“Is the minaret that beautiful blue color, as it always appears in photos?” Prince Charles asks me.
We all look up and, sure enough, it is.
I’m not the biggest fan of across-desert trips—overnight in the desert, anything can go wrong—but my time in the Middle East has given me a special kind of admiration for this region of the world. The sand dunes in Abu Dhabi and Dubai are gorgeous, and the falcons and Arabian horses are all very interesting. I’ve also made a visit to Jordan and Israel, travelling the same forty-mile route on camel in Jordan as Peter O’Toole did in Lawrence of Arabia (to note another early 1960s film that glorifies the wonder of the Middle East), between timeless Wadi Rum (or the granite-and-sandstone “Valley of the Moon”) and Aqaba.
I’ve also toured Israel and its antiquities, even getting a special opening of the room where Jesus held the Last Supper. That was an amazing trip—we held banquets in the desert for dinner, slept in tents along the way, and sang under the stars at night.
The travel experiences of the Middle East are treasures, and it is a place that I find critical for Westerners to visit. I feel very strongly that if more world leaders and decision makers travelled there, there would be less conflict in the world. When we witness with our own eyes the everyday life of people who seem very different from us, we gain an appreciation for them . . . and often find that they are not so different at all.
{Pambudi Yoga Perdana/Shutterstock.com}
Canopy detail of the Mosque, Al-Masjid an-Nabawi.
{Ahmad Faizal Yahya/Shutterstock.com}
Al-Masjid an-Nabawi, the Mosque of the Prophet, in Medina. The prayer hall can accommodate more than a half million worshippers.
{William J. Robinson}
The fabled Taj Mahal in Agra, built by the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan to express his undying love.
Chapter 9
India
1979
There are circles of my friends who barely think of me as a travel executive—to them, I’m better known for my forty-year career in amateur polo. At Prince William’s wedding in 2011, I approached Prince Philip to say hello and congratulate him on the marriage of his grandson. He asked me, “Geoffrey, are you still playing polo?”
“I’m not, sir,” I told him. “I had a rather bad injury a few years back.”
“Well, everyone gets hurt playing polo,” he said. “Are you still selling those ridiculously priced safari holidays of yours, then?”
We had a good laugh—me even more than him. Here was the boy from Kenya who in his Sandhurst days had arrived at the Guards Polo Club to lease ponies at ten pounds a chukka because he didn’t have the budget to ride his own horses—who then went on to captain the Windsor Park Polo Team when Prince Philip’s son, His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, revived the team in 1987.
My polo friends contribute to my career significantly. In 1969, I play in Nairobi with Jai Singh, known among society and royal circles as Joey Jaipur. Joey’s brother Bhawani Singh (known to us as “Bubbles”) is the Maharaja—the prince—of Jaipur. Joey and I get on brilliantly and, sincerely supportive of what I’m working to accomplish, he introduces me to an Englishman named Jim Edwards. Jim has just opened a lodge in Nepal and is hopeful I can help him brainstorm some marketing plans to attract clientele.
On visiting his lodge, I see the attraction. It’s irresistible, easily one of the friendliest, most uniquely beautiful, and vibrant places either of us has ever been. I want in—but to penetrate this area and bring in Western travellers will require us to create a new standard in tourism. Clients need to sense that even if they feel worlds away from home, they’re close to a source of help for whatever they might need. We establish Abercrombie & Kent India to accomplish this in India and Nepal.
“Elephant polo?”
“Elephant polo!” Jim Edwards is high energy over drinks in central London. We discuss how to create a spectacle that will get worldwide publicity and draw people to Nepal and his Tiger Tops Jungle Lodge, where guests arrive riding elephants to sleep among the tigers inside rooms built up on stilts. “It won’t actually be competitive, Geoff, it’s for amusement—think tourism, charity. It will attract fantastic attention.”
Jim Edwards admits he’s never touched a polo mallet, but I have—and I see great opportunity here. Nepal is a market that’s relatively underexposed, as it opened for tourism only in the early 1950s. For some time now, I’ve had my feelers out for the right way in.
“You’ll come and stay at Tiger Tops,” Jim says. “There’s nothing in the world like it. You’ll play some polo, teach me a bit of the game, and make a few new friends. You’ll see for yourself how attractive India and Nepal are. Soon Tiger Tops will be a world-famous lodge where you bring your clients,” he leans in to the table and narrows his eyes, “and we both make a lot of money.”
I lean back in my chair, observing how the stars are lining up. Last year, in 1978, my team won the US Open in polo, and ever since, I’ve received a number of invitations to play polo in India, where the game is a national sport. Joey Jaipur once insisted that if I ever came to India, I’d stay with his stepmother, the Princess Gayatri Devi—better known as Maharani Ayesha—whose husband, the prince, died in 1970.
After my meeting with Jim Edwards, I phone Joey Jaipur. He’s enthusiastic to schedule polo games in Jaipur and Delhi and make the arrangements for me to stay at the guesthouse of Ayesha’s hideaway mansion called Lilypool, adjacent to Rambagh Palace in Jaipur.
The offer seems surreal: Princess Ayesha is a living legend. She was born in London to royalty from another Indian state, and was a spirited child who was said to be the most beautiful girl in the world. A bit of a tomboy, she captured the heart of the Maharaja of Jaipur when he was twenty-one and already had two wives and two sons. At the time, Ayesha was just twelve.
Her mother and grandmother, both rather progressive Maharanis, worried that if she married the Maharaja, Ayesha would become secluded from society life. She proved them very wrong when she cultivated famously close friendships with some of the world’s leading women, such as Queen Elizabeth II and Jacqueline Kennedy.
On my first morning in Jaipur when I arrive for breakfast on her patio next to the swimming pool, Ayesha is dressed in a bright tunic and sits before a generous breakfast spread. “It’s so nice to see you again,” I tell her. “What a lovely breakfast.”
“Geoffrey!” she says, rising from her chair. “Lovely to see you again too.” Her lips are full and painted deep violet; her eyes are dramatic. Her hair is sleek jet-black, and it skims the pearls around her neck. Her air is somehow both mysterious and friendly. “Please, sit,” she says, and her cook arrives at my side at the table. “Would you get Geoffrey some chai, please?” The cook bows in response and turns inside.
Over breakfast, we chat about the many friends we have in common, all connected through our mutual love of polo. The Princess’s husband was a ten-goal player—it’s no wonder to me that she knows the sport so well. “It’s the start of the season,” she says, “you’ll play while you’re here, won’t you, Geoffrey?”
“Yes, here and up in Delhi.”
“That’s what I hoped to hear.”
In Delhi two days later, I find the lobby of the Taj Hotel gleaming with marble accents, gold furniture, and a row of massive chandeliers lining the center of the ceiling. The clerk at the front desk is dressed in full sari, wearing thick gold bracelets on both wrists, and her hair is pulled back, elegant and smooth. “Mr. Kent,” she greets me with a subtle accent and a bow. “We’ve arranged the house car for your stay.”
She gestures toward the front door, where I turn to find a gorgeous Mercedes sitting outside. Ayesha must have made a phone call. “The chauffeur will be here for you whenever you like,” she says. “Go on and get settled, we’ve put you in the executive suite with a view of Humayun’s tomb. You can have a look about the city any time you like.”
When I enter the front portal of my suite, I find that the space is
palatial, both in size and decor. Each of the walls has a unique Indian crown molding and an ornate design carved into it, with symmetrical curved cascades that rise up to a point like an exaggerated, perfect flame. Through sliding glass doors is a view of a thick tree line . . . and crowned among the trees is the white marble dome of the tomb of Humayun, the sixteenth-century ruler of the Mughal Empire, which then covered most of modern-day northern India.
I wander out onto the balcony and find a small plunge pool and a full grand garden panorama, a sprawling stretch of pure lawn and trees. I’d expected a city like Delhi to make me feel trapped within buildings, but this is one of the most serene spots on which I’ve ever stood.
{A&K staff}
I played one of the best polo matches of my career in India, and here I am going for a goal.
For the few weeks that I’m in India, luck seems to lead me. Far up north in Kashmir, known for its friendly people, I’m invited to a champagne party on a houseboat on Dal Lake. Back in Delhi, I attend the finals of the Indian Open polo championship compliments of the Maharaja of Jaipur, who is nicknamed “Bubbles” because of all the champagne that was consumed when he was born. Bubbles has gotten me a seat in the VIP spectators’ box. Less than sixty seconds into the match, Colonel R. S. “Pickles” Sodhi flies off his horse and breaks his collarbone, and I’m pulled from my seat—reluctantly—to play in the tournament in front of an audience of thirty thousand. Without any changing room, the teams, officials, and grooms form a ring around me on the field, hardly the height of privacy, and pass me a variety of boots, breeches, and a helmet. Finally, I find something that fits and climb onto one of Pickles’s ponies.
As much as I’d looked forward to a relaxing day of watching polo, by the end of the match, I’ve played one of the best games of my career: I score three goals, and we win, four goals to two. On the way out, I go to the hospital and try to hand off my trophy to Pickles Sodhi, who’s being attended to by a medical team. “You won it, Geoffrey,” Pickles says. “You keep it.”
The first week in November, I attend the beautiful camel fair at Pushkar—something biblical. The camels, cattle, and horses traipse out, decorated and colorful as floats in a parade. Street performers entertain on the path, and everywhere I look there’s something wild and new to see. When the moon rises, the Hindu women come out and walk about with beautiful pots on their heads. I camp there for three days, taking in the magnificence of the desert lights and shadows, plotting how easy it would be to market vacations to India. Maharajas, Temples, and Tigers. We’ll be one of the companies that popularizes India and builds high-end tours here.
When I return home to the United States, I meet with Tim Somerset Webb, who’s still running our Middle Eastern operation. “We’ve got to get into India,” I tell him. “Without a doubt, it’s what’s next.”
Tim flies out to Delhi and hustles to secure contracts with the Taj and Oberoi hotels. We design a leisure vacation that will attract Western clients in the very months they’re looking to escape the cold climates at home. I score a contract with British Airways, booking our India tours—as well as our Egypt and South Africa tours—using their airline exclusively.
We’re in business in the subcontinent, and within less than a decade, our tours are generating such buzz that Prince Charles asks me to show him Nepal. We trek the Himalayas led by Gurkha troops, world-renowned warriors from Nepal who serve as our security and as our lookouts. We trek many miles through the foothills of Annapurna I, the mountain with one of the highest fatality rates in the world, and then we attempt to outdo each other’s pace around Annapurna II. “I’ve heard that there are many people on these trails,” says Prince Charles. “Where is everyone?”
“We’ve got Gurkha soldiers ahead of you, Sir.”
The Gurkha soldiers are so brilliantly trained that even Prince Charles is stunned by their stealth. As we enter the forest as night falls, he whispers, “Where have the Gurkhas gone?” In that instant, one of the soldiers flashes his torch to demonstrate his proximity just steps ahead.
India is a charm for us throughout the industry hell that is the Gulf War—it’s one of the very few destinations Westerners feel safe exploring. But our charmed streak in India ends in November 1994 when I’m driving from Orlando to Vero Beach and Tim Webb calls my car phone. “Geoff, I’m in Chicago,” he says. “I’ve just gotten in from Delhi.”
“How did it go?”
“Geoff, I have really bad news. Are you sitting down?”
“Yes, but driving.”
“Geoff, you’ve gotta stop.”
“Really?” Shit. I search for an exit, my nerves suddenly spiked. I move onto a wide spot on the shoulder of I-95 and turn on my flashers. “What is it?”
“There’s trouble in the India office. There’s been big fraud.”
“Damn it. Just what I was afraid of.”
“They’ve been embezzling, Geoff—massively. They were taking shopping commissions, they’ve given kickbacks left and right to travel groups and tour managers.”
“How bad is it?”
{A&K staff}
Princess Diana congratulates Prince Charles and me at the Guard’s Polo Club in 1987 on a victory when I was Captain of the Windsor Park Polo Team.
“Bad. We’re talking hundreds of thousands—approaching a million.”
Outside my windshield is flat Florida road; cars zipping by paying no mind to my worries. The world keeps turning at moments like these, which, in some way, is reassuring. I start up my engine and check my mirrors before veering back onto the interstate.
“Geoff? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“It gets worse.”
“How much worse?”
I hear a sigh through the phone, then, “Geoff, I don’t know how to say this: they’ve burnt the office to the ground.”
“What?!”
Again I hunt down a wide enough space on the right shoulder to peel off. The car is still running as Tim continues. “They have burnt the office to the ground, Geoff. They burnt it down and flooded it.”
“Jesus, Tim!”
“All the computers, all the files. Everything. Gone. They knew they were busted, and as soon as I left, they burnt the whole thing down.”
“Get ahold of the staff from that office—”
“There is no staff, Geoff. They’ve all walked out. They were all in on it.”
I roll down my window. I can’t get enough air. “Right, you and I have got to get over there immediately. This is the start of the high season, everyone arrives for their Christmas holiday in two weeks. We have to send messages—where?”
“To the London, Chicago, and Australia offices.”
“Good. Send messages asking for the names of the groups, the travellers, the itineraries, everything. Get a new team, get them set up in a new office. Work backwards from these itineraries. Did the India office cancel any of the room nights in the hotels?”
“No, I already checked. All the rooms are still booked.”
Tim sets up desks in the lobbies of the Oberoi and the Taj Palace hotels and works with the bell desks to funnel all Abercrombie & Kent clients to that desk. He pleasantly explains to our clients that there’s been a small accident in our office, and, single-handedly, he manages to salvage the trips.
In January, after the Christmas rush has slowed down, I call him up. “We’ve worked it up: in the end, the whole debacle cost us three hundred thousand, but it could have been a lot worse, Tim. Well done. Now there’s just one thing left to do.”
{A&K staff}
My wife, Otavia, and I were guests at the wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton, and from that day forward they were to be known as the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.
Tim’s silent on the line, then: “Yes. I know.” He heads to the Oberoi Hotel and enters the office of their most senior sales executive. Tim makes him an offer, and by the time he exits, we have a new managing director in our India office.
&
nbsp; Our business in India has run high and steady ever since, thanks in large part to the fact that India tends to be one of the all-time safest destinations in the world. However, in late November 2008, a group of our clients encountered rare danger when ten terrorists set out and besieged a handful of Mumbai’s major tourist hubs: cafés, train stations, and luxury hotels. For an entire day, terrified travellers in various locations across the city hid out inside their suites, listening to gunshots and grenades as 166 people—including guests and hotel staff—were killed in cold blood. While some of the hotels under attack prohibited any guests from leaving their grounds, Abercrombie & Kent’s India office knew that it was crucial to lift our clients out of the chaos and set them up somewhere safe—immediately.
An Australian Abercrombie & Kent client later wrote to us: “We were evacuated at 4:00 in the morning out of our bedroom window, absolutely terrified, with flames behind us and the sounds of gunfire.” Our staff had shown up firsthand to help execute their rescue. “I now understand the value of the A&K cocoon,” she wrote. “As I came down the ladder in the midst of the mayhem, unbelievably I saw the yellow A&K sign and heard a voice say ‘Are you with Abercrombie & Kent?’ It was our guide waiting to take us away to the safety of the Four Seasons. They were the most reassuring words I have ever heard!”
Some international news reports covering the event stated that some native Indians felt devastated and ashamed that visitors had experienced such terror, but unfortunately, as we have seen in New York, Boston, London, Paris, and Copenhagen, no place in the world is safe from terrorists.
{A&K staff}
I was the first Western tour operator allowed to run trips in China, with tailor-made journeys for the individual traveller.
Chapter 10
China
Safari Page 11
