Lost in the Moonlit Market - Chandni Chowk, Delhi

We were lost; hopelessly lost in Chandni Chowk in Delhi, in a sensory overload of night-time noise and colour.

We had arrived at the “moonlit market” in the hot, dusty afternoon. Shopkeepers were sitting in the languid shade of their doorways, sipping chilled lassi with their neighbours. Customers were scarce, waiting for the cool of the evening. Screeching macaques chased each other across the rooftops.

In the textile area, steep wooden steps led to a cornucopia of saris and fabrics of every colour and pattern. Bolts of jewel-bright silk were being unrolled across the floor. They billowed like parachutes, before settling in flowing rivers of emerald and cerise.

Mr Rajdeep, the owner, sent his son for cups of sweet milky chai and we listened to his artful flattery.

Leaving with soft cashmere shawls, we descended to the street as dusk was turning to night. We retraced our steps along narrow lanes and alleyways, now crammed with shoppers and hawkers.

There were silversmiths, stalls offering falooda and tiny shops selling marbled paper. Electrical shops flashed with strings of garish lights and the streets became a swirl of bangles, sandals and spices.

The syrup-sweet aroma from a stall selling jalebi was merging with the pungent smell of rotting vegetables and a smoky scent of incense. A discordant symphony of horns competed with music blaring through tinny speakers. Dodging a relentless stream of handcarts and porters with swaying loads, I heard a call to prayer, and quickly said one of my own.

As we passed the same bookshop for the third time, I admitted defeat. Then, at a corner, a gangly teenager stopped me. “Rickshaw, ladies?”

Introducing himself as Vishal, he promised that his bicycle was nearby. He led us quickly through the alleys, winding skilfully between shoppers and meandering cows. In our haste to keep up, I didn’t notice he had taken us down a tiny unlit lane. I paused, my heart lurching. He turned and beckoned. We kept going on blind trust, my sandal squelching in something soft.

Minutes later, we were outside the market and balanced precariously on the narrow rickshaw seat. As we gripped our flimsy carrier bags of bounty, Vishal struggled gamely with his bulky cargo, swerving between buses, lorries and smoke-spewing tuk-tuks.


Then, without warning, he stopped at a huge junction and refused to go any further. He explained, with an emphatic head shake and a crooked smile, that he was not allowed to ride into New Delhi and he had to drop us there.

Diving across 16 lanes of traffic, we found a restaurant. After a bowl of tarka daal and two cold beers, we stepped back out into the street clutching our map. We walked to the corner and turned to each other with a shrug. For a map to work you have to know your starting point.

We were still hopelessly lost.

Copyright: M Huggins 2011

Dancing in the Cuban Dark - Cojimar

THIS WAS MY WINNING ENTRY IN THE SKYSCANNER TRAVEL WRITING COMPETITION 2011

The shady terrace at Casa Mendales looks out towards the ocean across the mismatched rooftops and patch-pocket gardens of Cojimar.

The houses in this sleepy Cuban fishing town are painted in soft cupcake colours, the sky is a bright wash-day blue, and the dusty road is the dirty yellow of a lion’s belly.

Tanya Mendales, the larger than life owner of my casa particular, sits next to me on the terrace amongst sunflowers, and paints her nails a startling orange. On the street below, women sashay past in a whirl of tropical colour. A dachshund, his coat as shiny as a newly opened conker, struts past on a tartan lead.

Tanya leans precariously over the rusty railing and shouts down to a friend. The two women roar with infectious laughter, flashing bright white smiles. My Spanish is not good enough to catch what they are saying, although I am trying to learn what my vivacious host refers to as ‘the Cuba ways’.

This town is famous as the place where Hemingway came to fish, and where he met Anselmo Hernández, the fisherman who was immortalised in The Old Man and the Sea. Day-trippers come from far and wide to visit La Terraza bar, with its beguiling setting at the water's edge. From Hemingway’s favourite table you can watch the fishing boats heading out to sea, and feel his ghost in the cool breeze that blows through the open window.

Everyone in Cojimar has an anecdote to tell about Hemingway, or claims to be related to Hernández. Tanya is no exception - Hernandez, she claims, was a distant cousin.

That afternoon I pick tomatoes and lettuce from the huerto, or kitchen garden, with her husband, Manolo. He tells me that nearly half the vegetables in Cuba are grown either in these tiny plots, or the larger urban cooperative gardens.

As I help prepare dinner, I watch Tanya as she sweeps the floor with a rough broom, singing softly to herself. I am lured by this deceptively simple life; a cool tiled floor under my bare feet, a sack of beans, and a sun-bleached chair on the terrace.

As dusk falls we carry the food out on to the terrace. I fetch generous plates of black beans and rice, and we sip mojitos made with home-grown mint. It seems impossible to imagine anyone wanting to leave here, but I know that choosing a simple life is not the same as living it day in, day out, through necessity.

Over the years, from here in Cojimar, many young Cubans have attempted to sail across the Straits of Florida on homemade rafts, to follow their own dream of a better life. Manolo Mendales nephew was one of them. He disappeared with four friends one night in 1994, and was never seen again.

As Manolo tells me the story, we fall silent, and for a moment we are divided by our different worlds.

Then, in this town that is full of unspoken hopes, we hear Son music drifting across the street, and without hesitation Tanya jumps up to dance. She reaches out her hand to me, and we dance together in the pale moonlight.

Voices call up from the street, and assorted neighbours appear on the terrace. Two of the men have brought guitars, and the women sing, vivid tropical birds oozing with soul. We sway in a swirl of colour and song, blissfully happy in this shared world of music that needs no translation.

‘This is my friend from England,’ shouts Tanya. ‘I have taught her the Cuba ways!’

Copyright: M Huggins 2011

Judges Comments:

"I really enjoyed this piece, which showed insight, sensitivity, humour and an understanding of the destination. I liked the way Mandy explored the idea of making friends with local people in Cuba, recognising the difficulty in bridging the cultural and language divide and highlighting the fun we can have trying. Like all good travel pieces, it managed at the same time to be very personal and universal." – Mark Hodson

“Mandy's tale is a gentle and emotive story that is told from the garden of a single Cuban house, proving you don't need adventure and derring-do to make good travel writing. Through her writing we learn about the landscape, food, culture and history of the country in the account of one evening.” – Ginny Light

Flying Aeroflot to St Petersburg

THIS IS ONE OF MY POSTS PUBLISHED ON REGENT HOLIDAYS WEBSITE

The check-in clerk at the Aeroflot desk unsettled me by referring to St Petersburg as Leningrad. I wondered if we were about to embark upon a time travel adventure.

As we boarded the Tupolev Tu-154 my theory seemed to be gaining credibility. The cabin crew were zero-tolerance stern, with pancake-pale complexions and coral lipstick to match their hair. Their powder blue uniforms crackled with static as they strode down the aisles on sturdy calves.

A glimpse into the open door of the cockpit revealed tank-green paint and handwritten lettering below endless rows of seemingly primitive dials and switches. The interior of the cabin was furnished with basic seats and a plethora of dull grey vinyl and badly painted chipboard. The pockets on the back of our seats were fashioned from string shopping bags, and contained an in-flight magazine that promised all the risque delights of ‘real Russian girls in exiting night clothes’, and restaurants offering ‘anti-Soviet cuisine’.

A mechanic in Aeroflot overalls passed through the cabin and plonked himself and his toolkit on the back row. I didn’t dare contemplate the running repairs he felt qualified to carry out whilst we were in the air.

As the plane hurtled along the runway the stewardesses hastily handed out flimsy plastic cups of water. I remarked to my boyfriend that these were probably for taking our valium.

I clutched the armrests tightly as we took off, pinned back into my seat with whiplash-inducing force. The Tupolev appeared to perform a near-vertical ascent, her swept back wings thrusting up through the clouds, the engines screaming and protesting.

Was this experience worth the £55 each that it had saved us? Of course it was. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world!

As our battered taxi headed for the Soviet hulk of the Hotel Moskva, we spied a bride and groom posing for photos on a patch of sparse grass by a monolithic statue. Her face seemed unnaturally pale, her lips a scarlet jolt, and her dress blindingly white. A babushka on the corner sold tiny bunches of flowers stuck in cut-down plastic bottles.

Shortly afterwards, we crossed the Griboedov Canal by the Church on Spilled Blood. It glowed in the late afternoon light, a cacophony of gold, blue, yellow and green, elaborate onion domes, mosaics and frescoes. In just those two moments, St Petersburg had me hooked. I suddenly craved a politically incorrect fur hat, bad cigarettes and cheap vodka…

Copyright: M Huggins 2011

Regent Holidays: Thanks for another brilliant blog post, Mandy. We agree that flying with Aeroflot can be quite an experience, but definitely a worthwhile one!

Vilnius to Warsaw: Sleepless on a Sleeper Train

THIS IS ONE OF MY POSTS PUBLISHED ON REGENT HOLIDAYS WEBSITE

I have long been in love with the romantic notion of overnight trains. Speeding non-stop through ink-black countryside, champagne cocktails in the bar and a silver service dinner served on starched linen. Then a few pages of an Agatha Christie novel whilst tucked snugly between crisp cotton sheets, before being lulled to sleep by the comforting rhythm of the train. Gently woken by morning sunshine and a white-gloved steward serving fresh croissants and a pot of steaming coffee.

The train in Vilnius station did not appear to promise any of these things. It towered above the platform, a dour hulking beast, the guard hunched over a thin cigarette pinched between thumb and middle finger. He appraised my ticket dolefully before motioning me up the steep steps that led to my four berth couchette.

There was already one other inhabitant, a young girl, perched lankily on the edge of a top bunk, immersed in a book. Shortly afterwards, a man complete with lank combover and greasy leather waistcoat swung his rucksack onto the other top bunk, and disappeared out of sight. There was clearly going to be little travellers’ conversation, and as there was neither bar nor restaurant car aboard, I retrieved my Jaffa Cakes and copy of The Lady Vanishes and crawled fully dressed beneath the grey sheet and scratchy blanket.

The train groaned into action and began its creaky, ponderous journey out of Lithuania and towards Warsaw. After a while my fellow passengers switched off their reading lights and fell instantly to sleep. I tried to follow suit, but sleep was long coming. Their deep, even breathing seemed to mock me as the train lurched in and out of sidings, wheels squealing as we juddered repeatedly to a stop, only to jerk painfully forwards again moments later.

When I did eventually nod off, it seemed like only minutes later that I was woken by doors banging and muffled voices. The Polish border officials were on board, checking passports. As the guard’s steely eyes met mine, I had a fleeting moment of the irrational panic that always grips me in the face of officialdom.

I slept fitfully until a distorted tannoy announcement echoed through the corridors. Apparently I had only minutes to get my things together and drink a cup of gritty acorn coffee before being deposited unceremoniously at Warsaw Centralna. It was 6.30 am and there was no sign of the girl. The lady really had vanished.

Beyond exhaustion, I stumbled dizzily into the weak morning sunshine. Despite the early hour, a woman in a bright floral headscarf was selling old pans on the pavement outside. Behind her was a mirage, strangely compelling – a Marks & Spencer’s with an open cafe. Before it could disappear I rushed inside, ordered toasted muffins and Earl Grey tea, and sank blissfully into an armchair. Who needed the Orient Express?

Copyright: M Huggins 2011

St Petersburg Metro

THIS IS ONE OF MY POSTS PUBLISHED ON REGENT HOLIDAYS WEBSITE

I spin round, trying to take in the full splendour of this palatial space in one glorious eyeful. Marble columns soar towards the heavens, intricate mosaics spill across the floors, and elegant chandeliers dance with the light.

But this is not Peterhof or the Hermitage, this is Avtovo metro station, one of St Petersburg’s ‘palaces of the proletariat’. Widely considered to be one of the most beautiful and extravagant stations in the world, it is impossible to pass along these ballroom-esque platforms without a gasp of joy.

The whole of the St Petersburg metro system is full of similar beauty and surprises. Vast vaulted ceilings, exquisite sculptures and decoration, and detailed mosaics depicting the strength and might of Mother Russia.

At the outset of my journey, things aren’t as promising. At Alexander Nevsky Square, I encounter a swaying drunk, his bottle hidden from view in a dirty paper bag. He mumbles incoherent insults to the vacant-eyed girl by the station entrance, who responds by wrapping her fur jacket tighter around her bony frame.

On the trains there is a sense of stoicism behind inscrutable faces, a slight frisson of unease, a knot of tension. Curious eyes stare, and do not turn away when met. Even when eyes are closed, there is the feeling that all the other senses are alert.

In contrast to the opulence of the stations, the trains are basic and functional, transporting the paraphernalia of everyday working lives without a murmur of surprise. Babushkas in tightly tied headscarves clutch their buckets of lilacs and delphiniums as they travel from the suburbs to a lucrative pitch in the centre of the city. A man carries a spade, still with traces of black earth stuck to the blade. A young girl opposite pulls a tiny kitten out of her pocket. I smile, but her expression does not change as she gently strokes the soft white fur.

Stepping out of the carriage at Avtovo is a huge shock to the senses, inducing instant elation. There can be few places in the world where such extravagant beauty is found in such a commonplace setting. Beauty for beauty’s sake.

I look around at the other passengers as they walk by, and see the babushka with her flower bucket. I wonder if she is immune to this splendour, does it go unnoticed through over-familiarity? Does she resent it or does it uplift her? I don’t speak enough Russian to ask, but I run after her to buy flowers.

Copyright: M Huggins 2011