Peaks, Prayer Flags & Palaces

World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Peaks, Prayer Flags, & Palaces
Flight Log #003 – July 6, 2025
Ramen, Relics & Runway Rendezvous Edition
Log Entry by Steve Martin, Guest Co-Pilot

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If you ever find yourself waking up in Hyderabad with the scent of jet fuel in your nostrils, a banjo in your lap, and Cropduster already halfway through a bowl of noodles, you know you’re in for a day that’ll make Indiana Jones look like he’s on a package tour. Today, the only thing flying higher than our DHC-5 “Pāpulō” was Cropduster’s cholesterol, courtesy of the city’s finest ramen.

We kicked off at Monsoon Broth House, where the Charminar Sunrise Ramen is so spicy it could double as a jet starter. Cropduster called it “pre-flight fuel for the spiritually ambitious.” I called it breakfast. Lani and Kai, our canine copilots, called dibs on the leftovers and then staged a sit-in under the table until someone dropped a noodle.

With our bellies full and our spirits somewhere above the legal limit for optimism, we soared out of Hyderabad and buzzed the ancient chessboard of Mahabalipuram. The temples looked like they were carved by a civilization that ran out of patience but never out of ambition. The Five Rathas, the Shore Temple, cave sanctuaries—if you squint, you can almost see the Pallava architects arguing over whether to add another elephant or just call it a day.

Next stop: Puducherry, where we landed with the precision of a banjo solo in a string quartet. Cropduster led us straight to Ramen de la Mer, a seaside shack run by a chef who claims to have invented existentialism and coconut-miso broth in the same afternoon. The Pondy Fusion Ramen arrived, brimming with fried prawns, sambar oil, and enough coriander to start a new religion. Cropduster slurped in silence, which is how you know he’s either having a spiritual awakening or plotting to steal the recipe.
Back in the air, we banked over the Great Living Chola Temples, which are basically the architectural equivalent of a mic drop. Those vimanas shoot for the stars, the carvings outlast empires, and the rituals are older than Cropduster’s favorite banjo string. I tried to spot a coffee shop from 30 miles away. Cropduster claims he can spot a vimana from 20. We agreed to disagree and moved on.

Sri Lanka beckoned like a jewel in the Indian Ocean, and suddenly we were flying over Anuradhapura, the city that invented the concept of “old.” The world’s oldest documented tree waved at us (or maybe that was just the wind), and the white stupas glowed in the sun like beacons for lost pilots and over-caffeinated comedians. Sigiriya loomed next, a fortress on a rock so dramatic it makes my hairline look subtle. The lion’s paws are still there, the head is gone, and the view is so good you forget you’re supposed to be looking for your sunglasses.

Polonnaruwa, Dambulla, Kandy—each one a flyover, each one a reminder that history is best admired from 9,000 feet unless you’re a fan of humidity and mysterious insect bites. Dambulla’s caves are filled with Buddhas and murals, but the only enlightenment I achieved was realizing Lani snores louder than a temple bell.

We circled the Central Highlands, where the clouds are as thick as Cropduster’s accent after a second bowl of ramen. The Sinharaja Forest Reserve zipped by, all tangled green and rare birds with better camouflage than my tax accountant. Galle’s Dutch fort looked like it was built to withstand pirates, hurricanes, and the occasional low-flying comedian, but we didn’t land—no runway, no ramen, no regrets.

The Western Ghats rolled beneath us, a green wave of hills and tea gardens. Cropduster started reciting the history of endemic species, but I was busy calculating how many snacks I’d need to survive the final approach.

At last, Thiruvananthapuram appeared on the horizon, and we touched down just as the sun was setting and the air was thick with the scent of cardamom and adventure. Malabar Miso, hidden between a spice market and a temple, served up the Kerala Backwater Ramen: spicy coconut-milk broth, rice noodles, fried shallots, a soft egg dusted with black pepper, and crispy curry leaf chicken. I tried to get the recipe. The chef just handed me a second bowl and winked.

Somewhere between the temples and the tea gardens, we were occasionally joined in the sky by other Tiger Shark Squadron aircraft. There’s nothing quite like seeing a familiar livery wingtip-to-wingtip, trading radio banter and questionable snack recommendations as we leapfrogged UNESCO sites. It’s hard to say which was more reassuring: the sight of our squadron in formation or the knowledge that, should we run out of ramen, someone else might have a spare bowl tucked in their cargo hold.

The day’s soundtrack was a mix of banjo classics, Carnatic ragas, and one accidental loop of “King Tut.” Crew morale was high, except for the moment Cropduster tried to teach the autopilot to play banjo. Lani and Kai, bellies full of their own vet-approved chicken and rice, curled up in the cockpit and dreamed of flying over ancient temples and endless bowls of ramen.

So here’s to the adventure, the rules, the occasional squadron flyby, and the kind of day that ends with a full logbook, a full belly, and the eternal hope that the next runway leads to another bowl of something unforgettable. After a day like today, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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