Lalbagh Gardens: Greenhouses, Feral Dogs, Somewhat Relaxing

Lalbagh Gardens is one of Bangalore's green centers, and it is also a source of sanity for a large proportion of the area's people. Lalbagh has stands of flowers, a surprisingly mostly-clean lake, an old English greenhouse, and a general air of orderly greenery that is sorely needed in the traffic-choked heart of the city. It is also Bangalore's supreme make out point, giving the young and amorous of the city a chance to wander through the grass, hold each other's hands, and maybe even kiss surreptitiously if no one's looking. It's hard to be an Indian teenager.



A nice enough temple near Lalbagh. If someone could tell me what this kind of structure is generally called, I'd be most grateful.

Tipu Sultan can be credited for Lalbagh. Like many Muslim rulers, Tipu was inordinately fond of gardens and flowers. His father, Hyder Ali, began Lalbagh, but it was Tipu who finished it off, designating it as a protected place in the midst of the at-the-time mid sized town. Bangalore grew around Lalbagh, and the English appreciated it too: they erected the classic-style greenhouse in the park's center.



There is a very big rock in the middle of Lalbagh. It's one of the highest spots in Bangalore, and accords decent views of the cities admittedly not super-prepossessing skyline. If you look the other way, there's a (usually smoking) trash heap. Well, you know. India.



There really are an unusual amount of bird species in Lalbagh, which is impressive for a very urban center. Then again, birds seem to have adapted remarkably well to India's urban localities - you see immense vultures and remarkably pretty little green parrots feeding off trash (or bodies, in the vultures case), perching in people's somewhat emaciated looking backyard trees, and generally going about their business.



I usually avoid stray dogs in India - I'm not too keen on getting rabies - but the dogs in Lalbagh are generally extremely friendly and thus hard to ignore. I recall a torrid but sadly brief love affair with the friendliest stray dog ever here, a few years back. I hope she's still around. The paucity of stray dogs in the USA often shocks Indians. "But where do the dogs go? What do they do all day?" they ask. Well. We usually just give them lots of Puppy Prozac....


Indians love to eat cucumber with chili and salt on them.



Indians like to venerate trees. This is no exception. Indeed, the Peepul is of course the Bodhi tree under which the Buddha himself sat. King Ashoka's son and daughter are said to have brought clippings of the original Bodhi Tree (in Bihar) to Sri Lanka, preserving it after the original died.



The English style greenhouse, one of many Raj-era nods to the Homeland. The greenhouse is of course totally out of sorts with the rest of Bangalore, but I think it functions well as a metaphor. The English wanted to replicate their homeland, their climate, and their foliage wherever they went. It was for this reason that they built up the cool weather and intensely Anglo hillstations in Mussorie, Darjeeling, and Shimla. It was why they stubbornly refused (mostly) to adopt native dress, sticking to wool and cotton clothing that proved uncomfortable and downright dangerous in the Indian heat. They brought over their food, they brought over their language, and they brought over their modes of etiquette and their mail system and thousands of other things beside. (They also brought over some thrilling new venereal diseases, but let's not get into that). The greenhouse stands for all this: it is a glass house made to enclose delicate Continental flowers, it is a contained ecosystem with no relation to the immense and seething India all around it, it is controlled and orderly and gentle. Or was.



Now, of course, the Indians have got it. It is not used for much, although there was a swiftly rotting Independence Day flower arrangement stuck inside this go-round.


Riotous tropical flowers.

Lalbagh also has a considerable amount of cultivated flower species - exotic and local- that are maintained by a small army of dedicated gardeners. It's nice to wander around the rows of flowers and attempt to ID what they are.



The other big attraction of Lalbagh is its lake. It's quite a lovely lake, especially consdering that it is located inside a park in a major Indian city. If one overlooks the occasional patch of suspicious and trash-related bubbles, it's possible to imagine one is somewhere else entirely. There's a surprising number of storks, herons, and other wading birds here.


I love India's occasionally worrisome efforts at public art.

There's a rose garden in Lalbagh, but you can't go inside it. Mustn't pick them. At least you can walk on (or roll on, or play on, or eat) the grass here. I spent a summer in Beijing, once, and grew desperate for the sight of a tiny patch of grass in that grey and highly polluted city.



I went to one of the former Imperial parks and managed to find myself a tiny, table-sized spot of grass, the only one I had come across for weeks. I promptly sat down on it and opened a book. Two minutes later, a young and apologetic looking park attendant came by, and shooed me off. "It's not for sitting on," he explained, "just looking." I could have cried.

But that is beside the point. There is grass here, and it is good.



Lovely and glossy black millipedes in the heart of the park.

The Bangalore City Market, The "Real" India,

The Bangalore City Market (some of it).

So. In a Facebook controversy of sorts, I had been accused (fairly gently) of doing India too plush this time, of avoiding the Real India. Now, the Real India concept is one that I find vastly irritating, mainly because it seems to escape the lips of everyone in the West who has been to India, is thinking of going to India, or has ever even vaguely noticed the base existence of India.

I took the Real India question to a number of Indian friends of mine. My Indian friends, I hasten to add, are definitely not what you might define as salt-of-the-earth types. They're uniformly well educated, hold down good jobs (or have done so in the past) and have generally traveled at least somewhat, either nationally or internationally. No, these are not the people of Mumbai hovels, Calcutta orphanages, or Bihar's baking and miserable plains. However, all of them, every single one, took serious umbrage to the notion of a "real" India.


Apples for sale at the market.

As a friend of mine observed: "Why do Westerners think the Real India is something out of Slumdog Millionaire? What, am I not a real Indian because I have a BA and I don't live in a hut? Where the hell do you people get these ideas?"


Flowers at the market.

I suppose it's wrapped up in the Western, educated notion of Authenticity Tourism. In other words, we want to get away from the beaten track and tour-buses sort of travel and get at something real, touch the heart or the soul of a country in a fashion closed off to the average and lazy-minded tourist. This is, I think, a noble goal. But I also think that this goal causes some Westerners to point-blank dismiss all that is not gritty, difficult, and mildly disturbing about India (or any developing country) as "not real" enough for them. As I overheard while in Sikkim, a little-known and incredibly attractive and well-maintained area of India: "Yeah, I mean, I like it here...but it's so Westernized. So clean."

The Sikkimese had better knock that civic pride and prosperity shit off if they want to draw the Western bohemian tourist set, apparently. Maybe they should import some starving children and leprosy-ridden beggers from nearby Calcutta to jazz the place up.

This notion that a clean, safe, and functional place is somehow "false" is, to put it plainly, a load of hooey. And highly offensive to the Inspiring Native People to boot, who are often extremely proud of what they've achieved in just those areas of cleanliness, safety, and functionality.

Think of it this way. When you receive friends from overseas or out of state, do you immediately drive them to the nearest ghetto-area (and there are plenty, even in the USA) to show them the "real" America because your nice house and interesting neighborhood somehow lack "authenticity"? Somehow, I doubt it.

Now, I think that a tourist should take it upon themselves to get out of the "nice" areas and officially sanctioned tourist areas. Slum tourism is a sticky moral issue in my book, but it seems to work for some. Volunteering is another popular, if somewhat controversial, way of getting at a reality not accessible at the immediate surface. These are things that are good. But they are not the only things.

I refuse to buy that you are somehow being a decadent and ignorant Westerner if you occasionally skew towards the "nice" end of the tourist spectrum, even in developing countries. If staying in a safe hotel that is refreshingly bed-bug free and avoiding cheapie night-buses is a flagrant denial of the Real India on my part, then, well, I suppose I am guilty as charged. To quote Anthony Bourdain, I guess I am a mere tourist and not a traveler.

Another surprisingly uniform thought emerged from my Indian friends.


Dried fruit cart.

"There's no such thing as a single India. You can't define a Real Indian, or even a stereotypical India. India is a bunch of different things mashed together, more so then anywhere else." In other words, there is no Real India (just like there is no Real America) and you are out of luck if you intend to find it somewhere untouched and off the tourist-track. There is no real India, and the notion will set off a fiery and impassioned debate if put to a group of Indians pretty much anywhere.

That is one blanket stereotype about Indians that is 100% true. They are incredibly argumentative).

But anyway. I was feeling guilty about this Real India thing, and so I decided to go out and have a look at the closest thing wealthy Bangalore offers to the Real India of tourist and literary fame. I headed to the Bangalore City Market.


The market building.

The City Market is technically located inside an ornate and lattice work-ridden building in the center of town. This is not actually the case, because the Market is an enormous and tentacle-bearing organism, an organism that has spilled out of its original surroundings (if it was ever contained by them) and has grabbed at most of the neighborhood nearby.


The City Market is nearish to Lalbagh Gardens, but it is easy enough to tell when you're almost there: the automobile and hardware shops increase in numbers, a lot of signs in Arabic and people in white robes appear, and the number of free-roaming cattle and women carrying stuff on their heads increases exponentially. Congratulations, you've made it to the Market.

I like the Market for a few reasons.


Pomegranates at the market.

The first is that the Market clears up a number about mysteries about the operation of Bangalore as a mostly-functional civic unit. The Market is, to put it simply, where most stuff comes from.



Ever wonder where your neighborhood fruit guy gets his stuff? (yes, the one who shouts about fruit while wheeling about his cart at 6 in the morning, turning your thoughts to murder, that guy.)



Why, of course, he goes to the local pineapple wholesaler, who crouches spider-like in the middle of what looks like a pineapple massacre, and sells his stuff to all comers. There's other Guys for all manner of other fruits: bananas, melons, pomegranates, apples, custard apple, guava, you name it, it's here. Don't ask where it came from.




Many restuarants in Bangalore serve their thalis on banana leaves. Paan sellers also use smaller leaves to wrap their mildly narcotic goodies up in. Well, this is where they get them. From this lady. Let's pretend they are given a good chemical bath before coming to the table. (That's a good one).



I am endlessly fascinated by these enormous cones of spices and sandal-paste. I have no idea how they are made or how they manage to stand up like that, without losing their structural integrity. If someone can tell me how this is done, I'd be very grateful.



Ever wonder where the endless, endless buckets and mounds and bags of flowers used for puja come from? Well, here. The Central Market may be better termed the Flower Market, for that is the good that now dominates the entire central area of the building.



It's an absolutely magical sort of place - the corriders are small and incredibly crowded, and you squeeze through as if conveyed by an outside force, shoved along in the crush of bodies, past stall after stall of fresh and heavily scented flowers. The flowers mask the usual India scent of body-odoer and cattle dung, or at least they mix it up and turn it into something more roundly appealing.



The boys at the stalls shout when you go by and hand you armfuls of roses and marigolds: I am totally inept at tucking them behind my ear in the demure fashion of the South Indian girls, but I do them the honor of trying.



The flowers are everywhere being fashioned into garlands, piled into immense structures, or crushed into the ground by the millipede-like churn of a thousand almost conjoined feet. You come in and out of the flower trading area very quickly mainly because you are not able to stop moving, not unless you find something sturdy to hold onto, an anchor in the sea of chlorophyll.




The first time I came here, I was somewhat terminally stoned. The combined effect of the flowers color and scent and the constant movement of the selling arena was, well, psychedelic. You might want to try it. It's not like half of the sellers aren't stoned themselves, you know.




The flower market's best aspect is from above. If you walk up the stairs, you'll find yourself with a fantastic view of the action below. Great photo ops. You tourist, you.



A lot of people in India like it when you take their photo. You have to be careful about this - it's often a scam involving pay-per-snap moolah in touristy areas - but is usually an entirely authentic request in places like the Market. This old lady just wanted to see what she looked like these days. Like this. There was some gesturing in broken English and Hindi afterwards. I recall that I got a marigold out of the deal. Life goes on.



There's quite a few restaurant supply stalls up here. If you ever wondered where you might acquire a karahi big enough to cook a reasonably-sized person in, well, here you are. Not that anyone would ever want to do that.



The Mosque near here. This and Commercial Street are the more "Muslim" parts of town, which is apparent enough judging by signage and what people on the street are wearing. I was in Bangalore at about the height of Ramadan, which meant the faithful were taking especial pains to play by the rules.



India is defined by its street-side food sellers, isn't it? What a shame that us Westerners are advised to stay away from the street-stands, for fear of stomach bugs and possible death. Tragically, the warnings are extremely sensible. But what tasty looking stuff is on offer.

King's Park, Farmers Market, and Weird Plants

We went to the farmer's market this morning, which was held on the grassy grounds of the Aboriginal college, near the Curtin Institute of Technology. I love farmer's markets, and this was a particularly nice one, featuring just-different enough produce to keep me interested. I'm particularly taken with the delicious passion fruits, tangerines, and butternut squashes.


I love the trees here.

The cool weather is another delight - as someone who is moving to Cambodia, I doubt I'll experience temps this cool and salubrious for a while. I had a fantastic butter croissant. Why have I eaten so few croissants over the years? My life has been as nothing.


Australians take sausages extremely seriously.


Australia has weird plants. This may sound like a minor detail, but it's remarkable how aberrant vegetation can affect the mind when traveling overseas. The trees are different, the foliage underfoot is different, and the flowers are different - it's these things that facilitate one's realization that you are truly Far Away from Home.

King's Park is located on the other side of the river from South Perth, and can be viewed as a sizeable chunk of bushland across the water. It's a very fine park indeed and is the biggest inner-city park in the world- 3/4ths is preserved wild foliage, and half is manicured and attractive gardens and ponds. There's a coffee shop and a couple of restaurants with fantastic views of the city and the water below. There are also an enormous quantity of weird lookin' plants, as well as weird lookin' birds. It is called King's Park, shockingly enough, after King Edward VII of England, renamed from Perth Park in 1901 after the visit of the future King George V, then the Duke of York. The park was formally set aside in 1829 by Lieutenant Governor James Stirling, two years after the founding of the Swan River colony, and has remained such ever since.

The local Nyoongar people considered Mt. Eliza, where the park is situated, as an important meeting place and hunting ground, and dubbed it Kaarta Gar-Up. There is a hilarious signpost in the park which ask the visitor to "imagine how the Nyoongar people felt when they viewed Western ships sailing up the Swan River. What anticipation and excitement..." Or perhaps they thought something more accurately along the lines of "no good can come of THIS."

The botanic gardens at King Park are awesome, and a great way to get a sense for the curious Aussie vegetation that populates WA. There's an amazing sea-green artist designed bridge that stretches over a gorge here, with an unnerving tendency to sway gently when the wind picks up. You can see it all the way from my aunt's apartment in Applecross.


Pink Paper Daisies. The brilliantly colored petals are extremely dry and papery, and thus come "pre-dried." Exceedingly convenient for home decorations.


This very large Boab tree was actually trucked here from WA's Kimberley region in 2008. The tree is estimated to be 750 years old, and landed here after it was determined that a highway was to be built through its old location. The Park sprang at the idea of taking it in, and it was replanted here. The local Gija people performed a goodbye ritual for the tree. The images of the tree slapped onto a flatbed and road-tripping to its new home are not un-amusing.


The alien-like Qualup Bell, which apparently is exceedingly titchy to grow for backyard gardeners. I love plants that resemble alien life forms. Or Pokemon.


Some lovely orange and pink snapdragons.


I believe these weird looking things are in the WA native wild rose family, though don't quote me. Does anyone know?


Asymmetric leaves = ABERRATION OF NATURE. And very cool.


The amusing and reasonably common wattle bird, so named for the red wattles hanging down below its beak. Their calls are incredibly weird and sort of sound like someone going OOK URK GLOOK repeatedly. It's hilarious. They're clever little beasties, and fun to watch.


Highly festive strawberry-like flowers. No clue what the species name is. I suck.

We ended the afternoon with a coffee at the cafe up top, and a look at the surprisingly excellent gift-shop. Picked out a fantastic card for my mom. She'll like it. Then we headed home and roasted chicken for supper. Perth remains civilized.