Latest news with #Taba
Zawya
13 hours ago
- Business
- Zawya
Egypt plans new submarine power cable to Jordan: report
Egypt is planning to build another submarine power cable to Jordan with a capacity of 2,000 megawatts (MW) to supply electricity to Syria, Iraq and Lebanon, a Saudi news network reported on Tuesday. The project will be completed in 2029 and will quadruple the present power supply to Jordan, Asharq Business said, quoting an Egyptian government source. 'Egypt is planning to export electricity to Iraq, Syria and Lebanon via a submarine cable to Jordan with a capacity of 2,000 project is still under study,' the report said. It added that the new cable would start from Taba town in South Sinai and stretch to the Gulf of Aqaba on the Red Sea. The project is expected to be completed within 30 months, the report said, noting that Egypt is preparing to invite consultancy bids for the project. According to the report, Egypt is already linked to Jordan via a 500 MW capacity submarine cable which was built in 1999. Construction is underway on a 3GW interconnection project between Egypt and Saudi Arabia at an estimated cost of $1.8 billion (Writing by Nadim Kawach; Editing by Anoop Menon) (
Business Times
24-07-2025
- Business Times
Ta'aktana, Labuan Bajo: A luxury island resort for slow travel
The sky over Labuan Bajo looked like ink being poured into water – smoky purples and molten orange bleeding across the Flores Sea. Just off the coast, the island silhouettes were jagged and calm, like the spines of sleeping dragons. On the balcony of Ta'aktana Resort & Spa, we paused. No music, no phones, just wind and the rustle of trees. This was the beginning of something still and slow. Labuan Bajo, tucked on the western edge of Flores in East Nusa Tenggara, used to be a fishing town with one road, a few homestays, and no one selling sarongs in English. Now it's quietly emerging as one of South-east Asia's more surreal escapes – a gateway to Komodo National Park, a hop from the gorgeous islands of Rinca and Padar, and part of Indonesia's 'Five Super Priority Tourism Destinations' plan. Sunset paints the Flores sky in a wash of blues, oranges and purples. PHOTO: TA'AKTANA But even with airport upgrades and a sprinkling of new resorts, Labuan Bajo isn't racing anywhere. Roads still wind loosely, chickens casually cross them, and the town is only now getting its first taste of modern shopping centres. You can come here and forget which day it is, and Ta'aktana encourages that. A new addition to The Luxury Collection by Marriott, Ta'aktana stretches across 16 hectares of what locals call 'ta'aktana' – 'green land' in the indigenous Manggarai language. 'To me, Ta'aktana is a grounding philosophy,' said general manager Peter-Paul Kleiss. 'It speaks of growth, abundance and our connection to the land.' You don't get the usual fanfare. The check-in area overlooks a quiet bay, where fishing boats bob gently in the water. Staff greet you with chilled tea brewed from island plants. Someone hands you a warm towel with a faint scent of herbs. You're not rushed. A NEWSLETTER FOR YOU Friday, 2 pm Lifestyle Our picks of the latest dining, travel and leisure options to treat yourself. Sign Up Sign Up The best Ta'aktana villas sit above the sea, so you wake up to uninterrupted ocean views. PHOTO: TA'AKTANA The most luxurious villas overlook the sea – the kind of water you'd draw with crayons as a child: shimmering cerulean in the morning, mysterious cobalt by night. Inside, the spaces feel warm and grounded, finished with carved wood, rattan and textured stone. Architectural features such as layered terraces and pitched alang-alang roofs echo the traditional Mbaru Niang homes of the Manggarai people. 'There's a lot to do,' Kleiss told us, 'or it can be the perfect place to do nothing.' Evenings of quiet luxury That first evening, we dined at Taba, a robatayaki-style grill perched just above the waterline, where the breeze carried the scent of the sea. Plates of smoky eggplant, grilled squid and catch-of-the-day nigiri arrived one after another, each more surprising than the last. The restaurant looked practically empty, even though the resort was running at near-full capacity. Taba serves freshly caught sashimi, tsukune and Flores' corn rolls. PHOTO: TA'AKTANA 'It's designed to feel empty,' said Kleiss. 'We want guests to feel like they have the whole place to themselves.' No surprise, given there are just 70 guest rooms – 25 villas and 45 suites – spread across 16 hectares. The next morning, we drove past banana trees and wooden huts to Batu Cermin (Mirror Cave), nestled in the hills outside Labuan Bajo. Inside, the limestone passages narrowed quickly, forcing us to crawl. Overhead, bats slept and fossilised coral clung to the walls – a reminder that this part of Flores once lay beneath the sea. Later, we headed to Melo Village, where sweeping views of the coast unfolded below. We were greeted by men in woven sarongs and women playing drums and flutes. They presented the Caci dance, a traditional Manggarai martial art performed with whips and shields. It felt like being invited into a memory the village was keeping alive every day. The Caci dance performed by Melo villagers. PHOTO: TA'AKTANA That night at Umasa, Ta'aktana's signature Indonesian restaurant, dinner felt like a quiet conversation with the land and sea. The courses were served in a traditional rantang (stacked tiffin): tender smoked beef, grilled tuna with sauteed vegetables, squid and eggplant bathed in sambal, and a crisp, golden duck that crackled with every bite. Dessert was something unexpected: caramelised fermented cassava with tapai ice cream. Much of the produce came either from the ocean or the resort's own edible garden, where torch ginger, lemongrass, and leafy greens are harvested daily. 'It's not only about freshness,' Kleiss explained. 'It's about living more consciously. From the zero-waste cocktails at our bar to the coffee beans sourced directly from Flores, we apply the same philosophy of circularity and care.' That night, we slept peacefully, as if the land itself had welcomed us. With only 70 guest rooms spread across 16 hectares, Ta'aktana in Labuan Bajo is designed to feel spacious and secluded, even at full capacity. PHOTO: TA'AKTANA Dragons and dream beaches On the second morning, a boat took us to Komodo Island. We spotted Komodo dragons – massive, muscular, more prehistoric-looking than majestic. One lay in the sand with its eyes half-shut. Another prowled through the underbush, looking for prey. 'They eat humans,' our guide whispered. 'Some years ago, a Singaporean wandered off by himself to take pictures. He was attacked. He needed 43 stitches.' We took out our phones to google the story – then took a step back. Komodo Island is one of the last places on Earth to see wild Komodo dragons. PHOTO: TA'AKTANA We thought Komodo Island would be the highlight. We were wrong. Not long after, we set off for a tiny sandbar called Taka Makassar, where the famous Pink Beach shimmered – crushed red coral blending into powdery white sand. The water was some of the clearest we'd ever seen. Below the surface was a kaleidoscope of clownfish, anemones, cobalt sea stars. We slipped into our snorkelling gear and swam through it all, wide-eyed, like we were moving in a dream. In these parts, the beaches appears pink because of the mix of crushed red coral and white sand. PHOTO: TA'AKTANA Back at the resort, we stopped by Di'a Spa. Inspired by the limestone caves of Flores, the space felt cool and hushed: stone-lined walls, soft curves, dim lighting, and the gentle trickle of water. 'Di'a means 'you' and 'beauty,'' Kleiss had said. 'It's where we invite guests to reconnect – with themselves, with nature, with stillness.' Inside, the experience was deeply rooted in the island. Treatments drew on local culture – body wraps using island-sourced botanicals, coffee-based scrubs made from Flores beans, and massage techniques inspired by ancient healing practices. We slipped into the rhythm of the land itself. Our last dinner was a surprise: a seafood buffet set up right on the beach. Wooden stalls lined the shore in the style of warongs – Indonesia's laid-back roadside eateries – each one serving something different, from freshly grilled seafood to traditional and modern desserts. A surprise beachside seafood buffet with grilled catch, local sweets and sea breeze. PHOTO: TA'AKTANA We wandered from stall to stall, plates in hand. Overhead, bamboo lanterns cast light onto plates piled with grilled crab, tamarind-glazed octopus, and sambal clams. The tide murmured in the background, while the speakers played Indonesian pop – like the kind you'd hear in a real warong. Life was good. The only thing we didn't have was a bigger stomach. A soft, sad departure On our final morning, some returned to the spa, while others headed for the jetty, where there were complimentary paddleboards, water bikes and snorkels. The sea was calm. The sky was still. In the distance, fishermen moved across the horizon. Slip into the water and explore the reef beneath the villas. PHOTO: TA'AKTANA Ta'aktana doesn't insist. It simply offers. You can kayak or you can sleep in. Visit dragons or nap in the shade. The resort doesn't sell silence – but it makes space for it. At checkout, it struck us how the place had slipped under our skin. Already in town, a few new European cafes had opened in the past few months. We wondered how long Labuan Bajo could remain untouched. But Kleiss is more optimistic. 'This place has started attracting a more diverse group of travellers looking for lifestyle-driven spaces to dine and unwind – not just Komodo dragons. I do believe this tourism ecosystem will expand. And the key will be to grow mindfully, with collaborations between local communities, businesses and the government.' Leaving behind the view of the island's tranquil bay was hard. PHOTO: TA'AKTANA As we drove into the airport, a huge sign read: 'I Love Labuan Bajo'. After a few days at Ta'aktana, it didn't feel like a tagline. It felt true. The writer was a guest of Ta'aktana Resort & Spa. Scoot is launching direct flights to Labuan Bajo in October 2025.
Scroll.in
13-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Scroll.in
‘Myth is a carrier of history, trauma, resistance': Subi Taba on writing about Arunachal Pradesh
Tales from the Dawn-lit Mountains is a debut collection of short stories by Subi Taba, who gracefully divides her time between writing and being an Agriculture Development Officer. The hills of Arunachal and their varied rhythms come alive in Taba's storytelling. Taba won the New Asian Writing Short Story Prize in 2020, and was shortlisted for the Twist and Twain Short Story Prize in 2021. She is also a South Asia Speaks fellow of the 2021 cohort, and the winner of the inaugural 'The Perfect Pitch' contest organised by Penguin Random House India. I caught up with the writer over text messages and asked her about her writing life. Excerpts from the conversation. What was your intention behind writing these stories? How did these stories come about? My intention and vision with Tales from the Dawn-lit Mountains was to create stories from diverse communities of Arunachal Pradesh. I wanted to write a book that entertains people while educating and informing them about the landscapes, culture, myths, and quiet philosophies embedded in the lives of the people from Arunachal Pradesh. These stories emerged from a place of memory and longing – for the landscape, the voices of elders, and the sacred silences of the mountains. Some stories came from anecdotes I heard in the villages about a man turning into a tiger, a village disappearing after disturbing a certain serpent, a family having unnatural deaths and sickness after being cursed by a priest for thievery. Such speculative stories are a part of small villages, and as a child, I used to revel in the excitement of hearing these stories. Most of the stories in this collection are set in rural villages, and the reason for setting them in rural landscapes is that they constitute some of the purest remnants of a tribe's pulse and identity. So, my aim was to present a slice of Arunachal Pradesh through its villages. Each story has an incisive element of poetry. Does it come naturally to you? How do you think poetically? I started my literary journey as a poet first, perhaps, due to that, my first instinct as a writer is shaped by poetry. Perhaps it comes naturally to me because I like to think about my story scenes in images, in sounds, and in sensory rhythms. I enjoy the art of fashioning words in different forms and styles. I think being a sensitive and emotional person helps me think poetically. I like to associate the emotions of the characters of my stories to a certain musicality. And I believe the landscapes I write about – lush, haunting, untamed – demand a poetic response. The stories are rooted in the socio-cultural and geo-political ethos of Arunachali society. One often finds that the characters move within the constraints defined by external forces beyond their existence. Tell me about the process of writing about people whose fates are often pre-determined, provided you are writing in a time when individualism rules supreme. That tension between destiny and agency fascinated me. Many of the characters I write about exist within tightly woven webs – of tradition, community, ancestry, and political imposition. Yet within those constraints, they find small but powerful moments of resistance, introspection, and even transformation. Writing these characters involved a kind of listening – not just to what they say, but to what their silences mean. In a time of radical individualism, these collective, inherited struggles remind us that identity is often a negotiation, not a declaration. Your stories blend myth and folklore (fantasy) with realism. How difficult is it to make such stories believable? The key lies in treating the fantastical with the same emotional seriousness as the real. In many Indigenous worldviews, the mythic is not a separate realm – it coexists with the tangible. For me, believability comes when the story honours the logic of its own world. I never try to explain the supernatural – I allow it to be, as it is for many in Arunachali communities, part of everyday life. If I believe it as a writer, the reader can too. AN: The stories in the collection have political undertones. I wonder how you decided on the insertion of politics – both current and historical, in the narrative? How extensive and frequent was your research? Politics is never absent in a place like Arunachal Pradesh – it's written into the land, the rivers, even the silence. The insertion wasn't deliberate in a didactic sense; it was organic. These stories grew from questions I carried – about displacement, loss of religion, and ecological degradation. I did a fair amount of observation and listening to the other person's points of view for my research, but I also relied on lived experience. For every story, I studied articles related to the story, read thesis books in the libraries for some stories and referred to historical accounts, photographs and online sources. I visited some of the villages to study the landscape, the shape of the clouds and the hills, and the vegetation. The research acted more like a compass than a map. Do you believe in the paranormal world? How far is your writing influenced by your own beliefs? I don't believe in ghosts as such but I do believe in energies – whether it's spirits, ancestral voices, or the sentience of a forest. My writing is certainly influenced by the possibility of this openness. It allows me to write about the supernatural not as an 'other' world, but as an extension of this one. For a writer starting out to write about myths and realism, what would you suggest would be some prerequisites? Begin by listening – to stories, to landscapes, to silences. Immerse yourself in the source material – oral histories, folktales, rituals, language. But also ask: Why am I telling this story now? Your writing should not only honour the past but also speak to the present. And above all, write with humility. You are not inventing the myth – you are entering into a conversation with it. It is often seen that the Northeast is known mostly for its folklore and myths as against, say, the more 'serious' forms of writing from the subcontinent. The political nuances are often layered with mysticism rather than straightforward realism. Do you think such a discourse is true? Are writers from the region more focused on storytelling based on myth and folktales? What can be done to make literature more subversive in the sense that literature from the region is seen as 'serious' as the rest of it? There is some truth to that discourse, though I believe it comes more from how literature from the Northeast is perceived than how it is actually written. Folklore is often seen as decorative or exotic, rather than politically potent. But for us, myth is a carrier of history, trauma, resistance. Writers from the region are reclaiming these stories and using them as subversive tools. What's needed is not a shift in content, but a shift in critical lenses – we must expand our definitions of 'serious' literature to include indigenous epistemologies and narrative forms. AN: You also work full-time as a government official. How do you juggle between your duties and writing? With great difficulty. My writing for this book happened mostly in my early mornings and the researching part, which I actually enjoyed, happened at all the in-between times of my busy life. My job actually helped in the creation and inspiration for some stories in the book like 'Spirit of the Forest', 'Love and Longing in Seijosa' and 'The Lost Village', all set in a district Pakke Kessang, where I was posted for my duties. The influence of the landscape and the people I met in these small towns reflects in these stories. So, in a way, my job also helped me feed on unlikely circumstances and situations that birthed some stories that might not have happened inside my four walled room. What are you writing next? I'm thinking of creating a novel that continues to explore the intersection of folklore, shamanism, and oral traditions – but on a much larger canvas. I wish to include more cultural and historical elements from lesser known tribes and regions of the state.
Scroll.in
31-05-2025
- General
- Scroll.in
‘Tales from the Dawn-lit Mountains': Observant and deeply empathetic stories from Arunachal Pradesh
'I wanted to write a book that entertains people while educating and informing them about the landscapes, culture, myths, and quiet philosophies embedded in the lives of the people from Arunachal Pradesh,' said Subi Taba in one of our exchanges. True to her maxim, the ten tales about the dawn-lit mountains of Arunachal Pradesh become an excursion into the volatile yet extraordinary lives lived on the margins of time and space. These stories reiterate that the co-existence of man and nature is as essential as it is primitive. Any attempt to disrupt this equilibrium creates a cleft, insurmountable and sometimes, irreversible. The people of the hinterland For Taba, the stories included in the collection Tales from the Dawn-lit Mountains have emerged out of longing. The fondness for home, elders and community tie most of the stories together. Yet, they retain their individuality. In the story, 'A Night with the Tiger,' Taba hints at the animosity of harming nature quite early on, replaying the same theme in many other stories where nature eventually haunts the hunter. What starts off as surreal becomes believable because of the foretelling of elders. At once, therefore, the story conjures up a past that relies on the community's knowledge of omens and blessings. A man-tiger, unlikely as it might be, morphs into a metaphor for man's corrupting grasp on the non-human and the consequences thereof. Stories such as 'Curse of the High Priest', 'Plant, Pig and Woman,' and 'Spirit of the Forest' further the element of the uncanny, explaining Taba's assertion that in order to make the fantastical familiar, she has to treat it with the 'same emotional seriousness as the real.' The narrative here is also an extension of the Indigenous worldviews that do not distinguish between the mythic and the tangible. Taba's insistence that these stories 'honour the logic of its own world' is heightened when the curse of a senior priest materialises, destroying a family, when the souls of a pig and a plant give a tortured woman company, or when the spirit of the forest conspires to kill a greedy capitalist. The stories deal with temporality non-linearly. While the primordial world shares space with WhatsApp-driven aspects of modernity, its momentum is limited by the temporal distance it shares with the present. The characters inhabiting these liminal spaces have predestined fates and, despite exerting their agencies or, as the author states, 'finding small but powerful moments of resistance, introspection, and even transformation', are frozen in karmic time. Stories which consistently carry the relevance of fates are 'The Lost Village,' 'Love and Longing in Seijosa,' and 'A Man from China.' Here, the lives of the characters come full circle at moments of crisis. It is fate working for the girl who spends years looking for the remaining pieces of a story her grandmother told her as a child, and fate indeed when a father's longing manifests his daughter's visit after years of estrangement, but only when it is too late. Nostalgia for a bygone era is indeed an overarching theme. Reminiscence about the past is found especially in the stories, 'The Last Donyi-polo Priest' and 'Macabre Memories of a Head-hunter.' The protagonists' experientiality, narrated in a modern world, provides incisive glimpses into the trajectories societies have taken through the course of Arunachal's history. Beheading defeated warriors was the norm to mark victory in most tribal societies which changed with the arrival of Christianity. Similarly, shamanic practices of fortune-telling came to a halt after education became common. Such changes altered discourses about what was considered permissible and thereafter forbidden. Again, tales like 'The Cobra Man' and 'Love and Longing in Seijosa' are also remarkable for their conservational appeal. As the writer confirms, her job as an agricultural officer helped her shape the rather purposeful discourse in these tales. The poetics and politics Subi Taba is firstly, a poet. Her imagination is as vivid as her understanding of the natural world she describes. 'It comes naturally to me because I like to think about my story scenes in images, in sounds, and in sensory rhythms. I enjoy the art of fashioning words in different forms and styles. I think being a sensitive and emotional person helps me think poetically. I like to associate the emotions of the characters of my stories to a certain musicality. And I believe the landscapes I write about – lush, haunting, untamed – demand a poetic response,' she makes her poetry accessible. It is interesting to see how the landscapes of communal life transform into lingering images, awestruck and appealing throughout the narrative. The desperate need to belong is a primary concern, as seen in the way the characters try to demarcate their territories within the hinterlands that are bountiful and ensnaring. Taba's stylistics is also equally detailed and highly sonorous – much like the rivers Kameng and Siang that occupy centrality in her prose. No part of her narrative is repetitive. Even when she describes the most mundane occurrence, her perceptive poetry weaves subtle imageries around these events. In her expertise as the beholder of stories paramount in the hinterlands, Taba laces a tapestry of solidarity and understanding. There are no villains in these tales, only survivors with pivotal struggles. In the undercurrent of these scenic descriptions are also evident traces of her politics and what it means to occupy space tormented by wants of a rapidly changing society. 'Politics is never absent in a place like Arunachal Pradesh – it's written into the land, the rivers, even the silence,' the writer admits. The collective struggle of the populace, reflected by the commonality of their existence, carries questions of identity, religion and ecological degradation- questions that need thorough political reasoning as answers. The co-existence of the new with the old order of mankind that Taba employs in her plots seamlessly blends into one another, at times, also tearing into the fabric of time. In her acknowledgement, Taba notes that she has taken 'creative liberties to fictionalise glimpses and layers of cultural history, familial ties, ethnographic identity, symbolism of animals, geopolitical transition, life's mundanity, nature and supernatural beliefs' found amongst the tribal populace of the state. Yet, how continuous these liberties are, one is bound to wonder, for they fit into the narrative without making the real obscure. Taba's search for the stories relied on her studying even 'the shape of the clouds and the hills, and the vegetation' of certain villages. One can only expect a writer of her calibre to be observant and deeply emphatetic – just like the characters she talks about. In fact, these tales appear to be the beginning of a rather promising literary career. Taba hopes that in time, her work would expand to explore 'the intersection of folklore, shamanism, and oral traditions – but on a much larger canvas.' There is no doubt that a work like that will give readers another set of perspectival glances into lives less understood.
