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British Mensa Travel Special Interest Group |
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Eastern
Magic by Margaret Walker We will draw a veil over the endless wait at Bombay airport, and turn our eyes to the sun rising over the palm trees on the Coast of Coromandel. Endless white sand and a sea like folds of shot silk. And a blissfully luxurious hotel - the Fisherman's Cove - with veranda'd chalets set among lush greenery, swimming pools and delicious food. We are shielded from the real fishermen by guards who patrol the beach immediately in front of the hotel. Rebelliously, I and my room-mate take a walk beyond the hotel confines and are immediately submerged in a tide of small children, touching our clothes, insisting "Where you from? Where you from?" and demanding pens and English coins. Anxious to be friendly, but finally overwhelmed, we scuttle back to our enclave. So began a magical three-week visit to Southern India, starting properly and appropriately in Madras, since it was here that the East India Company established its first '"factory' in 1639. On April 23, 1640, Fort St George, the first permanent building, was completed, and from here British influence spread across the sub-continent, due largely to the activities of such history-book characters as Robert Clive, Warren Hastings and Arthur Wellesley (later Duke of Wellington). Fort St. George has its original core, but boasts a 19th century pillared facade and now houses the State Government of Tamil Nadu. Near the Fort stands St. Mary's Church, the oldest Protestant church in Asia, built in 1680. It has the quiet beauty of many English parish churches, its shady forecourt paved with tombstones from an older British cemetery, including the oldest British tombstone in India, to Elizabeth Baker who died in 1652. Inside the church are many memorials to those who died in the service of British India, including young wives and children who quickly succumbed to heat and disease. The church records the marriages of Robert Clive and of Elihu Yale, whose wealth contributed to the founding of Yale University in the USA, and the baptisms of three daughters by an Indian mother of Job Charnock, who founded Calcutta. As we looked at the fascinating and poignant monuments, a group of German students rehearsed a religious musical drama to be presented in the church that evening. From the pale austerity of St. Mary's to the exuberance of our first Dravidian Hindu temple, its towering 'gopuram' over the entrance covered with brightly coloured carvings of writhing, dancing figures and gods and goddesses of the Hindu pantheon. Inside were more figures, beautifully rendered in the hard stone - horsemen, lovers, dancing girls. And from here to the elaborate Portuguese basilica of San Thome, St. Thomas the Apostle, a far cry from the simple cave where he lived and went out each day to preach the Gospel to crowds assembled on the beach to hear him. The Christian tradition is strong in South India, and most towns have churches as well as mosques and temples. About 60 km South of Madras is Mahabalipuram with its wealth of stone sculpture, a treasury of South Indian art dating from the 7th and 8th centuries ad. The most amazing is the world's largest bas-relief, known as Arjuna's Penance or the Descent of the Ganges. People, birds and animals swarm over the rock, carved in detail and with humour. All around, are cave shrines ("mandapams"), full of more carvings recounting the adventures of gods and goddesses and the heroes of the epic Mahabharata. Climbing to the top of a rocky outcrop from which we glimpsed the Shore Temple, we passed a woman selling pots of refreshing "lassi", a yogurt-based drink. The 8th century Shore Temple, dedicated to both Shiva and Vishnu, is now almost in the sea, and in fact builders, both men and women, were busy constructing a protective rampart around it, pausing for cooling slices of watermelon. The grey granite temple is isolated and beautifully proportioned. Leaving our hotel next day for Kanchipuram, we stopped to watch some fishermen hollowing out canoes from tree trunks. Early next morning we saw similar craft being hauled out of the sea and fishermen unloading their catch, watched by a fish-eagle hoping, no doubt, for a share. Kanchipuram, a Hindu Holy City and capital of the Pallava dynasty from the 7th to 9th centuries AD, is renowned for temples and silk, and we saw plenty of both. The temples range in date from the 8th to the 17th century. The latest building was impressive in its size, the height of its gopuram, the intricacy of its carvings and wealth of colour, but I found the earliest temple, of golden sandstone, more aesthetically pleasing, the only colour provided by a flock of ring-necked parakeets. Across the road was a workshop where a man was sitting at a loom weaving the checked fabric I recognised immediately as "Madras cotton". I bought a length in soft shades of green-blue and pink, but still can't decide what to do with it! The same is true of some of the silk pieces purchased at the silk co-op after lunch. Silk-weaving takes place on a grander scale than the lone cotton-weaver in his cottage workshop, and we visited a factory where all the processes of spinning, dyeing and weaving take place. An exquisite wedding sari was nearing completion, made to order, the blue silk shot through with cerise and the border heavily interwoven with gold thread. The sari and blouse were woven together so as to ensure a perfect match and would be for a very well to do family as work of this quality is costly. Next stop, Pondicherry. The French, Britain's strongest rivals for the control of India, established their foothold here and only relinquished it in 1954. The town still has the feel of a French provincial town, with its librairie, epicerie, imposing Hotel de Ville, memorial to Franco-Indians killed in the Great War, and statue of Joan of Arc. The houses could be anywhere in southern France and bear the familiar white numbers on a blue ground. Street names, too, are shown in white on blue - rue St Louis, rue de la Caserne and so on. During a pleasant afternoon stroll I heard French spoken frequently. Returning to the hotel, we came across a village festival and stopped to see what was going on. Immediately we were welcomed and ushered forward to the centre of things. Passing two gaudily painted statues of horses and riders (representing the guardian deities of the village) we found the centre of attention to be a small boy whose head was being shaved, the hair then being ceremonially burned on a brass tray. The next ordeal for him was ear piercing. Apparently this is done as a mutilation so that the gods will be dissuaded from taking the child away from its parents. An earring is then worn by boys up to the age of 12, by which time the gods have presumably lost interest! This did not appear to be a village of poor peasants, but of well-to-do 'bourgeois'. I was approached by two charming small boys, pupils at the French lycee in Pondicherry, who explained what was going on in perfect French. Their mother wore a dark blue silk sari and ample amounts of gold jewellery. At the moment of ear-piercing, loud drumming took place, but the child did not cry, and submitted afterwards to being dressed in a neat outfit of trousers, jacket, shirt and bow tie! On the ground near the stage where the main protagonists were assembled, a rectangle was marked out with small stones. Inside were pairs of clay 'blobs', apparently representing the family gods, whose names were only known to the individual families. In front of each pair were set out banana leaves, piled with sugarcane, rice from the recent harvest and pieces of coconut. The coconut is highly prized and signifies the passage of the soul from the cares of this world (the rough outer fibres) through pride and egotism (the hard shell) to the white flesh representing purity. We were also told that the three 'eyes' of the coconut represent the three eyes of Vishnu. The following morning we set off to visit another former European settlement, this time Danish, at Tranquebar. On our way we made a detour to Chidambaram to the temple of Shiva Nataraja, the Cosmic Dancer. The image of Shiva dancing in a circle of flame is surely one of the great icons of religious art and has enormous aesthetic appeal. Rodin considered it the most perfect expression of movement. On the gopuram are 108 sculptures showing the movements of classic dancing, and the roof of the "womb-chamber", the inner sanctum reserved to the deity, is covered with 16,248 gold leaves representing the number of breaths taken in a day (go on, try counting them!). The first mission church at Tranquebar was built in 1707 and along with the church the Danes set up a printing press. The church now belongs to the Church of South India, and the vicar kindly allowed us to use his "facilities". We ate our packed lunches on the veranda of the Bishop's Palace (he wasn't there), and then walked to the beach where many families were enjoying an afternoon of leisure. The blue sea, golden sand, brilliant saris, brown-skinned children playing in the waves, and the ruins of a seashore temple made a strong visual impression. Indeed, my strongest impressions of South India are of colour: smiling faces, white teeth and smooth brown skin, white and scarlet flowers against coiled black hair, purple, crimson, blue, green saris, pale-green paddy fields, darker green tea and coffee plantations, three-wheeled yellow 'taxis', white cattle with blue-painted horns, Kathakali dancers with green and yellow faces, chalk patterns on red-brown earth and luridly painted 'village guardians', iridescent colours of birds and butterflies ... From Tranquebar we left the coast and drove deep into rural India through fields of okra and groundnuts, stopping to watch bullocks draw water from a well to fill the irrigation channels, and then on to Thanjavur (Tanjore) where our main purpose was to visit the huge Brihadeesvara temple, one of the most impressive we saw. Not only does it have splendid, beautifully carved gopurams, but the pyramid over the inner sanctuary towers to 65 metres and is built in such a way that its shadow never falls on its base. In the temple compound is a huge statue of the bull (Nandi), Shiva's favourite vehicle. All around the courtyard, which is 150m x 75 m, are covered 'cloisters' containing many lingams (the phallic symbol of Shiva) and recently discovered frescoes dating back several centuries. At the main gate, the temple elephant accepts rupee notes delicately with his trunk, and then places it gently on one's head in blessing. Back in town, all was festivity to celebrate the 77th birthday of the former Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu. Huge posters of this popular gentleman, and of the lady who succeeded him in office, were displayed everywhere, outlined in coloured lights. The streets were thronged with people and to get away from the crowds I ducked down a side street and found myself in a market selling pulses, cereals, fruit and vegetables, kitchen utensils and mountains of clay pots. We were coming up to 'Pugal', the rice harvest festival, when everyone breaks the old pot and buys a new one. We later visited the former rulers' Palace, where there was a fine collection of sculpture and bronzes and a library of rare manuscripts and books (including European works) collected by an 18th century monarch. His great friend and adviser was a missionary named Schwarz, for whom he built a church. The memorial to Schwarz touchingly shows his distinguished friend mourning at his deathbed. Charity is still dispensed to lepers, and it was sad to see many of them lined up outside. Leaving Thanjavur, we saw signs of the rice festival in the form of vivid chalk patterns drawn outside the village houses, and stopped to watch one woman complete her design, outlined in white and then filled in with powdered chalks. Seeing the paper bags of chalk in the market we had wondered what their purpose was. We were also diverted from our route because the road was closed to allow a celebratory bullock-cart race to take place. On our way to Madurai, we all (including our 83-year-old) climbed up to the Ganesha temple perched high on a rock at 'Trichy'. Arrived at Madurai, we had time for a welcome swim and siesta, and a wander around the hotel's craft and jewellery shops before dinner. The Meenakshi temple, dedicated to Shiva's wife, Parvati, in one of her many guises, dominates the town and boasts four towering gopurams covered with thousands of brightly coloured sculptures. We were invited to climb up to the roof of a Kashmiri gift shop (making a few purchases on the way up and down) for a comprehensive view of the complex. There was a constant stream of worshippers through the temple precincts and people selling snacks and knick-knacks. Inside was an overwhelming smell of rancid butter, as people show their devotion to the deities by plastering their images with butter. Butter is even thrown at Shiva in his angry pose, as this is supposed to pacify him ("buttering him up"?) and glistening blobs clung to his statue. In the early evening we returned to the temple for the night ceremony, when Shiva is carried in a closed litter to Meenakshi's sanctum so that he can spend the night with his wife. The procession of priests with flaring torches, incense, trumpets and drums through the dark corridors of the temple, the torches fitfully illuminating the many statues as they passed, a closely pressed crowd of worshippers and onlookers following, was an extraordinary experience. Another extraordinary, and indeed frightening experience, was hurtling to the temple in a 3-wheeled yellow 'taxi', open on both sides, driven mostly in the middle of the road and taking corners at an alarming rate. Our party occupied several taxis, and the drivers were apparently racing to see who could be first at the temple. We left our shoes in the taxis while taking part in the night ceremony and somehow all managed to find them again afterwards. A second 'death-defying' drive took us to the semi-ruined Palace of the Naiks for a Son et Lumiere performance, which was very well done with an English commentary. Leaving Madurai for Periyar, we plunged again into rural India and had a fascinating day watching people making ropes and bricks, cutting sugarcane and winnowing grain. The cane-cutters offered us pieces to suck, and then showed us the blackened metal vats where the raw sugar was boiled down to make 'jaggery', cooled and cut into chunks like fudge. They generously gave us samples and when we asked what we could give in return, it turned out that what the women really coveted were the hotel 'freebies' - sachets of shampoo and shower gel and tablets of soap. We gave them what we had, and afterwards made a point of saving them up to offer in return for similar kindnesses. Periyar is situated in the beautiful Nilgiri hills, part of the Western Ghats which divide Tamil Nadu from Kerala. It is a centre of spice production and the hotel gardens contained specimens of all the spices grown locally. Although Periyar is advertised as a tiger reserve we sadly didn't see any, but we did see sambar (the largest Indian deer), wild boar, and a herd of elephants. We were in a boat on the lake when we saw the elephants (about a dozen of them) assembled on the shore. After some discussion among themselves (judging by the 'growls' and trumpetings) they decided to swim across to an island. The two babies were put in the middle and seemed to be 'nudged' across by the older ones. Some submerged themselves completely, using their trunks as 'snorkels'. We waited until they all emerged safely, black and dripping, on the opposite shore. Our drive from Periyar next day took us through many miles of tea and coffee plantations. Coffee was grown here from an early period, but tea was introduced by the British after an officer spotted a plant growing wild in Assam. Cultivated seed was then imported from China and the first consignment of Indian tea was auctioned in London on 10th January, 1839. Stopping for 'comfort' and our daily banana 'fix' (small Indian bananas are delicious and provided many a welcome snack, together with fresh coconut milk) we saw pathetic herds of skinny, superannuated cattle being driven to auction. They would be slaughtered and their hides used for leather. Coming down from the hills into the state of Kerala, we lunched in an old rice-boat converted to a restaurant, and then set off in a motor launch for an unforgettable cruise through the 'backwaters' to Cochin. This network of waterways links a host of small communities making their living from coconut harvesting, rice cultivation, fishing, boatbuilding and so on. All along the banks people were tending their plots, washing, fishing or waiting for the water-bus, all giving us a cheerful wave as we passed, while on the surface of the water a multitude of craft of varying shapes and sizes plied to and fro among the water hyacinths. There were birds everywhere and my notebook records several kinds of kingfisher, Indian and magpie robins, egrets, paddy birds and many more. And so to Cochin, on the Malabar coast, probably my favourite place in South India. The terrace of our hotel looked across the channel dividing Willingdon Island from the Old Town. Dolphins put on an amazing display, as if especially for our benefit, and fishermen in small boats cast their nets, as they have done for centuries, with a fluid circular movement of hand and arm. Cochin is a mixture of many cultures. The Portuguese arrived in the late 15th century and Vasco da Gama was buried in St. Anthony's church, the oldest European church in India, though his body was later moved to Lisbon. St. Anthony's passed into Dutch hands in 1663, and is now Anglican and called St. Francis's. Close by is Mattancherri Palace, built by the Portuguese in 1555 but renovated by the Dutch in 1663 and commonly known as the Dutch Palace. Former home of the Rajas of Cochin, it contains many of their portraits and personal effects. A model of toleration towards those of other faiths, a Raja of Cochin offered sanctuary to the Jews suffering Portuguese persecution, and their synagogue, originally built in 1568 but with later restoration, is still open for worship in Jew Town, a picturesque quarter of narrow streets and brightly painted houses. The floor of the synagogue is covered with blue and white Chinese tiles. The Chinese also came to Cochin many centuries ago, and their spectacular cantilevered fishing nets are a feature of the shoreline. That they work was evidenced by the fish on sale close by. After the 'official' tour, three of us returned for a more leisurely wander around the old town. The ferry wasn't operating, due to a strike, but a fisherman offered to row us across in his boat for the equivalent of 40p each. We weren't sure if it would make it, as the bottom was fairly awash, but the trip was effected in about 20 minutes and the boatman met us, as agreed, an hour or so later, to row us back again. Spices are exported from Cochin all over the world, and we peered into warehouses piled high with ginger and turmeric. On the pavements, black pepper was drying on mats in the sun. Another export is coir, a product of the coconut palm, used for matting and rope and, more recently, for garden compost. Everyone we met was friendly, and happy for us to look, and photograph, and sample. Dinner that night in the hotel's 'Rice Boats' restaurant consisted of spicy fish soup, fish steak and 'Birds of Paradise', a fruit salad with apple juice, brandy, chocolate and vanilla ice-cream, served in half a pineapple. Scrumptious! Most of the time we ate local South Indian food, vegetable, chicken and fish curries, pakoras, rice and lentils, spicy soups and, of course, bananas and coconut. One morning during our stay in Cochin we went to a convent where girls, orphaned or from poor families, are educated and taught to do exquisite hand-embroidery. I was charmed to see they were using the familiar 'Anchor' silks my mother used to use. At the adjoining school, the girls in their smart green uniforms were lined up for the annual school photograph. The headmistress kindly allowed us to photograph them too, which caused a huge amount of giggling. One last memory of Cochin is the evening at the 'theatre' - actually the flat roof of a house - watching the Kathakali dancers. You arrive an hour before the performance in order to watch the elaborate make-up being applied. The theatre director explained the significance of the colours and of the various eye, neck, face and hand movements. All characters are danced by men. Next morning we left, via the suburbs of Cochin, where fine houses sit among the coconut palms, through less prosperous looking villages and by way of a series of hairpin bends to Ootacamund ('Ooty'), a former British hill station famous for being the birthplace of snooker! The scenery was lush, with many flowering shrubs including rhododendron and lantana. The Savoy Hotel is still redolent of the Raj, its silver gleaming, the linen pristine, the waiters attentive (and rather elderly). We were pleased to find wood fires burning, as it felt quite chilly after the heat of the coast. A three-piece orchestra played in the deserted ballroom and, feeling rather sorry for them, a few of us got up to dance. The music was mostly ballads and Cliff Richard songs. Next to the ballroom was a games room with snooker (of course!) and table tennis. A pleasant stroll into town next morning brought us to St. Stephen's church, the bookshop, library and botanical gardens. So very English! A contrast was the Toda tribal village on the hill, where we saw traditional huts. The government has provided modern concrete homes, but an old lady said the huts were better as they were warm in winter and cool in summer, whereas the reverse is the case with concrete. From Ooty, a long drive out of Kerala and back into Tamil Nadu to Kabini Lodge at the Nagarahole National Park. Accommodation here was in chalets, but meals were taken at a thatched, open-sided dining area by the lake, reminiscent of game reserves in South Africa. A colony of fruit bats hung upside-down in a tree, and monkeys cavorted on the roofs and verandas. Two young women were 'mowing' the grass with sickles. Again we saw elephants, wild boar, spotted deer, and one lone bison. We also glimpsed a sloth bear (well, that's what the ranger said it was). But if the animals were rather few, the bird life was abundant, and our ranger, Sundar, was brilliant at pointing them out. The binoculars were well-used and the bird list grew apace. A 20 minute elephant ride through the trees was fun. One of the elephants had a baby who trotted along beside us. Our next 'adventure' was a boat trip in a rather wobbly coracle made of bamboo covered with buffalo hide. The lake was made by submerging part of the forest and the branches of submerged trees made splendid perches for osprey, cormorants, storks and many more. As we watched, a Brahminy kite swooped down and plucked a carp from the water. I was sorry to leave Nagarahole, but the drive to Mysore through plantations of mango and papaya was pleasant, and the Lalitha Palace hotel where we were to spend the next three days, was of unaccustomed splendour. The Palace was built by the Maharajah of Mysore for his guests who might wish to eat meat and drink alcohol, these being unavailable in the main palace. We were greeted at the front door by Babu the magician, who promised us an entertainment after our sightseeing tour, which took us up Chamundi Hill to see the sunset. There was also a temple to visit, a huge Nandi bull - and lots of small boys requesting pens. As the sun set, and we were about to leave, the Maharajah's palace in the city below was suddenly lit by thousands of lights, looking rather like Harrods at Christmas. This only happens at certain festivals, so we went down to the town to have a closer look. There were people everywhere and the mood was very festive. Back at the hotel Babu, his one tooth shining in a broad grin, put on a show of card tricks, disappearing eggs and fire-eating, accompanied by an amusing flow of patter. We were suitably impressed, and he was such a likeable character that his money bag got plenty of contributions. Some time was spent before and after dinner exploring the magnificent interior of the hotel, which had all the facilities one expects of five-star luxury. The Mysore Palace itself is, of course, even more magnificent, built between 1897 and 1912, designed by an Englishman in Indo-Saracenic style. Stained glass (made in Glasgow), ceramic tiles, a golden throne, ceiling of carved Burma teak, doors inlaid with silver and ivory, and some highly decorative pillars made of cast iron from a British foundry, overlaid with paint and gold leaf. The opulence with which the maharajahs surrounded themselves really has to be seen to be believed. Descendants of the Mysore royal family still live in part of the Palace, which also has its private temple complete with gopuram. For a short period in the 18th century, the throne of Mysore was usurped by Muslim rulers, Hyder Ali and his son Tippu Sultan. The latter fought vigorously (with French help) to drive the British out of India, finally being defeated at his fortress of Srirangapatna. Only a few broken walls remain of his fort, and a plaque on the ground recording where his body was found - it is not known who actually killed him. Many of his possessions ended up at Windsor Castle, but the most entertaining item is in the V & A museum, a life-sized mechanical tiger in process of devouring a British soldier. The growls of the tiger and screams of its victim can be heard when the piece is set in motion. Tippu's summer palace was closed when we visited, Friday being the Muslim holy day, but we peered over the veranda at the paintings covering the walls, battle scenes of Tippu's army and the Brits locked in combat, and charming pictures, like Moghul miniatures, of Sultans and their ladies disporting themselves in flowery gardens. Tippu's tomb, and those of his parents, are in a mausoleum in Moghul style, reminiscent of the Taj Mahal but neither so big nor so beautiful. It has a serene dignity, nonetheless, in its garden setting. Another outing from Mysore took us to an exquisite star-shaped Hoysala temple built in 1268 AD. Much of the decoration is at eye level, so one can fully appreciate the craftsmanship. So fine is this that when the temple was first completed the gods themselves coveted it, and wanted to carry it off to heaven. With swift presence of mind the sculptor disfigured some of his work so the gods, who desire only perfection, allowed the temple to remain where it was. Our journey on to Bangalore was delayed owing to a traffic accident, which had left a damaged lorry skewed across the road. Two sugarcane lorries were held up too, and little boys kept diving across the road and breaking off bits of cane to suck. The prosperity of Bangalore is evidenced by the surburban mansions set in large grounds and the broad tree-lined avenues. The impressive public buildings, built for the British Empire, are now used, and well-maintained, as local government offices. From Bangalore,
a one and a half hour flight brought us to Bombay where, from the hotel
terrace, we watched the activities on the beach. A pretty young girl came
to chat, and seemed pleased when we said how much we had enjoyed South
India and how sorry we were to leave, and a man with a camel tried, unsuccessfully,
to persuade us to take a ride along the seashore. As the sun set and the
sea darkened, lamps were lit at the stalls selling tea and trinkets. The
animation continued and we remained watching until our coach left for
the airport and the long flight home. |