, I tell him, especially as he told me just a few minutes ago that the flight is fully booked. I demand to speak with a KLM employee. This is hard at this time of night - the only ones available are at the gates. So I go through the security and to a gate from which a KLM flight is scheduled to leave. There I speak to a KLM employee who makes a couple of calls and resolves the matter. But I'll be able to get my boarding pass only after midnight, he advises.

Thus, before going back up, I decide to grab a bite at the food court. At the Indian food outlet, I get some rice with Kadahi Paneer, which tastes like Shahi Paneer from the restaurants in Jama Masjid area in Delhi.

Click here to check out my pictures from Dubai airport of 10 Jul 2008.

On the way to Nairobi, I catch Flawless and Shutter, meaning that I don't sleep a wink through the entire journey.

The plane touches down in Nairobi soon after sunrise. The plane parks at some distance from the gate. Stepping out onto the ramp, I notice that the runways and gates are mostly empty - there's just a Virgin Atlantic plane parked in some distance, and another Kenya Airways one by it. In fact, the airport is so devoid of traffic that we walk down to the gate through a couple of taxiways; I am sure this would have been an offence in the United States under any traffic conditions.

The immigration desks are labeled to filter the passengers into specific groups, but evidently that's just an "on paper" exercise. Kenya issues visas on arrival, so it take me a while to get through the queue and past immigration even though I already have a Kenyan visa.

I am picked up at the airport by an employee of my guide company. Since the shuttles to Moshi leave early in the morning, I'll have to spend the day in Nairobi. I am pretty tired, so I think some sleep would do me good.

My host tells me that a father-son duo, also from London, has also arrived in Nairobi. They'll be taking the coach to Moshi tomorrow with me, and today our host is taking them to the Nairobi National Park. Hmm...Giraffes and Zebras, eh? Well, forget sleep then. Let's pick those two up from their hotel and get on with it.

The traffic in Nairobi is pretty crazy, and the driving insane - not unlike that in New Delhi. In fact, it is so bad that on many of the pavements, rocks have been strewn so that the vehicles wouldn't drive on them.

Most cars around are Isuzu and Toyota, but it is not unusual to see a Maruti. Similarly, while most trucks are either Isuzu or Mercedes, there are several made by Tata as well.

My host tells me that the largest hotel chain is owned by an Indian family.

I also see several signs in Chinese - an indication of the growing Chinese influence in Africa.

Surprisingly, I don't see any Indian or Chinese people in the streets. Quite puzzling, really!

After going through some back-alleys to avoid rush-hour traffic, we reach a stretch marked with the sign, "Welcome to the safest road in Nairobi". As we enter it through the traffic calming measure, I notice the Embassy of Israel on my right. That makes sense.

The hotel of my English groupies is located close to the embassy. We pick them up, and off we go to the Nairobi National Park, which, apparently is the only National Park in the world, located inside a country's capital.

The English pair is quite jolly and good-natured. The father is a physics professor at a university. He was born in Bistriţa, but moved to Vienna when he was very young. And then he moved to England at the age of 12.

The daughter is an in-training architect with a free-spirit. It is she who convinced her father to accompany her on the trip.

We enjoy the national park, and have lunch at The Ranger restaurant. On the way back, we check out The Carnivore.

They ask me if I am using Malarone; they are evidently very concerned about Malaria. "No", I tell them, "but I did buy a mosquito-repellent spray from Superdrug."

The professor starts into a discourse on how dangerous the malaria virus is.

"Well, first of all plasmodium is a protozoan, not a virus," I don't even know why I do this, "and secondly, I think the 'cure' might do more harm than good, considering the probability of contracting malaria."

Thankfully, the discussion turns to more pleasant topics, and we don't end the day on a sour note.

Click here to check out my pictures from Nairobi of 11 Jul 2008.

In the morning we are picked up from the hotel. On the way to the shuttle-station, the guy issues me a return ticket.

"So how much do I owe you?"

"$50," he tells me.

"You've got to be kidding me!"

He tries to tell me that $25 each way is actually a discounted price. That is sort of true since The Riverside Shuttle advertises its rates online as $40 each way. But I know that this is a rip-off. The "coach" is essentially a battered 24-seater minibus with worn-out seats and cracked windscreen. Don't get me wrong - I don't mind riding in a battered bus at all; what I do mind is paying that much for it.

Bobby Shuttle is another ripoff, but even they are cheaper ($20 each way) than Riverside. What's more, they have video available in the coaches to provide some entertainment.

In my experience, the best company to use is Scandinavia Express. For $13-15 each way, you can travel in a coach that is airconditioned and has a WC built in.

If you are travelling with a group, another economical option is to hire a vehicle from Regional Luxury Shuttle, who charge about $80-100 for 8 passengers.

Anyhow, there is not much I can do at this point in time, and so I hand him Kenyan Shillings worth about $43, which is all I have. He can take it or leave it; I'm sure if he refuses, I can easily find another coach company that will be happy to take me to Moshi at a lower price.

On the way to Moshi, I am amazed to see a heavy transport truck with the American flag and Barak Obama's portrait painted on it.

I also see a tank truck, driven by native African man accompanied by another African man for helper, with a large Sikh Khanda painted on it. This is especially interesting because a majority of transport trucks in India are driven by Sikhs.

We have to take a detour onto a dirt road for a long stretch as the highway is under construction. This seems to be a massive project, and will probably make the journey between Nairobi and Moshi smoother and faster. But till it's completed, enjoy the huge clouds of dust generated by the passing vehicles.

The sides of the road are lined with acacia trees. Many of them house entire colonies of weaver birds. I don't see any birds around at the moment, but the trees are laden with nests. While many are just single or double bedroom apartments, there are quite a few huge mansions with several bedrooms. It reminds me of the infamous Chambal Valley basin in Madhya Pradesh.

Every now and then we pass Masaai shepherds, not a minority of whom are children younger than 10 years.

We cross the border at Namanga. Like Kenya, Tanzania also grants visas at the border. I already have a Tanzanian visa, so the processing is somewhat faster.

The "no man's land" is that just in name, for it is populated by numerous folks vending everything from handicrafts to water to even currency. The way the hawkers hound you reminds you of the Istanbul station in Murder on the Orient Express.

Funnily, you experience the wit of the Tanzanian people as soon as you cross over into the country; right next to the border gate is the "First and Last Hotel".

We change coaches in Arusha. Apparently, a substantial number of people travel to Arusha from Nairobi and therefore the number of buses needed to transport the passengers from Arusha to Moshi is significantly smaller than those that depart from Nairobi with people whose final destination could be either Arusha or Moshi. This is all fine and good, but I can't for the life of me understand why they can't just sort the people onto different buses in Nairobi itself, and save the trouble of changing buses in Arusha. Anyhow, that's how the system works, and that's that.

All the signs on the way are in Kiswahili, which originated in these parts. I had never paid any attention to the language, but the signs set me thinking. It is incredible that the language is written in the Roman Script - it is as if it is transcribed in English. I can not believe that this is the native script of the language, and there can be only two explanations for what I see - the horrific explanation and the unlikely explanation. The unlikely explanation is that the language was passed on from generation to generation in oral form, and there were no written records till the English colonized East Africa. The other explanation is that the colonizers destroyed the records of the civilization, and forced the adoption of the Roman script either directly or indirectly.

Today's Kiswahili borrows liberally from Arabic, English and even Hindi/ Gujarati. For instance, they use the Arabic word Wazir to refer to ministers. Similarly, money or currency is referred to as pesa, which is how Gujaratis would refer to it. For a casual observer like me it is hard to determine whether these inclusions are based on common ancient phylogenetics or a result of modern influences.

As we get closer to Moshi, I am quite taken by how dramatically the terrain has changed. We have come from the barren red land of Kenya to the darker shrubbery to the lush green forestry on dark soil and finally to large fields of sunflower and maize in just a few hours.

The hotel is just outside town - I'm told about a half hour walk away. It looks like a nice place, with beautiful vegetation and cheerful, helpful people. When we arrive, it is quite busy. In fact, it won't be wrong to say that it is teeming with activity; it's probably as crowded as any hotel in Zanzibar.

The food at the in-house restaurant doesn't seem great, but apparently they plan to have a barbecue tonight. My companions think it's a great idea, but because I am vegetarian and because I am very hungry, I'm not so sure. We decide to check into our rooms and to meet up later to decide.

After keeping my stuff in the room, I return to the reception to ask if there is an Internet facility. There is one, I am told. In fact, literally there is one. There is one computer connected to the Internet, and the hotel charges $1 per 10 minutes for its use. Oh, and it's currently being used. Based on the feedback of a couple of residents, it is mighty slow as well. Hmm...

As I am departing from the reception, a waiter comes over and tells me that the gentlemen over at table 3 would like to see me.

The wiry man is an Irish-born energy-sector professional currently living in Jakarta. Sitting next to him is his teenaged son, who is on his way to college in Texas. They have just returned from their successful summit attempt.

They are accompanied a big guy from Northern Ireland who, apparently, will be a part of my group for the climb. He attempted the mountain last year via the easier Marangu route, but developed extreme altitude sickness and had to turn back.

The teen is giddy over his achievement, and is full of good advice.

"Be prepared for throbbing headaches," he says, "and do not feel bad if you have to throw up."

Apparently, both his father and he threw up at the Stella Point.

"He was trying to race a group of Australians to the top," says the boy.

"Well, couldn't let the son beat me," the father says, "besides, how is it any different from any Saturday night."

Oh, the Irish! Always full of good cheer.

How about going out for dinner, someone suggests. That seems a great idea to everyone, since nothing at the hotel appears to be too appetizing.

We wait for my other two companion for a while, and then look for them, but in vain. So ultimately, the four of us take a cab to Indo Italiano Restaurant in Moshi town.

The place is jam-packed. But we get lucky and get seated within 5 minutes. That, however, is just the beginning. It takes forever (we didn't keep count, but somewhere between 70 and 90 minutes) for the food to arrive. But I have to say that the food is worth the wait. It is among the best, if not the best, Indian fare that I have tasted outside of India.

Also, while most places in town offer exchange rate of 1000 Tanzanian shillings to a dollar, Indo Italiano has honest rates for the day hung in plain sight (today it is 1160 shillings).

Apparently, Indo Italiano and The Sikh Union Club are the only two restaurants mentioned in the Moshi tourist brochure. And they are sister concerns, with common ownership.

Even otherwise, all major restaurants in town serve Indian cuisine. Oh, and The Coffee Shop is the favorite haunt for lunch.

Speaking of food, the teen tells me, on the mountain one can easily get bored of the same stale bread and oily eggs every day.

There is an Internet cafe across the street from the restaurant. It has several computers, acceptable speed, and a more reasonable rate at $1 per hour. Maybe should come here and use the Internet tomorrow.

Later in the night I watch a pirated copy of A Mighty Heart that I downloaded from the web and saved on my computer several months ago. While the movie has been widely panned, I like it. It's not very suspenseful, or dramatic, or thrilling, but I guess I like it in the same way that I like some documentaries that tell an interesting story.

I am woken up by the unremitting barking of dogs. They are barking as if alarmed by intruders. But it turns out that they are just plain annoyed by some drunk Americans who seem to get their kicks by teasing leashed dogs.

A rooster begins to crow almost two hours before sunrise, and keeps on crowing for several hours. I am a vegetarian and animal lover, but I'm sure that if it doesn't mend it's ways, it might end up as some tourist's dinner someday.

Most of the morning is spent in introduction to the guides and a generic briefing. During this I am told about the importance of hiking poles and headtorch, which I rent at a steep price of $10 each. Additionally, I rent a sleeping bag at the same price.

For lunch, my climbing group (the two Englishfolk and the Irish gentleman) decide to walk down to the highly recommended Coffee Shop in town. Since it's Sunday, however, the Coffee Shop is closed. Thus we end up at the Deli next door. This restaurant offers Indian, Indian Chinese and Japanese cuisines. The service is way better than Indo Italiano and the food is almost as good.

After lunch, while my companions decide to take a cab back to the hotel, I decide to take a walk around town. Since it's a Sunday, the market is closed, but street-vendors have set up their make-shift shops on every pavement, and they are hawking their wares: from pirated English and Hindi movies to sunglasses and clothes to home-remedies.

The town is choc-a-bloc with craft shops and curios. Additionally, almost anyone walking down the street could be carrying a bunch of paintings, under their arm, that they'd like to sell to you.

I am surprised to see a Hindu temple and a Sikh gurudwara in town, in addition to a mosque and a couple of churches. I have also seen several establishments with Indian-sounding names, but haven't seen any Indian people around so far. Anyhow, it's getting dark, and it's time to get back to the hotel.

Nevis - Day 2

It's already 10 am by the time I wake up, although one can't tell by looking out through the hostel's window; it's still relatively dark outside. Lovely Scottish weather, I think to myself and get ready, which doesn't take much time as the hostel is quiet and almost empty. As I am putting on my shoes the receptionist comes around; he's doing his morning rounds and tells me that it is 10.40 and that the check out time is 10 am.

"I'm just about done here"

"Cool"

It is very cloudy and there's a continuous drizzle. So I leave my bag, including my laptop, camera and phone, with the hostel receptionist. I take the jacket with me, hoping that it will protect me from the impending downpour.

I didn't get anything to eat last night, so am pretty hungry, and walk to the cosy restaurant down the street. As I do so, I realize that the pain in my calves has aggravated, giving me a lumbering walk.

As it turns out, the restaurant is closed on Mondays. Hmm...I lumber back to the little shop next door to the hostel, and buy the only bar of chocolate that they have left. I also buy a half litre bottle of water; it should be enough in this cool weather, and besides I can fit it in the inside pocket of my jacket.

Somehow not nearly as many people seem to be climbing up the Ben today, which, of course, is no surprise, given the weather conditions.

I still don't enjoy the stairs, but take comfort in the fact that I know exactly when they will end.

By the time I reach midway, it is raining cats and dogs and I am drenched. My jacket, which is technically my brother's jacket, which was supposed to save me from the rain is evidently not water-proof and becomes an additional load of water-soaking cotton-wool. Additionally, I am wearing old baggy denim trousers which are large enough to hold two of me, and having soaked in the rain, they aren't exactly light. So, it's getting harder, and I'm thanking my stars that I didn't bring my backpack today. Although there are very few people on the mountain today, I meet quite a few that are turning back.

About half an hour from the summit, I sit down to take a rest, panting profusely. A Spanish family that I overtook several minutes ago catches up with me. I must look pretty pitiful, for the head of the family asks me if I would like to have some water. I accept gratefully and gulp down a mouthful. I'm alive again! Then there are no stops till the top.

While I had spent quite a while at the summit yesterday, today I decide to start my descent within 5 minutes. It's still raining heavily, and the strong cold wind is making my wet bandana feel like it's slicing through my skull.

For a while, every step counts. At one point, I have a very brief giddy spell between two steps. I know I must descend quickly and get out of the high winds and pouring rain. So I hurry down the path as fast as I dare; the path is loose gravel made even more slippery by the rains, and don't want to get injured in the practice match and be disqualified from the final.

After what seems a long, long time, I finally reach the snow patch. Like yesterday, I slide down on my bums, paddling with my feet. Unlike yesterday, though, upon reaching the base of my snow-slide, I pick up a handful of the snow and shove it into my mouth. I remember having read somewhere that the snow won't harm you if you let it melt in your mouth, and that's exactly what I do. For the second time in the day, water has revived me. So I figure it's possible to get dehydrated even in cold and wet weather such as this. And I figure that that's what's been happening to me.

I diligently keep going down. While the slopes are all wet and there are puddles on the path, the incessant rain has finally stopped. I feel less battered, but quite tired. I think I need more water.

"I hope you have a change of clothes down there," says a voice behind me. I turn around to see a kindly, bearded, old gentleman in mountaineering gear.

"Yeah! But right now I am more concerned about finding the spring...need some water."

"Oh!"

So he offered me water from his backpack, and I took a sip. Third lifeline of the day.

Withing 10 minutes, I reach the little waterfall. So I climb up the rocks and drink from the cool, pure flow.

That's all I need. But the Gods seem to like me. They make the wet slippery terrain fall behind me, and make the sun shine on the remaining descent route.

On the way down I pass by a trio of boy scouts - aged around 10, 13, and 14 respectively - asking if they are doing alright. They seem to be just glad to be back, as am I. The youngest one expected some sort of a concessions stand at the top; like me, they haven't even had breakfast. So I give the little guy my chocolate bar as I know it was the last bar at the only shop for miles.

Back at the hostel, I have to wait for 10 minutes or so before the receptionist appears. I collect my backpack from him and request him to call a cab. Next, I
find the restroom and change into dry tshirt and shorts. I wear my shoes again, but without socks.

Soon the taxi arrives and takes me to Morrison's/ station. Since my bus is at 7.10pm, and it's just 4.4.40 right now, I decide to wait at the Morrison's Cafe. Good thing too, as I am really hungry.

At the cafe, I find a corner table where I can plug in my laptop, and take my shoes off and keep them to dry in the light of the setting but still warm sun.

I gorge down a cheese mushroom omelet and tomato soup as soon as they are brought to me, and promptly get another tomato soup, beans on toast and mint tea.

The Slovakian waitress thinks I am from somewhere in the Caribbean, which I guess would explain the long hair and the bandana. The bandana! Hmmm...time to take that off.

As I am working on my nice mint tea, and an Excel spreadsheet, a moustached man comes over and tells me that I can't plug in my laptop in the store's electric socket. I think he is joking till he takes away the waiter in the corner and explains him that they can't let me plug in my computer as otherwise I'd never leave.

What an idiot! The cafe is mostly empty, so there's no real reason he should want me to leave. In any case, if he wanted me to leave, my shoes could have been an easier target. Anyhow, his burning up doesn't matter to me - I have enough battery in the laptop to last me a couple of hours, and I decide that I'll go down heavy on him if he comes after my shoes. Fortunately or unfortunately, he doesn't.

At about 5 minutes to 7, I pick up a plastic bag from one of the tills to put my shoes, and walk down to the bus station. The bus departs at the appointed time.

When the bus stops for a toilet and smoking break, I take the opportunity to get some fresh air, and step out of the bus, still barefeet.

"Can you walk like that in the city?" asks a guy.

"Not really. It's just that my shoes got wet on the mountain today."

"Oh, yeah, I can understand that. You climbed Ben Nevis, eh? Once the strong winds flattened out my tent there."

After a moment, he asks, "So, are you from Peru?"

He obviously drew inspiration from a Cordillera de Los Andes Peru tshirt, a gift from a Peruvian friend, which I am wearing. That said, I've never seen a Peruvian guy wear a tshirt that says Peru (we are not talking about sports jerseys).

"No, from India."

"Wow! So this must be like a molehill for you."

"Well, it' small compared to the peaks in the Himalayas, but it's not as if I've climbed all the ones in the Himalayas, so..." I smile.

In Glasgow, I show the driver my mobile ticket and he tells me that it was for yesterday. What? I check the text message and realize that he is right. Just goes to show how thoroughly I planned this trip.

"For £15 I could fix you up," the driver offers.

"Well, I have £10", I open my wallet, "and some coins." I say, pulling out 3-4 pound coins.

"£10 is fine."

And so I reach London in the morning, barefeet and all.

Nevis - Day 1

There are no direct coaches or trains from London to Fort William. So I decide that it would be best to take the first coach in the morning to Fort William from Glasgow. Since the direct coach from London that reaches Glasgow first in the morning gets there 5 minutes after the first coach to Fort William departs, I decide to book my journey through Birmingham. This way, I'll reach Glasgow with enough time on hand to catch the Fort William coach.

I decide to call my folks in India before leaving London, and somehow that conversation lasts a while, meaning that I am late for my 7pm for Birmingham. Further, after spending a little while at the city bus stop I discover that the buses have been diverted away from this road. So I run down to Westminster and catch a bus from there, and upon alighting at the Victoria underground station, I run to the Victoria coach station. I arrive at the station at exactly 7 pm (or maybe a minute before that), and do not see my coach at the assigned gate. So I go out to ask the uniformed guy outside the door.

As I am waiting for him to get off his walkie-talkie, I see my coach pulling out from behind another one, and wave the driver to stop. But he doesn't and merrily pulls away. This grinds my gears a bit, and it further riles me that the uniformed guy with the walkie-talkie refuses stop the driver, and tells me that he can't change my ticket to get me on the next coach at 7.30. And to get onto that coach, he tells me, I'll have to go to the ticket counter and buy a new ticket.

The ticket counter is crowded. The queue is long and slow-moving and there is no way I can get to the counter before 7.30, meaning the exact same thing could repeat itself. There is no point getting the 8pm ticket as then I'd miss my connection to Glasgow and thus miss my next connection to Fort William. So I go back to the gate. I need to try to get an on-the-spot from the driver. Till the last moment it seems like it will work out, as there is one no-show, but then the guy turns up, and I curse National Express under my breath.

So I go back to the ticket counter queue, which is now even longer, and wait for my turn while munching on a greasy vegetable samosa bought from one of the concession stands. I explain to the booking clerk that I am trying to get to Glasgow in time to catch my 7am Citylink coach to Fort William, and he books for me a seat on Silver Choice, which reaches Glasgow a full 30 minutes before the departure of the Citylink coach. God bless him!

After I freshen up at the Glasgow station, I realize that my cell battery is down, and is not even sufficient to power up the phone for a few seconds. This is great as while buying the tickets online, I had opted for a mobile ticket, meaning that the only ticket I have for the next part of my journey is stored as a text on my cellphone.

Nonetheless, I board the bus and explain the situation to the driver, giving him my name so that he can cross-check. He checks his list and nods upon seeing my name there, but insists that he needs to see my ticket number.

So I tell him to hold on and take a seat right behind him. With fingers crossed, I boot up my laptop, which had something like 7% battery life remaining last night, hooking my phone up with it through the USB-firewire cable in the hope that that will provide enough juice to switch it on and show the driver the text message. Thankfully, the plan works and I am able to kick back and relax till we arrive in Fort William at around half past 10.

There are no cabs at the taxi-stand. So I walk into the Morrison's store and buy a couple of Kitkats and a Scottish tablet. The Kitkats I save for the hike, but finish off the tablet as I wait for the cab. Finally one arrives and takes me to the Youth Hostel.

As I pay for the night, the receptionist tells me that I'd be able to check in only after 1.30pm. That's fine, as I plan to climb up right away without wasting any time.

Although the last time around I had vowed not to carry up my laptop, I decide that for this climb it would be good practice to carry up my backpack and everything in it - the laptop, a 2L bottle of water, a change of clothes, toiletries, and a jacket. The bandana I wear right away.

At the foot of the path I meet a pair of middle-aged Scottish men from Fife who comment on how far away from home I am. Well, I now live in London, I tell them, and thus not quite that far.

With that the flight of stairs begins. It is a nice, bright day, just as the forecast on weather.com promised, although there are clouds on the mountains.

One would think that in the better weather conditions the climb would have become easier, but it hasn't. The first half hour is still pretty hard. I don't like these stairs.

Then I see a young guy with a dog on a leash.

"Boy! If this is where you walk your dog every day, then hats off."

"Of course not," he says and we laugh.

There's a German girl vacationing with her friends. And then other. And another.

I don't know if there's something about this mountain, or about German girls, but there seem to be an awful many of them around here.

There is a 60-odd years old Scottish couple taking a slow walk.

Next, I pass by a Czech girl. She is vacationing with her boyfriend, and climbing the hill with him too, but he is somewhere far behind.

As I overtake her, I notice a dancing cloud on the mountain. So I stop to videotape. It is amazing. For about 15 minutes, the cloud forms, dissipates and prances & waltzes around again and again till becomes a thick fog.

On the way up, there are more German girls and German couples. There is also a smattering of Irish and Scottish teens and late-middle-aged folks, some of them with dogs.

It is interesting to see that one needs to cross a little patch of snow on the way, even on this summer day.

Closer to the summit, I run into the Czech girl again. She is going down.

"You are FAST," I say, "already climbing down."

Not the case, she tells me. Apparently, her boyfriend is feeling exhausted, and she needs to go to him and help him walk to the summit. Hmmm...

The peak (Scots would call it a Munro) is quite unlike a peak; it looks more like a plateau strewn with igneous rocks. The highest point is marked by an Ordnance survey trig point placed atop a large cairn. There are ruins of the old observatory around the middle of the plateau, and right by it on another large cairn is a storm shelter hut made of stone. This hut was airlifted here from Corpach in 1991. The top of the hut is higher than the trig point, making it the highest man-made structure in the British Isles.

Because of the extremely poor visibility I was unable to experience the Ben fully the last time around, and it feels great to see all this so vividly.

The view from the top is beautiful, and to add to the joy, the sun decides to make a rare appearance, albeit just for a minute or two.

As I am soaking it all in, two brothers aged 13-14 jostle up the cairn. I laugh.

"Bet you guys ran all the way up here."

"No, we slogged"

They live in Philadelphia and are vacationing in England and Scotland, as well as visiting their grandfather.

While I am chatting with them their mother catches up. She is Indian. She last came up here when she was 20, and now has come back to show her kids where she'd been. That must feel wonderful, I think.

"Oh, that's a great idea, I should have brought an Indian flag too," she points to my bandana.

On the way down, I want to wrap it up quickly. So much so, that when I reach the snow patch, instead of carefully lumbering through it like all the other civilized people around me, I just jump so as to land on my backside, and slide down all the way, paddling with my feet to direct and accelerate my motion.

And I run most of the way down. It just feels great to step from rock to rock. It' fun, it's fast, and I think it's safer too, as in stepping wide, one widens the base under one's center of gravity.

"Oh, you are faster than the wind," chirps a Bavarian girl I had met earlier at the summit. I laugh.

At the little waterfall, I drink from the cool stream and set down to rest. And as a few people (including the Bavarian couple) pass by me, I mawk (mock hawk) fresh Scottish spring water. After resting for a couple of minutes, I continue my descent.

The Bavarian couple are very jolly, and we engage in banter. I tell them that I had to shut my spring water business down as there no takers.

"Well, people are hungry...you should sell food. That might work better," says the girl.

"Yeah, I could sell some Bavarian food here, and then no one would climb up...they'd eat, and the lie down to sleep."

I tell them that I plan to climb up again tomorrow, and the guy thinks it would be great if I can get out of bed tomorrow - my muscles will be so sore, he thinks. I hope he's wrong.

Walking down the stairs, I realize that for me climbing down is harder than climbing up. While climbing up, I am moving towards a goal, an objective - to reach the top; while climbing down, I'm thinking, "Oh I've completed the task, send a chopper and take me home already."

Just before getting to the hostel, instead of going onto the bridge, I jump over the fences off the track and walk down to the little stream. It feels so good that I lie down there on the pebbles in the shade of the tall, green trees, with my backpack under my head. Before I know it, my eyes start getting heavy.

By the time I wake up, the sun has gone down behind the mountains and the birds are flying back home. So I get up and start walking towards the hostel, and suddenly sense a slight pain in my calves. Hopefully a good night's rest will fix that.

Click here to check out my pictures from Ben Nevis of 06 Jul 2008.

It's not a Warning/ Disclaimer

Scenes of a Sexual Nature is a delightful, light, slice-of-life, English comedy set in Hampstead Heath. The screenplay criss-crosses, mostly smoothly, through the conversations of several pairs of people, one ordinary afternoon in the park.

It doesn't offer grand drama, overpowering romance or an unforgettable love story. Instead, it is more like a collection of warm short stories. Sunny, light, simple, funny, interesting, charming and mildly philosophical is how I would describe the movie. It's a low budget fare, but it doesn't need extraordinary production values; in fact, the low-budget feel makes it all the more endearing.

Oh, and don't worry about the name - this is not a graphic film in any way. Check it out - you won't regret this one.

They f*** you up

Virtually the entire cast, in addition to the producer and director, of Mum & Dad was present at the world premier of the film at Filmhouse. The house was almost full, which in my book is another unusual happening for a movie being screened after midnight.

This film is the first Microwave feature of Film London (Microwave is a micro-budget - under £100,000 - movie project). At first this surprised me as I wouldn't have expected their first film to be in the horror genre. But then again, they say that horror is the easiest/ safest genre to start off with, so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised at all.

Mum & Dad is the story of Lena, a Polish immigrant working at Heathrow, who, having missed the last bus home, ends up at chirpy colleague Birdie's house for what she assumes is just a sleepover. She is promptly knocked unconsious and transported into a living hell. As it turns out, Birdie's "parents" are no ordinary people; they are an abhorrently twisted pair, perhaps loosely based on the Wests, that unleash horror beyond poor Lena's worst nightmares.

The rest of the movie is pretty much a carbon-copy of almost every captivity-ordeal-desperation-dash horror flick ever made. Sheil does not attempt to break any molds; there are hardly any genuine chills here. However, he does set out to shock and some of his graphic imagery may delight sickness-and-gore fans, while offending many others in the audience.

The biggest shocks, of course, come not from the graphic nature of the movie, but from the implied banality of the nasty and horrific acts in the house. In fact, the bright sparks of the movie are in the sly satire and dark humor, which have unfortunately been used sparingly; it would be nice to see more of that.

It's great the way Sheil uses juxtaposition of banalities from everyday lives of regular families with his "special" family. It's a closely-knit, principled household with family values, with a generous dose of gruesome thrown in. Taken out of the context of the sadistic milieu, the dialogs might seem like what you might hear in your own house.

In terms of story, the premise is interesting, but I would have been so much more interested in Birdie's story than in Lena's. It would still be following a formula, but the transformation of Lena into Birdie would have added quite a bit of depth and chill-factor.

The acting is mostly good. Dido Miles is efficiently chilling as Mum. Perry Benson's Dad is an everyday familyman with some horrific quirks, although I can't help but think that he would probably be a good addition to Simon Peggesque comedy movies. Ainsley Howard and Toby Alexander frankly don't have all that much to do, but they are professional with what they are asked to do.

The bulk of the film rests on the slender shoulders of Olga Fedori. In the beginning, she seems to have been miscast - she is too sophisticated to be a janitor at Heathrow. And her accent is certainly more American than Polish, or what's stereotypically associated with Polish immigrants, which would have been fine had the director not foolishly stuck to the word of the script and actually identified the accent as Polish in the film.

Thankfully, Lena enters the house of horrors within the first few minutes, and once there Olga comes into her element and shines; she has excellent physical and emotive acting capabilities and she uses them well. If she can further develop accent/ dialect imitation, she is destined to go places.

Sound leaves much to be desired - it's simply not up to snuff for this day and age. That said, this IS a micro-budget movie, and they probably had many demands on whatever limited resources they had. I love the excellent way the traditional song Nine Hundred Miles has been used. You can check it out in the trailer.

An editorial gaffe strangely reminds me of Hitchcock's Oscar-nominated North By Northwest. In one sequence towards the end of the movie, Eva Marie Saint's character (Eve Kendall) is supposed to shoot someone, and takes out a gun out of her purse. As she does so, a boy, sitting in the restaurant with his back towards Eva Marie, covers his ears in anticipation of the shot though his character had no way of knowing about the impending shooting; he had obviously sat through quite a few takes. And somehow, this was the take that made it into the film.

In Mum & Dad, there is a defining moment quite early in the film when Lena is hit on the head and is knocked unconscious. Now the assailant comes from behind her, and Lena has no way of knowing what's coming to her, but Olga flinches in anticipation just before being hit; like the boy from North By Northwest, she had probably gone through some rehearsals/ takes. Why this particular take made it, we'll never know. They even use this same take in the trailer.

Overall, if you are a die-hard gore fan, and have nothing better to do on a Saturday night, you might want to pick up the DVD from your local store.

Quotation of the Day

"S'il Vous Plaît sounds just like See, Woo, Play."
- yours truly The Maverick

Turning Back Time

After a long while we spoke today
Today the sun shone after long
Everything is alright in the world
My head is humming an old song

All was beautiful, good and pure
Roads were short, weather was fine
My heart, it pines for you, says
O my dear, let's turn back time

Let's become strangers once again
And meet again in a strange land
Let's start over, and once again
For first time let me kiss your hand

Let's discover the sights and sounds
Let's travel together on the train
Maybe under one umbrella we'll soak
Once again, in the pouring rain

And once again on that winding road
Maybe you will call out my name
That's all the fame I would need
Somethings would remain the same

And perhaps some would change too
Things'd be better, nothing to rue
Maybe I won't make the mistakes
Maybe you'd love me even if I do

Maybe we could start from there
And create our beautiful domain
We can not be strangers anymore
Let's meet again, let's meet again

Belgique

Eurolines runs an overnight coach service from London Victoria to Brussels, which suited me perfectly for quick getaway. The coach deposited me at Gare de Nord at 5.30 am just as the city was beginning to shake out of its slumber.

I wandered around the station a bit before finally heading south on Boulevard Jacqmain. The Grote Markt is almost right behind the Bourse. To me, the area beween the Bourse and the Grote Markt seemed to be intensely Greek.

The Grote Markt was almost entirely empty when I reached there. The city’s largest and most famous square is a world heritage site surrounded by Hôtel de Ville (Town Hall), L'ange (The Angel), and Broodhuis (Bread House).

Hôtel de Ville is built in Gothic style, complete with a 96 m tall tower on which Archangel Michael, the patron saint of Brussels, stands and watches over the town. It also houses the Tourist Information Center. Broodhuis, which used to be a bakers’ outlet, is now a Museum better known as King’s House. Interestingly, the only diamond jeweler on the square is Indian, not an Antwerp Jew.

Next, like any first-timer, I headed to the Manneken Pis, the 24-inches tall naked and urinating bronze boy. In fact, in Brussels it would seem that all roads lead to him, since almost all road-directions include directions to the mannequin.

The legend goes that the troops of the two year-old Duke Godfrey II of Leuven put him up on a tree to inspire them in a battle against the Berthouts. Perched in the tree, he urinated on the troops of the Berthouts, who ended up losing the battle.

I have also heard an alternative version that is funnier and also makes more sense: While Brussels was under siege in the 14th century, a little Brussels lad named Juliaanske chanced upon the enemy plot to blow away the city walls. The smart little one urinated on the fuse and the charge, thus saving the city.

While the Jérôme Duquesnoy statue itself is from 1619, it is said that it was preceded by a similar stone statue that delivered alcohol, and stood in the same place. (Naturally then, both the restaurant-bars next door are named after Manneken Pis)

The inscription under the statue says, “In petra exhaltavit me, et nunc exaltavi caput meum super inimicos meos,” which is funny because the statue has been stolen numerous times.

In 1747 after the Manneken Pis was recovered from a strip club, where the French soldiers that had stolen him left him, Louis XV offered him a costume. Since then the Manneken's wardrobe has grown to include several hundred costumes that he dons on the directions of an organization called The Friends of Manneken-Pis.

While there, I also discovered that there are similar statues in Geraardsbergen, Hasselt, Ghent and a French village called Broxeele (I don’t understand French, but my sense is that Brussels and Broxeele would probably be pronounced identically in French). In fact, Geraardsbergen says that its Manneken Pis is older than the one in Brussels, a claim that Brussels naturally vehemently rejects.

There is a nice little waffle shop just a few meters up the Rue de L’Étuve that offers amazing fresh waffles. Interestingly, the chocolate shop right next door to the statue is at least managed exclusively by Chinese.

The souvenir shops all over the town have collectible metal and resin effigies, keyrings, corkscrews and chocolates shaped like Manneken Pis, which is hardly surprising considering that this little boy is Brussels' most famous landmark and icon.

Also quite naturally, there are homages to the Smurfs and Tintin all around the town. And if one is vigilant, one can also notice some references to Asterix. Surprisingly though, M. Poirot is conspicuous only by his absence. Like all good pollsters, I didn't ask anyone about it but am speculating that perhaps the Belgians never embraced Englishwoman Agatha Christie's fictional detective as their own.

Back at the Grote Markt, life had started buzzing. Almost right in the middle of the square, some people were setting up what seemed to be a flower market, and on closer inspection turned out to be a flowering-plant market. The stewardesses had starting scribbling the day’s menus on the menu boards outside the restaurants. And some tourists had already started clicking pictures.

Brussels is an island of French in an ocean of Dutch/Flemish. In the lower town, French is almost the exclusive tongue used. That said, most shopkeepers around Grote Markt and Manneken Pis do also converse in English, a consequence of having to deal with a large number of tourists on regular basis.

As one makes one's way through the Rue des Bouchers, which is packed with restaurants as the name suggests, one is told of a female counterpart to the Manneken Pis.

Call me a sexist, but somehow the concept of a naked boy taking a leak in public sounds less obscene than that of a similarly attired girl squatting to do the same.

Located at the end of Impasse de la Fidélité, which is marked mainly by the blue signs of Delirium Café bearing a pink baby elephant, Denis-Adrien Debouvrie’s Jeanneke Pis statue/fountain was installed in 1987 as, one assumes, a gender equality statement. She is also geographically a counterpoint to Manneken Pis, being located as she is about the same distance away from Grote Markt in the opposite direction.

Jeanneke Pis is much bigger than Manneken Pis, though. The statue itself has about the same height as Manneken Pis does, but since Jeanneke is squatting, she is probably about a meter tall. Therefore, proportionally she is probably eight times the size of Manneken Pis in terms of volume. Notice, I didn’t say “in terms of bronze used”; that’s because Jeanneke Pis is made of limestone.

Once you have traversed your way back through what I call the “Food Lane”, and emerge at Place Agora, you’ll find an underground market at Grasmarkt. The stalls in this market sell everything from beads, clothes and shoes to luggage to store the beads, clothes and shoes. I think of this market as a miniature version of Palika Bazar in New Delhi’s Connaught Circus, not the least because quite a few of the shopkeepers are Desis and Tibetans.

From the Grasmarkt it is a short walk on Rue de la Montagne to the Cathédral and Musée. The building is impressive as are its numerous stained glass windows. While I was there, a choir of little schoolchildren sang a motet enthusiastically and beautifully.

Oh, one thread that I caught there, but am yet to explore is the involvement of Hungary and Hungarian church in Belgium. There were breadcrumbs to pick up all over the church, not the smallest being a large chart detailing "Medieval Dynastic Saint-Cult in Hungary"

Considering my day done, I headed north, past the Opera and the Place des Martyrs.

My day was hardly done though, as I ended up chatting till 3 am with a bunch of people that just gravitated into the group. There were the three Americans, of respectively Korean, Chinese and American ethnicities, who had been out “doing Europe” for about six weeks, and were returning to Los Angeles the next morning. There was the Chinese academic doing research on what makes people happy. There was the unusually quiet Spanish guy from Madrid.

And of course, there was a Canadian figure-skater who, having graduated from college last year, had spent the last six months in Croatia and was headed to Bucuresti to do some volunteer work for 2 weeks. On her way from Toronto she had stopped over in London for a couple of days to see a friend, and had had her luggage stolen, and yet had soldiered on to Croatia where she did an au pair on a farm.

It was in this esteemed gathering that I learned that the only reason anyone would want to visit Brussels is the beer. Compared to the Belgian beer, Budweiser tastes, to use a direct quote, “like piss”. This might well be the case, as these were the strongest beers I had seen anywhere. While most beers available worldwide have somewhere between 3.5% and 5% alcohol by volume (7% to 10% proof) and the ones that have 5.5% alcohol are considered extra strong, I actually saw beers with up to 17.5% alcohol, and was told that it went up to even 20% for some beers.

The next day, while I did check out the Jardin Botanique, I spent most of my time in the upper town.

The most imposing structure, of course, is the Palais de Justice, the Law Courts of Brussels. Described as the biggest secular building constructed in the 19th century, the Palais was built using money from Leopold II's Congo Free State.

Straight down from Place Poelaert on Rue de la Régence lies the Petit Sablon, a pretty little garden surrounded by 48 bronze statues representing different guilds. The flowers and fountains apparently have been an inspiration to local artists, and I found at least one girl drawing on the beauty to write poetry in French.

Right behind the garden is Parc d’Egmont, that can be reached through the stairs about 50m to the south on Wolstraat. While this is a bigger park, it is more of a green field than a garden, and not quite worth a visit, unless you are planning on an afternoon siesta.

Just a short way further down from Petit Sablon on Rue de la Régence is the Musea Voor Schone Kunsten, followed by Place Royale. Place Royale provides the entrance to the cathedral of Palais Royal. The church is much smaller inside than it looks from outside, though it does house two splendid paintings: Venite Ad Me (Come to me) and Consummatum Est (It’s over).

When I was visiting, the outside steps of the building were serving as an outdoor studio for a class of some young artists who, I assume, were drawing inspiration from the excellent views of lower town afforded.

From there I took the side alley that opened into Brederodestraat and followed it all the way down to Troonplein. As you might have guessed, I was headed to the European Parliament building a short walk down the Rue du Luxembourg. While it is not the most impressive glass and steel structure I’ve seen, I quite liked the modern architecture.

Considering that the European Parliament is located here, it is not surprising that this part of town is quite cosmopolitan.

By circling around Parc Leopold using the pathway starting immediately to the right of the EU Parliament building, one can reach the tiny Museum of Natural History. The Jubilee Park and Museum of Military History are located a short way down on Rue Belliard, but I decided to skip the Jubilpark, which seemed as unexciting as the Parc Leopold.

Instead, I headed back towards the city center on Rue de la Loi. The surprise encounter on the way was Bank of Baroda, an Indian regional bank, before I reached Palais de la Nation. While the building itself is not massive or highly ornate, it is located next to Parc de Bruxelles, which is home to characteristic statues. This peculiar style focuses in a great deal of detail on the bust part of the statue, and chisels out the rest of the body in rough, eroded stone.

I was also lucky to reach Parc de Bruxelles at a time when the park fountain was dressed in a rainbow. It was quite something, I have to say.

My last stop on the way back was the Congresplein, erected in the memory of the unknown soldier.

Overall, Brussels works very hard to maintain its vintage “character” and is quite a beautiful city, but if you are tourist, it is not more than a one-day destination. I spent about two half-days there, and was able to absorb most of the sights and sounds of the city. And I was essentially just walking around! If you use public transportation, and plan your trip, it should definitely take less time to “do” Brussels.

Since I normally prefer a laid-back attitude of gradually discovering the nature and character of cities and their people, the above statements and advice might seem quite uncharacteristic. But the fact remains that Brussels just didn’t quite pique my curiosity enough.

The most amusing incident of the trip came at the fag-end. I had reached the Eurolines office at Gare de Nord a little early and was waiting to check-in when something caught my attention. I thought my ears caught the sound of “…prezece…” being uttered, though I’d like to believe that I had sub-consciously heard substantially more than that before venturing out to ask: “Ești Român?”

The middle-aged gentleman at the receiving end of my query was startled out of the conversation with his companion. And now both of them were looking at me with an unwavering expressionless gaze.

Maybe I hadn’t gotten through, I thought, and repeated the question. And it was then that I saw him give, almost nervously it seemed, the slightest of nods, which I had noticed the first time around but dismissed as my imagination.

I suppose that it was only logical for him to ask, “Și ești Român?”, however ridiculous it might have seemed.

“Nu, Indien”

“Locueşti în Brusel?” he asked, or at least I think that’s what he asked.

“Nu, Londra”

“Vorbeste Româna?” he pointed to the clerk at the counter.

“Cred că nu”, I tried to summon my Romanian vocabulary.

“Italien?”

And I arched my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders in the international gesture for “I haven’t a clue.”

To cut a long story short, the gentleman under question was trying to find if he could get a place on a coach to Romania on the 16th. Unfortunately though, he spoke only Italien and Romanian, and the counter clerks spoke only Dutch/ Flemish, English and French. So I ended up acting the interpreter, gasping for breath while swimming in the linguistic ocean.

Before you ask, the funny thing is that I understand only a word or two of Romanian, and do not know it well enough to have even a simple conversation in the language.

So there.

Oh, and I managed to wrap-up this trip, including travel, boarding, lodging, and souvenirs, for under £150.

Click here to check out my pictures from Brussels of 09 and 10 Apr 2008.
P.S. - There are three pages in this album! If you're not running the slideshow, don't forget to check out the second and third pages :-)

Olympics, Tibet and Snow

I woke up pretty early for a Sunday, and looked out of my window to see a strong snowfall. That's right! It snowed in London in April, after a relatively warm winter. The climate change surely is happening faster now (click here and check out this must watch BBC documentary).

Within an hour or so, the falling snow thinned, and the flakes became much smaller, to the extent that they became the kind that float in the air. It remained that way for an inordinately long time, as far as I was concerned. I needed to go out, but didn't as I knew I needed to take many pictures and if any of the floating flakes landed on my camera's lens, they'd spoil the photos.

By the time I reached Westminster, the torch had already left Trafalgar Square and was headed our way. By then, there had been an attempt to snatch it and another to extinguish it. At least three explosions had happened (compressed sodium bicarbonate explosions - can't quite call them bombs), and police had barely managed to prevent a conflagration between passionate protestors and zealous Chinese youth in Trafalgar Square.

In fact, the torch was making only crawling progress, surrounded respectively by Chinese security officials in blue tracksuits, Metropolitan Police in reflective yellow jackets and rapid action/ riot police in black, by the time it had reached us at Westminster.

The torch and the bearer were so well concealed in the multiple layers of security cordons, that it took me a good while to comprehend that the Olympic flame had gone past me. By the time I realized what had happened, the entourage had disappeared behind a corner and several ambulances and police vans were rushing down the Westminster Bridge making a grand ruckus.

I didn't know exactly what route the relay was to take, but since I had seen, just this Friday, workers put up make-shift bleachers for the relay at South Bank Centre, I had a sense that the next stop would be a ceremony at the Centre. So after leisurely clicking a couple of pictures of the snow sliding off the slanted roofs of some landmarks, I ran towards the South Bank Centre, past the Town Hall and the London Eye.

The area was jam-packed by protestors weilding Tibetan flags and placards that read "Free Tibet", "China, Talk to Dalai Lama" and "Human Rights Before Olympics". A score of coppers were trying desperately to make sure that the venue didn't look "too dangerous" to the Chinese. Oh, and there were also two huge flailing-arm inflatable tube dolls sporting pro-Tibet banners. After a few attempts, I gave up the idea of getting closer to what would be the core of the festivities.

Instead, having spotted the Relay buses arrive on the Waterloo Bridge, I slid past the banner-wielding, slogan-mouthing crowd towards the stairs leading to the terrace; if the torch were to come down here, it would have to come through somewhere, and these stairs seemed at least as good as any other entrance.

Luckily, the Chinese decided to use these very stairs to bring down the Olympic Flame. That's correct: There was no torchbearer, only the blue track-suited Chinese, which perhaps made sense as there was no torch either, only the flame in its lantern.

So far, so good. But what next, considering that the ceremony at South Bank was likely to take a while, and there was not even a fleeting chance my being able to witness any of it, leave aside capturing any of it on camera?

I decided I wanted to beat the flame to the bridge and get to the parade before it started. So I ran to the Waterloo Bridge and discovered a barrier erected at the bridge's approach stairs. As I jumped over the barrier and ran up the stairs, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a policeman at the top of the stairs taking a couple of steps towards me. Thankfully the torch was nowhere in the vicinity, and he decided not to tackle me.

On the bridge I was greeted by a seemingly interminable line of police mobikes parked on either sides of the relay buses. Oh, and also by the slogans, imprinted on the official vehicles of the relay, "Lenovo: New World. New Thinking.", "Light the Passion, Share the Dream", which seemed so ironical in the situation.

Since I did not have a good sense of the scheduled route of the torch, I sneaked a good look at and committed to memory the stops scedule pasted on a police motorcycle's petrol tank; apparently, most police riders had pasted the schedule onto their mobikes for easy reference. This would stand me in good stead later on in the day.

There were about 10 Chinese students on the bridge, joyously waving a large Chinese flag and sporting Chinese-flag temporary-tattoos on their cheeks. There were also small groups of protestors, all over the bridge, adding up to about 100. They were mostly patiently holding on to their Tibetan flags, "Free Tibet" banners, and "Flame of Oppression" placards while chatting about and strolling on the bridge. Oh, and while I was there, which ended up being a long while, a group of 5-6 "hired Olympic supporters" in blue clothes and wigs went past, trying to hand out Samsung's balloons, pom-poms, little flags and assorted cheering material.

By the time the torch arrived, the bridge was packed with protestors waving flags, placards and banners, and shouting slogans. The contingent was caught in a vast sea of protestors just a short-way down from the bridge, and there it decided that instead of taking the straight road down to Somerset House, it would make a detour, at least the second in the day. The first one occured when the Chinese Ambassador had to carry the torch through China Town instead of the originally scheduled path.

After an unpublicised change to the route, the Chinese ambassador carried the torch through Chinatown. - BBC

China's ambassador to Britain, Fu Ying, carried the torch through Chinatown, following a different route than originally planned, before handing it over without incident, AP said. - CNN

Demonstrators swelled in number near the spot where Chinese Ambassador Fu Ying had been expected to carry the Olympic torch. Instead, Fu emerged with the torch in the heart of London's Chinatown, managing to jog unhindered before handing it over to the next participant. - AP

The real kicker came on Regent Street though when, for the first time in Olympic history, the torch had to be boarded on a bus and sped off. The protestors kept up with the bus, though, and we arrived at a jam-packed St. Paul's. There was supposed to a grand ceremony on the steps of the cathedral, but even after waiting and planning for at least 20 mts, the security were unable to get the torchbearers off the bus. They sped off again!

There was no way to tear through the crowd, so I decided to go through from behind the cathedral in order to catch up with the rocketing bus. It was a long detour, however, and I missed it. After running in the general direction in which the bus had been pointing before scooting away, I figured that I had lost it.

I knew, from the police schedule on the motorcycle tank, that the procession was to go down across the Thames before returning to the north side of the river. By the time I reached the bridge, though, the torch had cleared quite some distance on the south side, as indicated by the hovering helecopters. So I dashed to the Tower Bridge to catch the torch on its way back from the south side.

Thankfully, I reached there with enough time to spare to find myself a good spot before the police pilot arrived to clear the crowds. The torch came shortly afterwards; apparently they had resumed the running just before the Tower Bridge.

And then as a protestor, quite some distance ahead of the torch, got onto the road and waved a Tibetan flag, a police officer sprinted and dived on him to take him down. My camera was slow to respond and, regrettably, I couldn't capture the moment.


Photo source: NewsMax

I had a great angle on this shot - much better than the above picture shows. I remember rueing the wasted opportunity. While it lasted only a second, it was my first brush with the journalistic dilemma.

To be fair, on one hand I was no journalist or reporter, and on the other there was hardly anything I could have done for the poor guy being pounced upon at that moment. But what shamed me was that my first thought was that of a photo-op rather than the injuries sustained by the protestor in question. Had I become so self-absorbed and conceited that getting a good picture was somehow more important than suffering of a fellow man?

The incident also set me thinking about the question of safety and freedom, and the way our law enforcement works.

It is not an accident that George Orwell's 1984 is set in London, nor that this town is the background for the Wachowski Brothers' movie V for Vendetta. It is easy to see how a little bit of push could convert England into a police state.

Throughout the relay till then and after then I saw the police tackle and handcuff protestors on their whim and fancies. I'm not trying to demonize the Met; I spoke with many of the policemen and most of them were quite jolly and good-natured when you engaged them in a good way. However, there were quite a few consistently nasty ones that took upon themselves to keep London safe from the voices of discontent. This minority bunch acted pretty heavy-handedly and to a good extent abused the carte blance afforded to them.

I couldn't help but think back to Philip Zimbardo's famous Stanford Prison Experiement, wherein perfectly healthy and nice students were transformed into sadistic guards and depressed prisoners by a mere role-play game over the short period of 6 days.

The funny aspect of it was that the Met Police behaved as if it were concerned for the well-being of the torchbearers when the fact remains that the safety of the torchbearers was never under threat, before, during or after they bore the torch. Not from the protestors, anyway.

The only harm that befell any one of them came from the security forces themselves. Specifically, Konnie Huq was “bashed about” when the Chinese security officials tried to prevent the torch from being snatched by an enterprising protestor. As Huq later recalled on a BBC program,

“…they wrestled him to the ground. There were so many people and everyone was shouting 'just keep going'…I was a bit bashed about but I guess that's par for the course in such a little brawl.”

The torch and torchbearers had to be packed off onto the bus and sped away again at Mile End.

There were quite some festivities planned at Stratford, with London 2012 welcoming Beijing 2008. But there was no stopping the Olympic torch bus, which just zoomed past towards Canary Wharf, leaving in its wake, just confusion and disappointment for the many colorful-costume-clad London 2012 performers, most of them children.

Even if one were unaware of the politics behind it all, one would have had to admit that there's something seriously wrong with a picture where the torch and the torchbearers are on a coach, and it's the police that's running all the way.

This was reminiscent of George W Bush’s inauguration wherein he made history by becoming the first president not to be able to walk over, and had to be sped off in his limo. And we all know how that turned out.

Anyhow, since it was impossible now to catch up to the torch, I spent some time participating in the London 2012 festivities before boarding the Jubilee Line tube to North Greenwich.

At the O2, the path and time of arrival of the torch was shrouded in mystery due to the by now familiar game of "keep 'em guessing" being played by those "responsible for the security of the sacred Olympic flame". Even so, when the torch arrived the thousands of protestors made the whole area echo with shouts of "Free Tibet", "Talk to Dalai Lama" and "Stop the Killings" though they did not attempt to break down the barricades, much to the relief of visibly nervous law enforcement officers.

The closing ceremony was cut short with the news that The Sugababes, whose performace formed the major part of the ceremony, had withdrawn from the event.

Instead, all that the crowd had the pleasure of was a speech in Mandarin by Jiang Xiaoyu, Executive & Vice President of the Beijing Olympics Organising Committee. And what a fantastic speech it was!

I use the term "fantastic" rather literally here to refer to the fact that Xiaoyu's speech seemed to be delivered from a fantasy world. While there were thousands upon thousands of protestors shouting slogans, jeering, and booing, Xiaoyu had his rose-tinted glasses firmly on, and his speech strictly scripted.

Xiaoyu delivered, with a wide smile, words completely contradictory to reality, choosing not to even acknowledge any glitches or deviances from the plan. Essentially, he thanked London for the "warm welcome" and waxed on how "successful" the torch relay had been. One would have expected him to at least have toned down the exuberance, but then again, the people in attendance that night weren't his audience, nor were the people around the world; his audience were the people back home, watching him on the state-run television.

This experience gave me some sense of what life might be like in a totalitarian regime. Don't get me wrong. I don't mean to say that I saw the kind of suffering that many have witnessed and endured in the communist societies; I'm not daft enough to even imagine that. Many nations have endured, and many continue to endure, unspeakable atrocities under closed governments. What happened here wasn't even a minuscule fraction of that.

What I do mean is that it opened for me a little window of understanding and insight into what it might be to live under an oppressive regime. I caught a slight, little glimpse of what it might be like when not just one is persecuted for having an opinion and voicing it, but also that one's voice is prevented from reaching the ears of one's fellow man. I caught gained a slightly better understanding of what it might be like when those in positions of power not only draw wrong conclusions based on the facts, but actually can choose to completely ignore the facts...choose to not acknowledge the facts.

And if the behavior of the Vice President of the Beijing Olympics Organising Committee surprised you, what would you say if I were to tell you that the Chinese media demonstrated a complete lack of journalistic integrity by completely omitting the protests from its news reports?

As the BBC reported:

Pictures of the London relay were broadcast on China's state-controlled TV, but not of the protests and disruption.

And while the world press covered the event variously as:

The Times: Arrests and scuffles as Olympic torch crosses London

...Olympic flame was detoured away from its pre-planned route and placed on a bus on the advice of police, who said they could no longer guarantee to maintain order in the face of vigorous protests.

At points on the 31 mile route a phalanx of police officers, marching with their arms locked around each other's shoulders, had to form a protective ring around the flame in order to ensure that the torchbearer could continue to make progress.

Two activists were taken away by police after attempting to put out the torch with fire extinguishers.
“Like many people in the UK we feel that China has no right parading the Olympic torch through London,” they said. “Our protest is not directed at the Chinese people whatsoever but instead at the brutal Chinese regime that rules them.”

“It is deeply sad that the Chinese through their brutality in Tibet have contaminated the Olympic ideal,” said Norman Baker MP, president of the Tibet Society, in a statement on the Free Tibet Campaign’s website.

The Guardian: Chaotic scenes at London Olympic torch relay

Three rings of guards, both British police and Chinese officials, ran alongside anxious-looking torch bearers throughout the 31-mile (50-km) journey.

"We're here to get the message to the Chinese government to fulfil their promise to improve their human rights record, which they made when they got their Olympic bid in 2001," (Lizzy Pollard, 35, China campaign coordinator for a north London branch of Amnesty International) said.

The torch's journey was plagued from the start as snow showers covered London and kept many people away.

AP: Scuffles During UK Olympic Torch Relay

Demonstrators tried to board a relay bus after five-time Olympic gold medalist rower Steve Redgrave launched procession at Wembley Stadium — presaging a number of clashes with police along the torch's 31-mile journey.

The protests have forced officials to make unscheduled changes to the relay route, Metropolitan Police said. Thirty people have been arrested.

Activists demonstrating against China's human rights record and a recent crackdown on Tibet have been protesting along the torch route since the start of the flame's 85,000-mile odyssey from Ancient Olympia in Greece to Beijing, host of the 2008 Summer Olympics.

The Telegraph: Tibet protests disrupt Olympic torch parade

The Olympic torch has arrived at the O2 Arena after chaotic scenes during its tour of London as more than 35 protesters were arrested.

The parade was brought to a temporary halt five times in its first few miles as anti-China protesters made repeated attempts to breach security, including one man who tried to extinguish the flame with a fire extinguisher.

Sunday Express: 30 Protestors Arrested at Olympic Torch Relay

Former Blue Peter presenter Konnie Huq fell victim to one angry protestor who tried to snatch the torch from her hands and another tried to put the flame out with a fire extinguisher.

BBC: Clashes along Olympic torch route

Thirty-five arrests have been made after clashes between pro-Tibet protesters and police as the Olympic torch made its way through London.

CNN: Angry protests as torch reaches London

Protesters angry about China's human rights record and its recent actions in Tibet scuffled with police and made attempts to grab the Olympic torch and douse it with a fire extinguisher Sunday.

CBS WHP TV 21: Protesters force changes to Olympic torch relay route

Unscheduled changes to the relay route and demonstrators trying to snuff out the Olympic torch are what police have been dealing with in London during today's torch relay.

France 24: Scuffles disrupt Olympic torch relay in London

Scores of Chinese officials in blue suits and British police on foot and bicycles guarded the celebrities and athletes carrying the torch but demonstrators repeatedly broke through their security cordon.

The London Paper: Olympic torch protest

Hundreds lined Bayswater Road, many wearing Tibetan flags and carrying signs which read "Stop the killing in Tibet", "No Olympic torch in Tibet" and "China talk to Dalai Lama".

(You may also check out the photo story at Monster and Critic)

While the world media was reporting as above, the Official Torch Relay website had this report:

Olympic flame crosses London amid snow

The heavy snow in London exerted slim effect on people's passion of seeing Beijing Olympic flame as large crowds lined along the street to greet the relay of torch on Sunday in the host city of 2012 Games.

London boasted the longest relay of nearly 50 kilometers among cities outside China's mainland.

"It's really a great pleasure to see Londoners smiling and waving."

alongwith a feel-good photo that had the caption

(Torchbearer Giles Emily (C) holds the torch during the Olympic torch relay in London, capital of Britain, April 6, 2008)

There was not a single mention of any protests, let alone disruptions. Not one mention!

And the organizers cannot even simply shrug and say that they merely used the news item filed by the state-controlled Xinhua News Agency, because they strategically omitted one sentence from the Xinhua story:

Redgrave just criticized the binding of Olympics and politics days before the relay.

This is a strong indication that the Olympic organizers don’t even want to let out the fact that there were any protests. It would seem audacious and foolhardy on their part to believe that they could keep 1.3 billion people in the dark. Unless it were true.

Oh, and their Found a mistake link, meant to allow readers to report errors, was not working on the page carrying this news story.

Most Chinese media outlets toed the Xinhua line, with the "happy news" pictures:

British Prime Minister Gordon Brown (4th L), British Olympic Minister Tessa Jowell (5th L) and torchbearer Denise Lewis (6th L) applaud as disabled torchbearer Ali Jawad (3rd L) starts with the torch outside 10 Downing Street in London, capital of Britain, April 6, 2008.

Torchbearer Fu Ying, China's Ambassador to the United Kingdom, runs with the torch during the Olympic torch relay in London, capital of Britain, April 6, 2008.

and several pictures showing cheerful crowds bearing Chinese flags egging on the torchbearer. Of course, what they fail to mention is that these photos are actually from China Town to where the torch had to be detoured when the protesting crowds had made it impossible for Chinese Ambassador Ying to carry the torch through the scheduled route.

As far as I have found, the only Chinese media outlet to have mentioned any disruptions is Shanghai Daily (I am guessing that its audience consists, in large part, a Western-expat population working in Shanghai):

25 held as protesters fail to sabotage London relay

Of course, it quickly qualifies that headline with:

As part of a grand festival in London, tens of thousands people lined the route of the relay to cheer the event, far outnumbering protesters.

This, of course, is utter rubbish. The “Journey of Harmony” was so marred by disruptions that it cost London over £1 million to provide security for the event.

Many spectators voiced disapproval of attempts to disrupt the torch relay by those who claimed they had done so for "political causes." Cathy Sing, a London resident, said that she was puzzled by the protesters who said they were supporting the "independence of Tibet."
"Tibet has been part of China for several hundred years," she said, adding that the disruption had been well-planned to tarnish China's image.

I have no doubt that Cathy is a London resident. I do wonder, though, what sort of a surname "Sing" is. My money is on Chinese.

Nick, a British university student who was watching the event in central London, said that "sports should be separated from political things."

And what, pray tell, be your surname "Nick"? I am betting that Shanghai Daily meant British-university student, not British university-student.

This is not to say that the Western media is completely objective and journalistically rigorous.

For instance, while all world media outlets except the Chinese ones reported that The Sugababes backed out from their closing ceremony performance,

In a blow to the relay's finale, pop band The Sugababes withdrew from the closing event saying one of their singers was suffering with laryngitis. - The Guardian

some failed to report that, as BBC noted, they had participated in one leg of the relay earlier in the day.

Girl band The Sugababes withdrew from the finale at the last minute, saying singer Amelle Berrabah had been diagnosed with laryngitis. They had earlier carried the torch on an open top bus down Oxford Street.

As far as I have been able to determine, in the aftermath of the protests, only France24 reported the Dalai Lama's statement, "The hosting of the Olympic Games this year is a matter of great pride to the 1.2 Billion Chinese people. I have, from the very beginning supported the holding of these games in Beijing. I feel the Tibetians should not cause any hinderance to the games."

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Please click the Play button above. Video source: France 24

Similarly, the media's discomfort with "lawbreakers" surfaces when it seems to imply that torchbearer Konnie Huq was in some way harmed, "bashed about" to be precise, by the protestors.

The fact, of course, is that Huq was bashed about in the Chinese security personnel's efforts to save the torch from being snatched (Naturally! Where did you think the loyalties of the Chinese security agencies lay - with the torch or with the bearers - when you allowed them to be the first ring around the torch?). This is clear from the videos of the incident as also from Huq's statement. Most media outlets simply chose to not use her full quote, and to plant some seeds in the readers' imagination.

However, the Western media occasionally just indulges in the sin of spin. It hardly ever, if ever, completely fabricates stories or buries news. The extent of media manipulation in the West is usually limited to ideological representation, not distortion of facts. (If you are Al Franken and want to call me to tell about Fox News etc. in the US, don't bother. I've read your books - they are excellent and hilarious)

Besides, due to the multiplicity of voices, the biases of one vehicle are typically balanced by those of the other. Thus, a person committed to the truth can, at least theoretically, examine all available evidence and make up his or her own mind about issues.

Not so in China, where the press apparently has no professional integrity at all.

After such blatant disregard for truth shown by the Chinese reportage of the London relay, the question is exactly how willing are we to accept China’s claims that about the scale, extent, and intensity of oppression in Tibet? How honorable are China’s intentions, and how credible are its promises?

But the Olympics are about bringing the world together and it is not right to mix politics with sports, most critics of the protests will tell you. In fact, this is the strongest rationale presented by pro-rally, anti-prostest speakers, both Chinese and non-Chinese.

Beijing Olympic torch relay spokesman Qu Yingpu told the BBC: "This is not the right time, the right platform, for any people to voice their political views."

Julie Li, 28, also from China but living in Britain, said sport and politics should be kept apart. - The Guardian

(Sir Steve) Redgrave just criticized the binding of Olympics and politics days before the relay. - Xinhua

My gut reaction is to label this as disingenuity. But if any of these speakers actually believe what they are saying, then they are displaying incredible naïveté. The fact is that the international relay of the Olympic torch was started in 1936 by Adolf Hitler to make a statement about Germany's status in the world.

For the 2008 games, China has taken the sentiment to heart and has already irrevocably mixed the Olympics with politics by declaring that the Olympic torch would go through Tibet, in order to make the statement that Tibet is a part of China. Having made such an overtly political move, it is hypocritical and unbelievably audacious on China’s part to appeal that there be no political statements around Olympic-related activities, and no sensible person would buy into China’s rationalization.

Protesters are particularly incensed that the torch will be carried through Tibet by Chinese officials in June. The Free Tibet Campaign accuses Beijing of using the torch for its own propaganda purposes. - The Times

Besides, of course, it is no secret that the Olympics have seen wide-ranging boycotts in 1956, 1976, 1980 and 1984 for political reasons. The People's Republic of China itself did not participate in Olympics till 1984 protesting Taiwan's participation.

So please don't tell us that politics has no role in sports or vice-versa. Politics and sports have always gone hand in hand, and always will.

It is widely believed that China annexed Tibet in 1959. China may sincerely believe that Tibet is and has always been an integral part of its territory. It may be possible to arrive at a peaceful solution to these political differences. But instead of talking with Dalai Lama (who has always advocated peace and friendship towards China), China chooses to import Hun Chinese into Tibet (so much so, that the Huns now outnumber Tibetans in Tibet) and to persecute and even execute Tibetans. If this doesn't give the world a genuine reason for an outcry out of outrage, what would?

Some critics of the protests also point to the fact that Dalai Lama himself has supported the games and asked that they not be boycotted. These statements betray a misunderstanding of the protests.

When Beijing had bid for the 2008 Olympics, China had promised to improve its human-rights record in Tibet. However, just last month violent oppression of Tibetans protestors has raised the heckles of the likes of Amnesty International. While Beijing puts the casualties down to low two digits, there is no way to independently verify this as China has completely locked Tibet down.

This is a regime that gunned down hundreds, if not thousands, of its own students (remember Tiananmen Square?); would it have and would it in the future hesitate for a second to kill or torture the Tibetans?

...human rights campaigner Peter Tatchell jumped into the road carrying a sign calling for the release of Chinese activist Hu Jia, who was jailed Thursday.
"The arrest last week of human rights activist Hu Jia shows that China is not fulfilling its human rights commitments which were part of the deal for them to get the Olympics," Tatchell told PA, "At the very least, world leaders should boycott the opening ceremony and athletes should wear Tibetan flags when they go on the podium to receive their medals." - CNN

(Buddhist monk Ngawang Khyentse) said, "We can't just remain silent. We have no other choice than to protest because there is no other voice for Tibetans inside Tibet, so we have to speak out for human rights."
"At the very least the British government has to speak out and condemn the crackdown in Tibet. They must not keep silent." - The London Paper

The protests are really demands that China fulfill its promise by stopping the massacre and allow Red Cross and international journalists in Tibet.

(Olympics Minister Tessa Jowell) told BBC Radio 4's The World This Weekend: "I hope that the message that will go round the world is that, yes, there are many citizens of the UK who feel very strongly about China's human rights record, there are people in the UK who feel very strongly about the importance of dialogue with the Dalai Lama, and that in the UK we cherish the right to lawful and peaceful protest which, by and large, is what we have seen today." - The Telegraph

While organization of Beijing Olympics almost seems inevitable at this point in time, the event has been irreversibly politicized, and sooner or later every country will be called upon to take a stand on the issue one way or the other.

Click here to check out my pictures from the Olympic Torch Sunday of 06 Apr 2008.
P.S. - There are three pages in this album! If you're not running the slideshow, don't forget to check out the second and third pages :-)

--- Update 8 April: Paris ---

By now it has been widely reported that the relay route was cut short and altered in Paris and that the torch completed a large part of the route on coach because of the intense protests. It is also well known that the Olympic flame was put out on at least three occasions in Paris.

On Eiffel Tower - A gift from Reporters Without Borders to the torch relay

Photo source: France 24


Photo source: CNN

- France 24: Protests cut short Paris leg of Olympic torch relay

Three times in the course of its 28-kilometer route through the City of Lights, the Olympic flame was extinguished by security officials due to the unprecedented number of demonstrations, forcing authorities to put the torch on a bus for security reasons.

A planned ceremony at the city’s grand City Hall, to mark the torch’s passage through Paris was cancelled, according to the office of the Paris mayor.

Now consider the news piece put forward by the Official Torch Relay website: Olympic torch relay in Paris conludes (sic)

And while this report does acknowledge for the first time the presence of protestors and concedes that part of the relay was continued on coach, there is no mention of the fact it was extinguished on several occasions.

Instead, it goes on to state something you may not have heard before:

Spectators of the Beijing Olympic torch relay were greatly annoyed and angered by Tibetan separatists and their supporters attempting to disrupt the Monday event in Paris, the fifth leg of the flame's global tour.

Tens of thousands spectators went to the street of Paris to watch the torch relay, which covers 28 kilometers starting the Eiffel Tower and ending at the Stade (Stadium) Charlety in the south of the city.

For a humorous and satirical take on the relay, check out The Daily Show's report:
3 mts 13 secs


--- Update 17 April: New Delhi ---

My interest in the torch's relay through New Delhi is quite natural. For one, I was curious to see the attitudes of my own people towards the relay. But even more importantly, what happens in India is extremely important from the perspective that India houses hundreds of thousands of Tibetan refugees - the largest Tibetan population anywhere outside of Tibet.

And I had to satisfy my curiosity by parsing media reports.

France 24: Scores arrested as Indian leg of Olympic relay ends

...security personnel far outnumbering the schoolboys and the other few select onlookers allowed to watch.

An estimated 16,000 police, soldiers and even elite commandos were deployed to throw up a huge security cordon around the central thoroughfare between the presidential palace and India Gate, two of New Delhi's main landmarks.

Another 46 Tibetans were arrested in India's financial capital Mumbai as they tried to storm the Chinese consulate...

In neighbouring Nepal, police said they had arrested more that 500 Tibetan refugees as they protested outside the Chinese embassy...

CNN: 200 arrests as 'fortress' New Delhi hosts torch relay

...officials shortened the original 5.6 mile (9 km) torch route to 1.5 miles (2.3 km), and lined it with more than 15,000 security personnel for the 30-minute event.

Officers detained another 32 protesters even before the torch touched down on Indian soil...

The Times of India: Low-key torch run, protests elsewhere

There were almost no crowds apart from some flag-waving Chinese and a few dozen school children bussed in by officials. Surrounded by Chinese attendants, Indian security guards in tracksuits, and police and troops with automatic rifles, runners could only wave to the television cameras.

Having lived in New Delhi for several years, I have to say that the short straight stretch between Rashtrapati Bhavan and India Gate is like a huge stadium, and if the access roads to it are blocked, it's pretty much like having a private ceremony.

The numbers of police and army depolyed are astounding. Exactly what does a deployment of 15,000 law enforcement officials mean? Well, consider this: if on average an officer measures 40 cm wide shoulder-to-shoulder, then 15,000 of them standing shoulder to shoulder could line the whole 2.3 km stretch 2.6 times!

Since the torch doesn't quite need the whole 2.3 km at the very same second, here's another way to look at it: If the 15,000 officers were to cordon-off the torch by standing in adjacent concentric circles, with the closest one being as far away from the torch as 5m, then there would be at least 75 layers of policemen's bodies between an observer and the torch!

I would have been disappointed with my people's showing, but I take solace in the fact that Indian Football's biggest star Baichung Bhutia and International Cricket's biggest star Sachin Tendulkar opted out of the relay (three booes to Leander Paes, Dhanraj Pillai and Aamir Khan).

Additionally, there's some comfort in CNN's words:

Public sympathy in India lies with the Tibetans, the majority of whom have sought refuge there since a failed uprising against China in 1959...But Indian officials had to balance public sentiment with diplomatic needs. Since India and China fought a border war in 1962, they have tried to thaw their frosty relations and forge close ties.

That said, while I understand the need to be polite to China, and to make all security arrangements necessary, I can not, for the life of me, understand why Delhi's Chief Minister Shiela Dixit felt the need to personally participate in the proceedings. That she herself handled the torch is untenable.

The most amusing part of the New Delhi leg of the relay was not at the torch relay at all.

Apparently, (to use CNN's words) "...to wrongfoot protesters, Indian authorities did not disclose the relay route or the start time until 24 hours before the event", and then "...sealed off roads..."

Faced with these formidable challenges, the protestors demonstrated remarkable but characteristic ingenuity, and organized their own torch relay, which started off at Rajghat, Mahatma Gandhi's memorial. This was a cross-community event, with at least Muslim, Hindu and Buddhist religious leaders participating.

While security forces were deployed at this torch relay as well to prevent unpleasant scenes, most media descriptions of the atmosphere at this relay include the word "festive". In fact, CNN reported that at this event, the police were merrily chatting with the participants, and even passing around drinking water.

So while the Olympic Torch's "Journey of Harmony", which is supposed to be a people's event, was effectively held behind closed doors, the Tibetan torch relay had all the elements of a festive, participative, grassroots event.

Of course, as you would have come to expect by now, the news report at the Official Torch Relay website is: New Delhi leg of Olympic torch relay concludes

--- Update 22 April: Comedy ---

A satirical take on the Chinese coverage of the protests
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