For a good introduction to a city, look no further than a tour guide, suggested friends when I told them I had just a couple of days to unearth mystery and history in their stunning snow-covered city.
For a good introduction to a city, look no further than a tour guide, suggested friends when I told them I had just a couple of days to unearth mystery and history in their stunning snow-covered city.
I blanched.
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Are there official guides out there? Tourism Board officials wouldn't approve of the 'history' ladelled out by those self-appointed guides. file pic |
Knowledgeable tour guides unnerve me. I'm far more comfortable with their maverick cousins, I admitted sheepishly.
The word tour guide, takes me back to school trips (excursions as they were called) where we invariably encountered 'guides' who seemed to know history that did not feature on plaques or in tomes. The 'nuggets', which they delivered in conspiratorial whispers, were meant to stun rather than inform their audience.
Tourism Board officials wouldn't approve of the 'history' ladelled out by these self-appointed guides. But their showy manner and their believe-it-or-not tales wove a spell so magical that some of us willingly suspended disbelief.
In Mysore, one such 'guide' stood in front of the magnificent Chamundi temple and announced, "We Indians are having more than 8 crore gods and goddesses," making a motley group of foreigners, choke over the tender coconut water they were leisurely sipping until they heard this momentous statement.
In a matter of minutes, a bunch of shuffling school kids had lost their 'guide' to wide-eyed, dollar-rich Americans who drank in his every word, intrigued by his fantastic tales.
I'm sure my fascination for such unofficial ambassadors of culture was born at that very moment.
Years later, when holidaying in Singapore, I realised what I was missing only when Mike our taxi driver-turned-tour guide-shook my hand warmly and announced, "My name (is) Murugan but call me Mike. I show you Singapore like no one else can."
Abandoning scowling spouse to his fixed itinerary package tour with a 'propah' guide, I trailed Mike, confessing that I wanted to go on a food trail-local market, quay stall, street food hawker... the smaller, the better.
"Visiting Indians do not make such requests," Mike said haughtily, implying that if I didn't shop at the boutiques on Orchard Road, I wasn't quite making the grade as 'good tourist' in his yet-to-be-written book on traveller etiquette. Remember, this was in times long before culinary tours became fashionable.
Sipping Tiger beer, Mike negotiated narrow alleys and ducked into doorways while I breathed in the appetising aromas. "Take many peoples, mix and enjoy," said Mike, exuding bonhomie. To my delight, I discovered he was right. At the satay stall, run by a Muslim, I treated myself to a delightful meal on sticks for less than two Singapore dollars.u00a0 At another stall without a name, I watched the cherubic chef-cum-owner ladle out barbecued pork in a soy broth at lunchtime and, at a street corner, I devoured paper cones of crisp yet succulent yam chips. Mike had lived up to his maverick tour guide image, after all, I thought with a burp.
Was I disabused of my healthy disregard for licensed tour guides on my recent whirligig? That's fodder for another column.
