Revisiting the Past: Venice

In 1967 I was a stroppy, love-struck teenager.  That year I went on a school cruise around the Mediterranean.  My boyfriend was good looking.  Far too good looking for me. Before the ship left I asked a friend to keep an eye on him.  And she did.  So much so that when I got back, she was his girlfriend and I was history.   Ah well. 

Most of the cruise was wasted on me – I was far too busy being the tragic heroine torn from the arms of her one true love.  We visited Tunisia (hot, dusty and leery men), a Greek Island (no idea which one), Ephesus (ruins) and Venice (canals).  The long days and nights on board were spent reading and re-reading the gorgeous boy’s one letter to me.  Looking back, I’m surprised he knew how to write – gorgeous, yes, but not bright.

So when Andy and I went to Venice in March this year, it was as if I’d never been before.  And it was beautiful.  Truly beautiful.  We arrived at the tail end of Carnivale, of which I knew nothing.  All these people in spectacular costumes and masks gliding around and graciously posing for photographs.  Amazing.

We visited art galleries, strolled over bridges, ate pizza and pasta, waded through the floods at high tide (Andy bought plastic galoshes, I took off my shoes and paddled through), took water buses and photographs galore. 

I have no idea how I managed to ignore its allure the first time I was there – the only excuse I have is that I was 14, and didn’t know any better.

Snapshots of Venice at Twilight

The sky is turning red over Santa Maria della Salute.

Street vendors begin to pack stalls; trundle cheap wares

up tiny alleys; head home for pasta.

Beside the bell tower a couple in bridal costume, remnants

of Carnivale,  strike poses for photographers.

A girl with autumnal hair and distant eyes weaves

through crowds, not seeing the Bridge of Sighs,

familiar as wallpaper.

Two women stand close to a closed Museum door, fingers

tracing words, working out the meaning.

Tourist boats wait for dawdling hoards, hooting

impatience to be on, to be gone, hurry up!  A clutter

of Japanese girls suddenly runs, startled from chatter.

Outside the Danieli gondoliers cover boats, gather

together, hats tilted, sharing cigarettes and stories.

An old woman, bent in half, trudges a shopping trolley

over another interminable bridge, as a young man, naked

to the waist, throws open shutters, leans out into the twilight,

sated, glorious.

Just When You Thought it was Safe...

You thought it was all over.  So did I.  But talking about India to a fellow poet - Paul Tobin (read his blog - magpiebridge.blogspot.com) - I realised that not only do I miss India, but I also miss writing...
So, I'm diving back in, with more on India, and, in the future some writing on all sorts of things.  I hope you'll join me.

They say that India gets under your skin.  That it will lie low in your memory for a while, then slowly begin to tug at you, easing itself into your conscious mind until it becomes imperative that you return. I know of one man who has gone back twice a year, for eight years, and is currently planning his next trip.

Before we went, I fully expected to fall in love with India.  After all, my family had lived there for generations. Surely, I believed, I would find a connection with the country and the people, a reason why it had beguiled so many of my ancestors. 

I loved it – don’t get me wrong.  The people we met were, by and large, the gentlest, friendliest, kindest people I have ever come across.  The country in the North-East was spectacular.  But there was no connection.  I had expected to belong, and I didn’t.  I left, thinking I could draw a line under that part of my history.  It was done.

I was wrong.  Already I am beginning to yearn for India.  For the smiling people of Kurseong and the gentle people of Gangtok, shaking my hand, taking my photograph.  For the monasteries and prayer flags.  For the clarity of the air and the way the clouds swirled over the foothills of the Himalaya.  For the mountains themselves – at dawn, at dusk, revealing glimpses of impossible peaks through the cloud or clear and sharp and magnificent. 

I want to walk again in the places where my father and my father’s father walked.  To look down on the backs of eagles as they glide on the thermal currents.  I have to explore the plains, the vast river deltas, to picnic on the Rangpo and see Changu Lake covered in ice and snow. I want to follow the journeys my grandfather made as he went about his work in Sikkim.

I long to sit and look at the foothills, to breathe in the shape of them swathed in acres of tea gardens.  I could do nothing quite easily there, except look and sigh, then look and sigh some more. 

I find I am missing the crazy driving on impossible roads that make your teeth chatter for hours after your journey is over.  Incredibly I miss the streams full of litter – England is so clean - and even the sheer numbers of people in Kolkata, the dirt and the smells, are beginning to exert a strange, compulsive yearning.

I have, to all intents and purposes, gone back to who I used to be before I went to India, but deep within me something has changed.

India is calling me.  I will have to go.

Extra #7 The End

I think its time to bring this to a close.  We've been home almost three weeks now and the blog has kept India alive for me for far longer than most holidays last, but everything has to end.

There are a few snippets of memories that I will leave with you before I close...

The Morris Oxford taxis in Kolkata, the design of which hadn't changed since the 1950's.

The schoolgirls in their school uniforms that looked as if they were straight out of Mallory Towers: pleated skirts, long socks and their hair so neat in little plaits tied with white ribbons.

The men and women who carry immense loads up steep hills on their backs, with straps over their heads - how do they do that?

The prayer flags everywhere - how I wanted to bring some home and hang them across the garden - but they wouldn't be right here, and are so right there.

The way the road would suddenly turn from being smooth tarmac to mud and rock, and how we had to hold on tight, our heads jolting from side to side as the driver negotiated rocks and potholes that would have a British driver suing the local council.

The way the foothills just went on and on and on, and how the shape of them was just so perfect.

We went to India, not only for a holiday, but also to make a connection with the past.  We did that, and so much more.  Kolkata was hugely interesting, but in the hills we met real kindness and friendliness.  In Kurseong Mr Shixit who helped us find Lakshmi Cottage; the officials at the Raj Bhavan in Gangtok; the ladies in Kurseong who wanted to check we weren't lost; the children calling 'hello'; the drivers who safely negotiated traffic, people, trucks and appalling roads; Suvendu in Kolkata whose knowledge was astounding; and last, but by no means least, Sunil Pradhan, who, as well as taking us to tourist attractions also took a genuine interest in finding places that were of personal significance to us.  It wouldn't have been the same experience without him. We owe him many thanks.

The End

Extra #6 Planes and Trains

Planes and Trains

We flew out to India in two shifts, via Dubai, with Emirates.  Waiting at Heathrow in the departure lounge, we realised that the first flight would be in one of those huge great double decker planes - the Airbus a380.   Great excitement - although of course we were downstairs, but still.  I have no idea how any plane stays up in the air, but the size of the a380 beggars belief.  Its a beautiful beast, with a blunt nose and enormous wings that curve gently away from the body of the plane.  Inside, of course, with it being new, it's pristine and at the risk of sounding like an advertisement, pretty spacious.  With films to watch and wine to drink, its not a bad way to travel.

Contrast our journey inside India...  It wasn't only that the planes felt old and rickety (on our flight from Kolkata to Bagdogra the seat in front of Andy was stuck in recline...), but the differences between the free and easy Indian people and we stiff upright Brits really came into focus. First there's the personal space issue.  We'd got used to being up close and personal in Kolkata - it's so crowded there's not much choice - but the scramble to get to our seats was a new experience, as was the way our seats were pulled around every time the person behind us wanted to move.  I ended up sitting with my arms behind my head, just to make the point that I was actually there.  Then there's the rule thing.  Now, I get on a plane and turn my phone off, put my seat belt on and check my seat is fully upright.  Very law-abiding.  On our first internal flight the man next to us chatted on his phone right up until take off, and I lost count of the number of people who were asked to put their seat belts on and their seat backs up.  Mind you, I guess the only thing that is likely to actually affect your chances of survival in a crash is to have your seat belt on... and that's probably marginal.  And we got where we were supposed to get safely, so why worry?

No such worries on the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway (Narrow Gauge), aka The Toy Train.  This is the train that my father would have taken from Kurseong to Siliguri and back at the beginning and end of his three day journey to and from school.  That particular part of the line is currently being repaired after a landslide, but it's open between Kurseong and Darjeeling.  It's a great little train - dusty, bumpy and rather elderly, but good fun - and although we didn't make it all the way to Darjeeling, I loved every minute of our trip.
The train runs alongside the road, crossing and re-crossing it on hairpin bends, signalling its presence with the inevitable tooting of the horn.  At times it hugs the hillside, at others the track is terrifyingly close to the edge.  Its far from fast - plenty of people hopped on and off as we trundled along.  Everyone leans out of the windows, and the views are, of course, fantastic.

It's an amazing feat of engineering.  Begun in 1879, it climbs from 400 feet at Siliguri to 7,407 feet at Ghum, with loops and zig-zags to help with the gradient.  It was initially built to carry goods, but passengers started to use it too, and it was a huge boost to the tourist industry.  Over its history it has had to contend with civil unrest as well as numerous landslides, earthquakes, cyclones and monsoon rains.  Together with the Teesta Valley Line it played a role in the transportation of men and goods for the 1921 Everest expedition and also in the transportation of troops and equipment during the Second World War.
These days it carries tourists, but it also has a charitable arm that supports schools, hospitals and other projects along its length.  Its a train that's going places...

Extra #5 - Festival Time

Festivals are big in India.  Just try googling Indian Festivals - there are days and days of them each month.  October seems to be the busiest month, with, amongst others, Durga Puja, which was happening when we arrived, then moving through a festival to celebrate dogs, and finally the big one - Diwali.

I can't quite get my head around all these Festivals.  The pop-up temples that are so elaborate that are built specifically for one, then dismantled, with the Goddesses immersed in the river, then more temples erected for the next Festival.  When we got back to Kolkata all evidence of Durga Puja had gone, and men were riding around on bicycles, motorbikes and rickshaws with mountains of bamboo to be used in the building of the new shrines.  It was an amazing feat of balance.
When we were first in Kolkata our guide took us into an area of the city where the art of building the statues for festivals had been handed down from generation to generation.  In each open fronted building people were meticulously carrying out the stages of construction.
The idea is that the statues will biodegrade in the water when immersed - they are made of straw and river mud, and painted with natural dyes.
Its a fantastic procedure.  Initially the base is made from tied straw, a bit like a scarecrow.  Then in the next set of buildings the men sculpt the clay onto the straw.

 When the clay is dry the skin colour is painted on, then the more detailed features are added.

 A mistake on any part means the whole thing needs to be started again - and the eyes are particularly intricate and important to get right.

Clothes are added, and with the addition of long, curly jet black hair she is done.

The statues are made in different sizes, with some for the temples and some for homes. The correct thing to do is to buy a new statue each year for your house, to ensure that you get good fortune.  I must admit I was tempted...

Extra #4 Sunday in Gangtok

Sunday in Gangtok

The day starts early in Sikkim.  Half past six and the first teams of children are already training in the football ground beneath our hotel.  They're dedicated, these boys - jogging around in team colours, goalies in green shirts practicing catching, penalties being taken over and over again.  Here, in the hills, they play football, not cricket.  That's a game for the plainsmen.  Each afternoon there's been a football match, which means hoards of taxis in the hotel road, stalls selling the inevitable crisps, a band just in tune enough to make hearing it an almost enjoyable experience, a loudspeaker announcer whose voice echoes over the valley and a rush of hotel staff across the lawn each time the crowds' conglomerate voice signals a pick up of pace on the pitch.

The football stadium entrance

And talking of crisps - the person who can design a biodegradable crisp packet would surely make a fortune here.  Gangtok is by far the cleanest place we've been - the streets are cleaned twice a day.  In Darjeeling I guess its once, and in Kolkata - probably never!  But everywhere we've been there's been a crisp shop every five paces and the resultant litter in phenomenal.  Even here the streams are choc-full of crisp packets, multicoloured symbol of a throwaway life.

By and large, Sikkim has got it right.  The roads are good (in the main), pedestrians protected by barriers, traffic-free shopping malls and a green policy.  But then, Sikkim is rich.  Since joining India in 1975, government money has come its way.  There's a border that you need a permit to get through, and if you don't have the permit you can't get in.  No negotiation.  If you don't have Sikkimese citizenship you can get a bank loan, but your rate of interest will be higher than if you were a citizen.
Darjeeling, with its rapidly growing population and lack of space, which, through its tea and tourism contributes far more to the state of West Bengal than it gets back, and suffers greatly for this disparity, must look on its neighbour with considerable envy.  After all, but for a series of bureaucratic lines drawn, Darjeeling would still be a part of her prosperous neighbour.

Today, two families asked if they could take my photograph with them - do they think I'm Judi Dench?

Extra #3 Tea Tasting

Tea Tasting

Long, long years ago there was tea in Assam, and this is still the tea that is grown in most of India - certainly in the Assam region.  But the British, keen to topple China's position as the top seller of tea back in the early19th Century, took seeds from the Chinese plants and introduced them in the area around Darjeeling and Sikkim.  For nearly a century India was indeed the top tea producer, but recently China has taken the lead again.

Whatever the facts and figures, there is no doubt that the area around Kurseong, Darjeeling and a large part of Sikkim is covered in tea gardens.  In some places it seems that tea is all you can see. It is beautiful, but don't be fooled - tea is big business.  And there's so much more to it than I knew.  Nothing like the bog-standard English Breakfast-type tea of which I am so fond, this tea comes in many guises.
On our last day in Kurseong, and with a spare hour or so before we left, our lovely guide, Sunil, whose father had been a manager of a tea garden near Darjeeling, took us to visit the Makaihari tea gardens.  Masked, booted and with hair covered in the most fetching caps, we saw the tea through all its stages before it was ready to be tasted.  Now, to properly taste tea, (which is served without milk or sugar), you must sniff its aroma, slurp it and roll it all around your mouth before finally swallowing.  Much like wine tasting, really.  We duly bought a couple of packets of tea to bring home.  That was our introduction.

Come Darjeeling and the real thing.  Sunil took us down the bustling Chowrasta to a very elegant tea-room.  I felt I should have been wearing a long Edwardian dress and wide brimmed hat, rather than the grubby t-shirt and skirt which was pretty much my uniform while in India.
Eight teas were duly selected and prepared.  Now, tea is picked at different stages, and the resultant tea is very different to taste.  There's first flush, which is picked after the spring rains, second flush is harvested in June, monsoon tea, and autumn flush.  On top of that there's green tea and  white tea - which is made from the buds of the plant.
Once the tea was made the cups were lined up before us, mildest first, through to strongest.  We had a little pyrex-type cup each, and a tiny ladle so we could serve ourselves.  We duly ladled, sniffed, slurped, swooshed and swallowed each tea, went back to one, re-tried another, discussed and tasted again.  Fortunately we agreed on the tea we liked and bought some to bring home.

I shall never look at a cup of tea in the same way again.

Extra #2

Graveyards and Leeches

Kurseong

There's a British Graveyard in Kurseong that hangs on the side of a hill and when the low cloud comes across it, as it does frequently, it looks like the spookiest place I've ever seen.  Imagine a gothic horror movie and you're somewhere near.  The gravestones are almost indecipherable, nothing lasts for long in the damp that pervades.  Creepers grow up and over the trees and fall down in curtains.

To get in, you go through a pedestrian gate with a rusty padlock.  The main gate is locked tight and looks like its not been opened in hundreds of years.  Above the graveyard, on the other side of the road, life goes on for the people of Kurseong.  In their tiny apartments meals are cooked, children sleep, families visit.  To enter the graveyard, as very few do, is to step back in time.
Here is James ... Somebody, who died aged 24.  I can't read how.  Next to him an elaborate memorial to a missionary priest, who at 26 can't have known much of life before succumbing to whatever tropical disease took him to meet his maker.  There are women and children buried here too, babies, infants, victims of the climate and the water.
We walked there several times, somehow it drew us back. Once I went in summer skirt and flip-flops - not a good idea.  Feeling something on my foot - an insect bite perhaps? - I looked down to see a leech gripped to my toe.  India certainly presented me with challenges...

Extra #1

"But its not Gandhi's birthday AGAIN is it?"

Friday 3rd October

One day was easy, or easy enough.  Gandhi's birthday on 2nd October (the day we arrived in India) is a dry day.  No alcohol.  That's it.  None.  In the whole of India it seems.  Restaurants serve 7Up or Coke, or lime soda with salt.  Bars put up their shutters.  Waiters are regretful but firm.  Today is Gandhi's birthday and we celebrate by not selling alcohol.  Ah well.  One dry day.  No problem.

Friday dawns.  The last day of Puja.  A spectacular festival has been taking place.  Amazingly elaborate temples have popped up to celebrate the triumph of the many armed Goddess Durga, wife of Shiva, who was transported on a lion and destroyed the evil Mahishasura who rose out of a buffalo.  For four days there's been Puja for her, and today most of the temples are taken down and the images of the Goddess are taken to the river Hooghli, which is a part of the Ganges, to be immersed there. And how is this amazing event celebrated?  You've guessed.  Today is, except between 1 and 4 pm ... a dry day.

Now, those in the know got their drinking done between 1 and 4, or bought in booze.  Andy managed, by sheer chance, to have a strong Kingfisher with lunch, but in the evening when we go out for a curry - what else - and ask for the bar, the doorman at the hotel informs us - no alcohol.  Today is a dry day.  Again, I say?   But it's not Gandhi's birthday again, I ask?  No, its the last day of Puja.  And its a Friday.

Eventually we return to our corner of eccentricity (The Fairlawn Hotel), and by a series of complex and still not fully understood conversations, negotiate two beers that we may have in our room.  Alone we employ the raised eyebrows and slight shrug that means - well, I never, or something like - and go to our room.  And lo and behold, two Kingfisher beers are brought to us.  The fans are turned on, we settle down.  The Gods are content - until the next dry day.

A pop-up temple

The Goddess Durga