I spent the morning watching the animals move across the Kenyan savannah. There were wildebeest everywhere. Zebras moved among them almost casually. An elephant and its cub stood beneath a tree. In the distance, the landscape seemed to stretch endlessly, without walls, roads or buildings to interrupt it. For a while, I simply watched.
A space with no boundaries
There was something strangely humbling about seeing so many creatures occupy the same landscape without any apparent need to possess it. They did not own the land. They did not draw boundaries across it. They did not put up signs announcing that a particular piece of earth belonged to them. They simply lived there.
The Savannah co-existence
And then a thought occurred to me. What if we have misunderstood our place in the world?
For centuries, we have measured human progress by our ability to control nature. We cut down forests and called it development. We dammed rivers and called it progress. We covered open land with concrete and called it urbanisation. We moved mountains, redirected water, altered landscapes and exterminated species after species, making them disappear. And while doing so, we often congratulated ourselves on our ingenuity and intelligence.
The great migration through Mara
But somewhere along the way, we perhaps began to confuse our ability to control something with the right to own it. The savannah seemed to offer me a different philosophy. The animals did not appear to be conquering the land. They were part of it. The elephant did not need to dominate the tree beneath which it stood. The zebra did not need to fence off its patch of grass. The wildebeest did not need a title deed to the earth beneath its feet. They belonged to the landscape without claiming it. Perhaps that is what we have forgotten. We speak endlessly about what we will leave behind. Be it buildings, businesses, fortunes, roads or institutions. We would strive to leave our names on plaques and our photographs on walls. But perhaps there is another kind of legacy…….
The Zebra did not need to fence off its grass….
What we choose not to destroy. The forest we would leave standing. The river and the waterbody we would allow to remain clean. The animal(s) whose habitat we would protect. The open space we chose not to convert into concrete. The silence we did not fill.
The silence we did not fill….
Standing there in Kenya, I began to wonder whether civilisation should really be measured by how much of nature we can bend to our will. Or how much of nature we chose to leave as it is. Perhaps the more difficult measure is how much power we possess—and how much restraint we exercise. Because restraint requires something that conquest does not. It requires us to recognise that we are not the center of everything. The realisation that the earth existed before us, the wild existed before our cities, our borders and our ambitions. And, if we are wise enough, much of it will continue to exist after we are gone.
Will this exist after we are gone?
Perhaps we are not the owners of this world after all. Perhaps we are merely its temporary custodians. We arrived without asking permission. We will leave without taking anything with us. Between those two moments lies the brief privilege of being of who we are and our presence here.
We remain privileged to have been here…….
And so I find myself asking a different question. Not simply, what will we build while we are here? But, what will remain because we were here? I closed my notebook. The animals continued moving across the savannah. They had not heard my question. Perhaps they did not need to. They seemed to know the answer already.
During our recent safari trip in Kenya, a visit to a Masai village was part of the itinerary. We went with curiosity, but also with the expectations of people accustomed to a very different world.
The Masai Mara is extraordinary not merely because animals still roam freely across its vast savannah, but because the Masai have, for generations, lived alongside that ecosystem without attempting to conquer it. They tend cattle, depend on them for milk and sustenance, and have retained traditions that seem to belong to another age. Yet, paradoxically, they appear to understand something that our supposedly advanced civilisation often forgets: Nature is not a resource to be consumed; it is a system to be lived within.
Masai Mara
The village itself was fascinating. A circular settlement, protected from predators by a dense perimeter of thorny shrubs, with homes around the outside and cattle occupying the central space. The houses were constructed from soil and cow dung. The village, we were told, eventually moves when termites begin destroying the structures. There was no attempt to make the place look modern for visitors. It was what it was. And then came the most revealing part of our visit.
A Masai elder invited us into his home. We entered through a tiny doorway into a dark, compact space. There was a fireplace for cooking, some firewood, a few simple utensils and a single light bulb powered by a solar panel provided for the village. There were small cots for the children. His bedroom had two tiny windows for ventilation and, remarkably, a little peephole through which one could see the outside world. He jokingly called it his television. I smiled at the simplicity of the joke. But it stayed with me. For us, television means hundreds of channels, streaming platforms and a world delivered instantly into our homes. For him, television was a small opening in a wall through which he could watch life unfold.
Then we heard a frail voice from behind a closed door. It was his elderly mother. She had to be kept inside because, having lost her sense of direction, she would wander away and not know how to return. We left the house quietly. Seven people lived in a space smaller than a room in many of our apartments. There was little comfort, almost no privacy and virtually none of the conveniences we consider essential to modern life. And yet, something troubled me about the easy conclusion that this was simply a primitive way of living.
The Masai knew about our world. Their children went to school, spoke English and understood modern technology. But they rejected coal because in their own words, it would harm the environment. Perhaps, just perhaps, they were not living in the past. Perhaps they were reminding us of something we had left behind. Progress has given us comfort, convenience and extraordinary choice. But has it given us wisdom?
Standing inside that small Masai home, I wondered whether civilisation should be measured only by how much we accumulate—or by how little we need to live responsibly. The Masai may have much less than us. But perhaps, in one important respect, they have understood much more about life and living.
In musing….. Shakti Ghosal
Acknowledgement: Masai Home photos (2) by my friend and fellow traveller Partha Banerjee.
There are some days when nature does not merely show you its beauty. It allows you, for a fleeting moment, to witness its very soul. Today was one such day in the Masai Mara.
We began before sunrise with a hot air balloon ride over the vast Mara savannahs—an experience I shall write about separately. But the real drama of the day was waiting for us at the Mara River, inside the Mara Triangle.
We watched, almost spellbound, as hundreds of wildebeests came thundering down the slopes, accompanied by a sprinkling of zebras. They moved like an army on the march. Then, without hesitation, they plunged into the river.
There are some journeys where you return with photographs. And then there are journeys where you return with a changed sense of perspective. Yesterday was one of those days.
We spent an entire day driving through Amboseli National Park, and for hours the landscape seemed to reinvent itself. One moment, there were vast open plains stretching towards the horizon. Then came a wetland, a cluster of acacia trees, a dusty track disappearing into the distance, or a herd of elephants appearing almost magically against the landscape.
Amboseli is often described as the “home of the African elephant”. It is easy to understand why. We saw elephants in different groups, some quietly grazing, some walking purposefully across the plains, and others simply standing there with that extraordinary, almost contemplative presence that elephants seem to possess.
There were hundreds of zebras and wildebeests, moving across the grasslands in groups that seemed almost endless. Gazelles appeared in the distance, alert and graceful. Giraffes rose above the vegetation like living sentinels. Baboons went about their business with an irreverence that was almost human.
Wilderbeests
And then there were the birds. Some were familiar, others completely new to my eyes. Their colours, shapes and calls added another dimension to the landscape. I came to know that Amboseli is, in fact, an important birding destination, with more than 400 recorded bird species.
What makes this place particularly remarkable is that it is not simply a collection of animals. It is an ecosystem, delicately interconnected through water, grass, wetlands, migration and seasons. We came to know that the seemingly dry landscape also has wetlands and springs fed by water originating from the slopes and underground systems associated with Mount Kilimanjaro. That water sustains an astonishing abundance of life.
And somewhere in the distance, when the clouds allow it, stands Kilimanjaro—Africa’s highest mountain—watching silently over the entire drama.
That contrast stayed with me. A mountain that appears timeless. Animals that seemed to live entirely in the present. And we, the human beings, who spend much of their lives worrying about tomorrow.
For me that seemed to be one of the quiet lessons of yesterday’s safari. The zebra does not know it is part of a magnificent ecosystem. The elephant does not pause to admire the landscape. The giraffe does not contemplate the sunset.They simply live in the here and now. We, on the other hand, are constantly rushing through life while trying to capture it.
Yesterday, sitting in a safari vehicle and watching one landscape after another unfold, I found myself wondering whether wilderness is really about seeing animals. Perhaps it is about seeing ourselves differently.
Amboseli did not need to tell us that life is precious. It simply demonstrated it—silently, continuously, and without asking for our attention. I only had to be quiet enough to notice.
A couple of weeks ago, over an evening drink at the Calcutta Cricket and Football Club (CCFC), a friend casually mentioned Kurseong. The name somehow lingered long after the conversation had moved on. Ever since my ankle surgery earlier this year, I had been dreaming of escaping to a quiet corner wrapped in green, where the loudest sound would be birdsong and the fastest thing in sight would be drifting clouds. I scarcely had to drop hints to my wife Sanchita, she was more than ready and Kurseong quickly graduated from dream to destination.
Four nights at the Nirvana Retreat ( it advertises itself as the place where time stands still) were booked, followed by the to-and-fro flights to Bagdogra. The monsoon tossed our aircraft around just enough to remind us who was really in charge, but we landed safely and were soon winding our way up the hills. Every bend seemed to reveal another postcard—the tea gardens, little hillside homes, and forests wearing a soft veil of mist.
The long and winding road…..
Our balcony overlooked towering pine trees standing like silent soldiers in green-grey uniforms, their pointed helmets disappearing into drifting clouds. Kolkata, with its humidity, traffic and relentless pace, already felt like another country. There was no television worth watching here. Nature had taken over the programming.
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The hills invited long walks, but wisdom prevailed over enthusiasm. Recovering knees have a language of their own and mine spoke with remarkable clarity. So, instead of trying to conquer the hills, we surrendered to them. We embraced a different adventure—the increasingly rare luxury of doing very little, and doing it without feeling guilty.
Each morning began with meditation on the balcony as the mist slowly swallowed the pines before releasing them again, almost playfully. Unknown birds held conversations in a language neither of us understood, yet somehow it all made perfect sense. Then came our familiar ritual: the kettle on, two cups of fragrant Darjeeling tea, and unhurried conversations that needed no destination. We discovered that silence, shared with someone you have known for years, can sometimes be more eloquent than words.
Breakfast was delightfully confused—hot puris and sabzi giving way to eggs sunny side up, toast, sausages and the incomparable Makaibari tea. The ever-smiling staff seemed personally invested in ensuring that no guest left the dining room even remotely hungry. Resistance, we soon discovered, was entirely futile.
We faithfully visited Dow Hill School on behalf of a friend who had boarded there during his childhood, only to be politely prevented from entering those hallowed precincts by an immovable security guard. Some memories, it would seem, are best revisited through stories rather than school gates.
Dow Hill school
The mist also conspired against us at Eagle’s Crag and the Chimney, ensuring that the famous panoramic views remained a matter of imagination. Yet the ancient pine forests more than compensated. Walking beneath those towering trees, lovingly planted by the British generations ago, one could not help but marvel at how some acts of planting outlive the people who planted them.
Kurseong Chimney
A Pine Forest of Kurseong
A description of Kurseong would be incomplete without mentioning the historic Hill Cart Road—the town’s bustling lifeline where shops, cafés and homes jostle for space, and where the iconic Darjeeling Himalayan Railway toy train track (did not see the train passing through when we were there) meanders through the streets with unhurried confidence. As pedestrians and vehicles patiently made their way, it felt like watching history politely negotiate with the present.
The highlight for me, however, was the Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose Museum. His letters, photographs and personal artefacts quietly brought history to life, reminding us that extraordinary lives are often built upon ordinary moments of conviction and courage.
Netaji Subhas Bose’s address as President of Congress Party
We returned with few spectacular photographs but something far more valuable—a reminder that the finest journeys are not always about seeing more. Sometimes they are about slowing down enough to see ourselves again. In a world forever urging us to move faster, Kurseong gently whispered a different lesson—that there is quiet wisdom in standing still.
The Royal Bengal Tiger was always just beyond the frame—a whisper in mangroves, a rumour in grasslands, a story told by guides with knowing smiles.
In the Sundarbans, they warned us, “Don’t look too hard. If you see one, chances are you won’t be seen after.” We looked anyway. We saw nothing.
At Ranthambore National Park, dawn and dusk gave us….. Pugmarks, droppings, and growing humility.
At Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary, they didn’t even pretend. “Forget it,” they said kindly.
And then— it was the turn of Tadoba Tiger Reserve……where, quite unexpectedly, fortune decided to shift…. and behave like Lucknow hospitality.
It began like a well-directed play. Our jeep was rolling lazily when the guide suddenly sprang up, as if the forest had whispered directly into his spine— “Look behind!”
And there she was. A tigress. Standing squarely on the road. Unhurried. Unapologetic. Entirely in charge.
She gazed past us, not at us— as though we were merely an inconvenient paragraph in her story. A low, resonant rumble followed. And then another and another.
“That,” the guide declared with reverence, “is the mother calling her children.”
Of course she was. Even in the wild, mothers don’t wait forever.
What then transpired in front of our eyes was akin to a screenplay. But of the most elegant kind.
As we continued to be transfixed by the one behind, the guide shouted again and pointed. From the front, another tigress appeared—a sibling, perhaps…….She carried a prey in her jaws with the nonchalance of someone bringing snacks to a gathering.
The mother’s rumble deepened.
Translation (we imagined): “Food is fine. But where are the children?”
And then we saw them again. Three grown cubs, walking in a line— like reluctant teenagers responding to a call they had heard thrice already.
They were magnificent. And mildly disobedient.
The mother paced the shoreline now, her calls shifting between soft persuasion and unmistakable authority. It was a language older than words— half love, half command. The forest listened. So did we.
One cub made the first move. It slipped into the water, cutting through it with quiet determination—towards the waiting mother. The other two paused. Of course they did. Every family has those who hesitate at the edge.
The mother, now joined by the brave one, turned and looked back at the rest of the family on the other side. A decision was made and the mother and cub swam again. Not away, but towards the uncertain. And then, as if reminded of something fundamental, the remaining two followed.
For a moment, time forgot to move. Four tigers. Water rippling. Sunlight holding its breath. And us— utterly irrelevant, yet impossibly privileged.
We had spent years trying to see a tiger. This time we were seeing something else. Not power. Not danger. Not even wilderness. We merely saw a mother trying to gather her children.
And in that quiet, persistent calling, echoing across water and time, the jungle revealed its oldest truth:In every world, wild or civilised, the fiercest force is not the hunt—it is the pull of belonging.
The Liberty of the Seas was slipping gracefully through the turquoise waters of the Atlantic, teasing us with views of emerald islets dotting the horizon. As land loomed closer, so did our anticipation. Bermuda—a name that evoked equal parts paradise and paranormal. Our stateroom window framed the unfolding spectacle of the approaching land, pastel-painted resorts on the sea front and the occasional home peeking from behind palm fronds.
A Bermuda resort
We docked at the Royal Naval Dockyard. Once a formidable British naval base after they were unceremoniously booted out of North America, it now plays host to cruise ships instead of battle cruisers. Think of it as the colonial version of “I’ll be back!”—except the British came back with museums, not muskets.
Royal Naval Dockyard
Once ashore, as we looked around for a suitable transportation, we were greeted by Darrel, a local guide and driver. Silver-haired, sun-tanned, and equipped with the storytelling prowess of a Caribbean mistrel, Darrel introduced himself with a flourish:
“Ninth-generation Bermudian! My ancestor came here as a slave. And now I drive tourists through my island. We’ve come full circle, haven’t we?”
We chuckled, unsure whether to be impressed or introspective. As it turned out, Darrel was about to take us on a version of Bermuda that the glossy brochures never dared to print.
A Personal Bermuda
Darrel wasn’t one for those touristy places. Instead, he showed us his own Bermuda. We were soon snaking past old churches and vintage homes, zigzagging across narrow causeways which connected Bemuda’s islands like hesitant footbridges between old memories.
He took us to his ancestral home; a weathered house nestled on a hillside shaded by cedar trees. “This is where I was born,” he said. There was pride in his voice, not nostalgia. He wasn’t just showing us a place, but offering us a piece of his DNA.
As we crisscrossed the islands, almost missing the transitions thanks to seamless causeways, Darrel pointed out the unique Bermudian water storage systems. There are no freshwater lakes or rivers in Bermuda; every roof thus is designed to catch rainwater and store it in underground tanks. “It’s not just eco-friendly,” Darrel declared, “It’s that, or die thirsty!”
Exploring the Bermuda water storage system
We stopped at an old fort with low embankments, a relic from World War II. What was interesting was that it was armed with British, American, and Canadian gun emplacements. A curious cross-national collaboration.
“They were allies here before NATO was cool,” I quipped. Darrel grinned, “Yeah, and those guns haven’t fired in anger—only in memory.”
Shopping Malls, Lighthouses & Cost Shock
Next came the capital city, Hamilton, gleaming with shopping arcades, business hubs, and enough boutiques to bankrupt a Kardashian. “Don’t be fooled,” Darrel warned, “This is more for you tourists and offshore finance folks than for us locals.”
We could believe it. A loaf of bread cost more than a good bottle of rum back home. Bermuda, it seemed, was as expensive as it was beautiful—a tax haven with a sun-kissed poker face.
We also visited the Gibbs Hill Lighthouse, where the view from the base was majestic enough to spare us the knees wrecking climb to the top. From there, the Atlantic spread out like an endless blue silk sheet, dotted with hints of human habitation—each island a whisper in the sea.
Gibbs Hill Lighthouse
Of Pink Sands and Rose Hearts
By afternoon, the sun had cast a golden glaze on the island. The temperature was perfect for what we came for: Bermuda’s legendary beaches.
We skipped the Instagram-flooded Horseshoe Bay (thanks to Darrel’s insider intel of it being overcrowded!) and headed to a more secluded beach nearby. And what a choice that turned out to be! Powdery pink sand caressed by clear turquoise water, gentle waves that beckoned instead of bullied, and—most intriguingly—a giant heart-shaped installation of roses left behind from what looked like a beach wedding. Darrel, never missing a beat, winked and said, “That’s either love… or excellent marketing.”
Love….. or marketing?
We did what anyone would do: took photos, dipped into the sea, and pretended we had discovered the place ourselves.
The Triangle of Terror… or Hype?
As the sun began its descent, we finally popped the question everyone avoids until dessert, about the Bermuda Triangle.
“So Darrel… any strange goings-on out there?”
He glanced at the ocean and said, “Let me tell you something. Some days, you see gas bubbles rising out of nowhere. Big ones. Not your usual air pockets. These are… different.”
He paused. “Could be alien. Could be methane. Could be the sea having gas. But small boats and aircraft? They don’t always like those bubbles.”
In search of Bermuda triangle…..
Darrel’s casual eeriness reminded me of the book I’d devoured in my Jamalpur college days: Charles Berlitz’s “The Bermuda Triangle.” The author had chronicled the infamous disappearance of Flight 19, a squadron of five US Navy torpedo bombers in 1945. The flight leader’s last radio transmission still rings like a Lovecraftian riddle:
“We cannot be sure of any direction… everything is strange… the ocean doesn’t look as it should.”
Some say it was magnetic anomalies. Others blame pirates, aliens, or even the lost city of Atlantis. Even National Geographic weighed in years later, shrugging off the mystery with a headline that felt like a sigh: “No, the Bermuda Triangle isn’t real. Let’s move on.” (Source: National Geographic, 2017)
But standing on a beach where the sand is pink and the stories are surreal; logic starts to feel a bit… overrated.
A Farewell in Technicolour
As we returned to the Liberty of the Seas, the ship shimmering under the evening sun, Bermuda felt like a dream—equal parts sunshine and superstition.
Liberty of the Seas
Darrel dropped us at the dock, gave us a conspiratorial wink and said, “Now you know our secrets. Keep them safe.”
Bermuda had shown us its history, its heart, and maybe even a hint of its hauntings. Whether you believe in vanishing ships or just overpriced sandwiches, it’s a place that lingers.In your mind, in your phone camera, and if Darrel’s right, maybe even in your magnetic compass.
After years of good intentions and postponed plans, we finally pulled off the Great Family Cruise – ten of us, one ship, two waterslides, twenty-three ducks, and a Cruise Director who could’ve moonlighted as a tornado.
From gliding over ocean waves to sliding into water-slide mayhem (albeit with minor misadventures), from buffet binging to Broadway bopping – here’s how we discovered that the only real triangle in Bermuda is one made of sun, sea, and stuffing ourselves silly. Dive into our cruise tale below!
“We had joy, we had fun, we had… sunburn, and the distinct feeling that gravity works differently on a cruise buffet.”
For several years, our family cruise plan floated in the misty sea of ‘someday’. We’d talk about it, sigh wistfully, and then shelve it in favour of life’s more pressing annoyances – work, school schedules, or the sheer logistics of aligning four households across two continents. But this year, the planets and the stars finally aligned – our schedules, and the price of cruise cabins. Over a weekend, the dates and the bookings were locked in over WhatsApp calls. The dream was on!
We had zeroed in on a 6-day Royal Caribbean Bermuda Cruise from Bayonne, New Jersey. As luck would have it, both our daughters, Riya and Piya, along with their husbands and children, were in New Jersey. Add to that, grandparents (that would be us), and we had a party of ten. One grand adventure. Two Uber XLs. Four bags per family (because who travels light when going to sea?).
**
The First Glimpse: Love at First Float
Royal Caribbean’s Liberty of the Seas stood docked like a skyscraper that had taken a horizontal sabbatical. Towering, gleaming, with the top decks bustling with sunhat-clad explorers and Pina Colada amateurs, the ship exuded glamour and gravity-defying engineering. How much of it was underwater, I kept wondering
The boarding was smooth; it smacked of efficiency. The Royal Caribbean staff operated with choreographed precision smiles. As we entered our 12th-floor staterooms, our suitcases were already neatly arranged at the door – not unlike obedient puppies waiting to be let in.
What greeted us inside made us gasp (some of it real, some theatrical I daresay). A wall-to-wall panoramic window offering glorious view of Lady Liberty herself, poised with her torch held high, seemingly wishing us bon voyage. The bed, king-sized and plush, promised to cradle us gently through the Atlantic lullabies.
**
Buffet Warfare and Windjammer Déjà Vu
The first port of call wasn’t Bermuda. It was Windjammer Café – the cruise ship’s legendary buffet zone, an all-you-can-eat haven where diets land up to perish.
“Is that an Italian pasta station or an entire province?” I asked no one in particular as I watched a chef wield a spatula with ‘Keanu Reeves in Matrix’-level reflexes.
Amid spoonfuls of mayonnaise-laced salad and pasta, memories came rushing back. Two decades earlier on a Mediterranean Cruise on Royal Caribbean’s Grandeur of the Seas, we used to frequent the Windjammer Cafe. And just like that, the generations merged across time and geography over plates piled high with memories – and shrimp tempura.
The Family crew @Windjammer
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The Ship That Never Slept … so how could we
With fourteen floors of everything one could think of. From swimming pools to simulated surfing to an entire promenade that looked like it had been smuggled out of Barcelona, Liberty of the Seas wasn’t a ship – it seemed more akin to a floating nation-state. All this for a guest count of 3400 and service providing crew numbering 1200!
The fun deck
The Platinum Theatre promised nightly shows with a Vegas vibe, and boy, did it deliver. Between ice-skating opera (yes, you read that right) and a Broadway-style rendition of Saturday Night Fever—complete with Bee Gees hits that had us singing falsetto into dessert—we barely had time to digest our dinners.
Ice Opera@ Studio B
Dining was a delight. Our assigned fine-dining restaurant was Botticelli, where we were seated by a window overlooking the Atlantic. It was a view so romantic, it could’ve made an accountant recite poetry.
Fine Dining experience @ The Botticelli
But with great food came great responsibility. We soon fell into the classic cruise rhythm:
As travel writer Kate Simon once said, “A cruise is a floating hotel with the added excitement of going somewhere — and waking up to a new view every day.” We couldn’t agree more, except we were too full to sit up in bed and appreciate that view.
**
Enter: Tornado Tanya and the Duck Hunter General
A cruise, they say, is only as memorable as its Cruise Director. And ours was unforgettable.
Tornado Tanya — part emcee, part event planner, part motivational speaker, and possibly part caffeine incarnate — zipped through venues, hosting dance-offs, trivia, pool parties, and late-night karaoke. She had the boundless energy of a toddler on Red Bull and the voice projection of a Shakespearean actor.
Our six-year-old granddaughter Anaysha ( we call her Tiri) , meanwhile, had embarked on her own high-seas mission: duck hunting. Not the feathered kind, mind you. This was a scavenger hunt for plastic ducks artfully hidden across the ship’s decks, bars, and even casino slot machines. She unearthed twenty-three of them – a personal best, a family record, and possibly a ship-wide headline if only Tanya had announced it.
**
The Bermuda Triangle – A ‘safe’ Detour
When we finally docked at Bermuda, we were slightly disappointed that we hadn’t fallen into a time warp.
Bermuda
Bermuda was…well, let us say, stunning. Coral pink sands, aquamarine waters, pastel houses with white roofs – the island looked like it had been filtered through a tropical Instagram lens. But that tale, especially that of the triangle, deserves its own dedicated post. Let’s just say, we came. We saw. We didn’t vanish, unlike those myriad ships and planes of the years gone by.
Was this the triangle?
**
The Slides, The Slips, and the Near-Scandal
Now, every cruise needs a personal epic. Mine came courtesy of The Slides – those twisting and turning tubes of water doom perched high above the ship like serpentine sculptures of fun and fear.
There were two:
The Pink Slide – dubbed “family friendly”
The Green Slide – otherwise known as “abandon all dignity ye who dare to enter here”
Those Water Slides
My first attempt was on the Pink Slide. It was supposed to be slow. It was. Too slow. Midway through, I got stuck. Yes, stuck. Picture this: an elderly man, wedged inside a tube, using his hands to scoot forward like a plumber in a pipeline.
A voice crackled on the intercom, “Is everything alright in there, sir?” To which I replied, “Define alright…”
Not to be defeated, I took on the Green Slide next. This time, I whooshed out like a human torpedo—splashed spectacularly into the pool… and got stuck sideways. Lifeguard involvement ensued. Applause, or was it suppressed sniggers, was heard. Dignity? Left behind somewhere in the tube.
**
Final Reflections: More Than Just a Cruise
As our ship finally sailed back into Bayonne and we waved a fond goodbye to Liberty of the Seas, it hit us – this had not been just a vacation. It was a story. A memory. A time capsule. A chaotic, joyful, belly-filling, duck-chasing, water-sliding tale of ten souls choosing to pause life and just be… together.
A Stateroom with a view
As travel writer Pico Iyer said, “We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves.”
Well, we certainly lost our diets. And found laughter, connection, and yes – even a part of ourselves.
And thus ends the tale of the Bermuda cruise. Bon voyage, until next time.
In musing……. Shakti Ghosal
References:
Simon, Kate. Cruising: The Only Way to Travel. Travel Weekly, 2016.
Iyer, Pico. Why We Travel. Salon.com, March 2000.
CruiseCritic.com – “Top 10 Cruise Director Superstars” (2023).
Royal Caribbean Official Website: Liberty of the Seas Deck Plan & Amenities (2024).
From the breezy ferry crossing over Cook Strait to sipping Sauvignon Blanc in a sun-drenched vineyard, our final days in New Zealand were an ode to quiet charm, coastal beauty, and surprising encounters. Dolphins, Blue Crayfish, and the gentle resilience of Christchurch—this last leg gave us a sense of what it truly means to journey, not just travel
As our journey across New Zealand’s North Island drew to a close, a sense of calm anticipation took hold. We were about to cross the Cook Strait—nature’s moat dividing the North and South Islands. After breakfast, we boarded the ferry at Wellington, following the well-worn advice to keep our eyes peeled for the scenic spectacle of Marlborough Sounds.
The Cook Strait has a reputation for being dramatic, both in its swells and its views. Ours was thankfully a smooth crossing, the deck wind-swept but tolerable—as long as you held tightly to your cap. While no seals or orcas showed up to greet us, a joyful surprise awaited mid-journey: a school of dolphins, dancing alongside our ferry near the starboard bow. It was a moment that felt choreographed by the sea itself.
Crossing Cook’s strait
The ferry eventually pulled into Picton, a sleepy harbor town where time seems to slow down. After our coach rolled off the ship’s lower deck, we headed into Blenheim, nestled at the heart of Marlborough—New Zealand’s most renowned wine region. As wine writer Michael Cooper once noted, “The Sauvignon Blancs here speak with piercing clarity and freshness, as if the land itself had whispered the recipe” (Wine NZ Magazine, 2022). Our lunch at a vineyard, paired with one of these signature whites, was a perfect blend of terroir and tranquility.
Marlborough region
Post lunch, the drive to Nelson was comfortably uneventful. Known as New Zealand’s sunshine capital, the town lived up to its name. Bathed in golden light, its leafy streets invited slow, deliberate exploration. We took a detour to the Abel Tasman National Park, where aquamarine coves and golden beaches teased us with just a glimpse of their natural magic. Later, a short cab ride took us on the Prince’s Drive, a winding hill route offering panoramic ocean views. It was one of those rare moments when the vastness of the ocean made one feel wonderfully small.
Abel Tasman National Park
From Nelson, our coastal drive traced the edge of the South Island’s spine. The Kaikoura stretch was especially dramatic—dark cliffs tumbling into turquoise waters. We stopped here, as one must, to try the region’s famed Blue Crayfish. Served fresh and simply, it needed little more than a squeeze of lemon. As travel writer Brook Sabin put it in a Stuff NZ feature, “Kaikoura offers a kind of wild luxury—the bounty of the sea framed by snow-capped peaks.”
Kaikoura
The inland leg to Canterbury gave us rolling pastures, distant alpine backdrops, and a lingering sense of serenity. Finally, we arrived in Christchurch, a city still tender from its past, yet confidently looking ahead. Much of it felt brand new, and understandably so—years after the 2011 earthquake, which damaged more than 80% of the central city.
Christchurch Tram Tour
But there was pride in the restoration, and even more in the spirit of the people. We hopped onto the Christchurch Tram Tour, a delightful old-world loop through a new-age city. Glassy riverbanks, modern architecture, and gentle storytelling from the conductor made it feel like a living museum, still writing its narrative.
Christchurch
And then, just like that, it was time to leave.
At Christchurch Airport, waiting to board our flight home, we reflected on what had made this journey special. Not just the landscapes—though they are indeed epic. Not just the food or wine or wildlife. It was the rhythm of New Zealand: slow when it needs to be, stirring when you least expect it.
New Zealand doesn’t just show you its beauty. It reveals it, bit by bit. Like its shifting light, it rewards those who take the time to look closely.
We departed with tired feet, happy hearts, and the quiet promise that someday, we would return.
References
Cooper, Michael. “Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc: Still Leading the Way.” Wine NZ Magazine, 2022.
Sabin, Brook. “Kaikoura’s Wild Luxury: Where the Sea Meets the Snow.” Stuff.co.nz, 2021.
Tourism New Zealand. “Christchurch Rebuild: Resilience and Renewal.” newzealand.com, 2023.
From the sun-drenched vineyards of Hawke’s Bay to the Art Deco charms of Napier and the cultured vibes of Wellington, our North Island journey in New Zealand was a heady blend of scenic beauty, fine wine, coastal elegance, and urban character. Here’s a glimpse of three unforgettable days soaking in the essence of Kiwi culture, cuisine, and charm.
Pacific Coastline
**
New Zealand often conjures images of snow-capped peaks, sheep-dotted meadows, and fjord-streaked landscapes. But on the North Island’s eastern edge lies a less-trumpeted triad of experiences that seduce the senses in a quieter, more intimate way: the sun-drenched vineyards of Hawke’s Bay, the Art Deco elegance of Napier, and the cosmopolitan charm of Wellington.
We began the day heading toward Hawke’s Bay, a region known for its Mediterranean climate, rich soils, and status as one of New Zealand’s finest wine-producing areas. The road wound through rolling hills and vineyard vistas that stretched out like pages from a postcard. It’s no wonder that Lonely Planet calls Hawke’s Bay “a food and wine lover’s paradise… where long sunny days and fertile plains create the perfect recipe for indulgence.”
Hawke’s Bay
Our stop at Mission Estate Winery—New Zealand’s oldest established winery dating back to 1851—was the highlight of our visit. The elegant colonial-era structure welcomed us like an old friend, and we quickly found ourselves immersed in a world of subtle textures and fragrant bouquets. The Sauvignon Blanc stood out with its crisp minerality, but it was the velvety Syrah that stayed with us long after the last sip. A relaxed lunch followed in a shaded courtyard adorned with trellises, garden blooms, and birdsong. It felt more like a countryside dream than a scheduled stop.
Mission Estate Winery
The next chapter of our journey took us to Napier, a gem of a coastal town shaped by both tragedy and triumph. Rebuilt in the 1930s following a devastating earthquake, the town now proudly showcases one of the most concentrated collections of Art Deco architecture in the world. A stroll down its palm-lined promenade revealed a town wrapped in pastel tones and whimsical curves, as if time itself had taken a gentler turn here.
Art Deco
Condé Nast Traveler once described Napier as “a place where you’ll want to slow down and look up,” and that’s exactly what I did. As I meandered through the town, every façade seemed to carry a story—of resilience, rebirth, and remarkable aesthetic unity. Our hotel, perched with unobstructed views of the Pacific Ocean, felt like a poetic pause in this narrative. The sea, ever restless, offered a calming counterpoint to the symmetry of the streets.
The following morning, we descended further south to Wellington, the capital city nestled between rolling hills and a sparkling harbour. Where Napier wore nostalgia on its sleeve, Wellington was vibrantly alive—a city that fused culture and creativity with surprising sophistication. Its streets, both parallel and sloped, gave it a geometric charm, while cafés spilled out onto sidewalks filled with young creatives, office-goers, and the occasional street performer.
There’s something beautifully paradoxical about Wellington—it’s compact yet buzzing, orderly yet expressive. The Wellington Marina invited us to pause and breathe in the city’s rhythm. Boats bobbed gently in their berths, while locals wandered past us with wind-blown hair and takeaway coffees. No surprise then that the BBC once referred to Wellington as “the coolest little capital in the world.”
Wellington Marina
Dinner was a quiet affair, but we couldn’t resist passing by the city’s political heart—the Beehive, a part of the New Zealand Parliament complexes. The building’s modernist circular form is either intriguing or awkward, depending on your point of view. I found it oddly compelling, a symbol perhaps of the country’s bold architectural spirit, unafraid to provoke a reaction.
As we wound down our day in Wellington, I couldn’t help but reflect on the journey. Each place had offered something distinct: Hawke’s Bay’s pastoral elegance, Napier’s vintage soul, and Wellington’s urban charisma. Yet all were stitched together by a common Kiwi thread—warmth, nature, and quiet sophistication.
In a world where travel often tries to impress through spectacle, this journey stood out for its graceful subtlety. It didn’t shout; it sang.
A New Beginning 