Overland

《On the plane time had been irrelevant but also the only thing that mattered; it was time, not space, she'd been aware of travelling through.》 -Jhumpa Lahiri- This is how Gauri, the Indian protagonist of the book I read on the trip to India, describes travelling by plane from India to America. And this is perhaps the most poetic answer I could give to the question I have often heard myself asked in recent months 'why travel by train and bus, why not take a plane which is faster?' The reasons behind this choice are obviously many. Comfort is not one of them because certain routes have been really difficult, not to mention the crossing of Balochistan (which I talk about in the post 'Today here, tomorrow inshalla!'). Certainly as a climate change researcher I am very sensitive to the topic of emissions, and I always try to minimise my contribution. But there is much more behind this choice of travel, and perhaps I can describe it as a desire to travel in space, or rather to perceive the space through which we move, so that it is space that is the protagonist of the journey rather than the 'hours until arrival'. What this means, however, I have really only begun to understand better by travelling. Travelling overland, I have been able to observe the land change, slowly or quickly depending on the nature that has created and shaped it. I have seen populations, their habits, physiognomies, and diet changing along with the territory. Travelling overland, I realised even more how borders between countries are just an artificial line, because a culture does not change radically by crossing a border. Rather, there is a gradual change with one culture slowly blending into the neighbouring one, transforming itself until it changes identity. Thus, in eastern Turkey, the customs and hospitality of the people we meet are already different from those in western Turkey but very similar to those in Iran. And the further we move south-east into Iran the more the clothing and physiognomy of the people change until we arrive in the Iranian part of Balochistan where we meet the Balochi with their typical clothes (and thick hair!). And then we enter the Pakistani part of Balochistan: same clothes, same physiognomies, mixing languages. In the Pakistani Punjab, we already taste the first 'Indian' dishes, or so we call them, because the well-known (and much loved by me) 'palak paneer' is typical of the Punjab, which extends into both India and Pakistan. Between these two states there is a border, represented by the Waga gate, which is forbidden to cross by both Pakistanis a Indians. The two peoples can only observe each other between the grates, manifesting their superiority and animosity for each other in a dance known as the 'Waga border ceremony'. Then comes India in all its immensity and complexity. To the north we encounter Tibetan culture and language in the Himalayan mountains, to the south live the Malayalam who speak another language and have different and unique customs. Travelling overland means perceiving the small gradients between one point and another, understanding the world in its complexity and intertwining, as customs and civilisations change in unison with the environment. Travelling overland has helped me understand even more how much we are children of the earth, in the very sense of the land where we live. Because we derive our sustenance from the land, which means food first of all (and this is how I learn that eating local is not only interesting to learn about the culture of the place, but also essential to get the right energy and nutrients I need), but also materials (for example, in Iran, houses are not furnished by tradition with wooden furnitures also because finding wood in the desert is quite difficult). Travelling overland also means seeing the beginning, transformation and end of customs. And here I cannot help but think of conversations with my friends Fanny and Mehdi, whom I met in Iran, and then again in Pakistan, and then in India. They are also travelling overland. The first is tea, or better to call it 'chai'. Chai starts in Turkey where it is served in small glass cups, without sugar and accompanied by a sweet, similar to a gummy candy. In eastern Turkey sugar cubes are served with chai, because if you want sweet chai you have to put a sugar cube behind your upper teeth and let the hot chai melt it with every sip. In Iran they serve chai in the same way, but it is often accompanied by crystals of saffron sugar set on a stick so that the sugar dissolves, stirring the chai, giving it a sweet saffron note (for which the country is known). In Balochistan, chai is served directly with sugar, not even asked for. In Punjab, both Pakistani and Indian, milk takes over, so chai is black tea sweetened and prepared with milk. They drink it like Italians drink espresso: in a small cup, a 'drink and run'. Travelling through India we then encounter masala chai, which includes the addition of spices - masala in fact. What happens between India and Thailand I cannot know because our 'overland' ends in Calcutta due to the political situation in Myanmar that prevents us from crossing that country. We then have to fly to Bangkok. Here chai does not exist, we drink green tea and lots of macha tea. The closest thing to chai is Thai tea (chaa yen), a deep red tea served with sweetened condensed milk and lots of ice. Then there is Lassi (a drink I love). The first encounter with a similar drink is in Turkey with Ayran (Fanny and Mehdi told me that a similar drink already exists in Bulgaria, but I have not tried it). Ayran is a very liquid salty yoghurt, perfect to accompany a very spicy dish. In Iran, on the other hand, we find Doogh, similar to Ayran but to which chopped herbs (especially mint) are often added, or a dash of mint syrup. Doogh is also the basis for an Iranian soup that includes the addition of cucumbers, walnuts, rose flowers and other herbs. There is a 'fizzy' version of Doogh, i.e. with added carbon dioxide, but it definitely did not meet my palate. In Pakistan, we find Lassi, salty or sweet (salty wins for me). It is frothier than Ayran or Doogh, a real treat. In India, the Lassi changes from region to region. In the north, we start finding fruit Lassi (banana, mango, papaya). In Jaipur, only sweet Lassi with a piece of cream is sold at the famous 'lassiwalla'. In Pushkar, we encounter rose-flavoured Lassi and in Mumbai, saffron-flavoured Lassi (no surprise if we consider the Iranian immigration to Mumbai). In Varanasi, we try the famous 'Lassi blue' shop where salted Lassi is no longer sold, only sweet and in many varieties (I fall in love with the guava Lassi). When we arrive in Bangkok Lassi no longer exists. We find yakult at the supermarket, actually of Japanese origin, but if we are to see yakult as a transformation of Lassi it would really mean a sad end for this drink that I adore. Just a two-hour flight from Calcutta, where we interrupt the 'overland', to Bangkok, and we find ourselves in a completely different culture. Where is it that chai becomes matcha? Where is it that the Lassi gets lost? These will unfortunately remain questions for a future trip, when I return to join the dots from Calcutta to Chiang Mai!

Pic: the beautiful 'Wild young and free' guesthouse on Koh Kong beach, Cambodia. a place we would have never discovered if we were not traveling overland.