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19 April 2008 - News Updates
High society - Guardian
(UK)
High society19 April 2008, The Guardian (UK), By Teresa Levonian Cole
It was dark when we arrived. We had driven six hours from Bagdogra, climbing steadily through the foothills of the Himalayas, the steamy air of the plains becoming fresher as we made our ascent. We twisted through thickly forested mountain roads, crossing bridges that were regularly washed away by monsoons, skirting cliffs that in the past had sometimes fallen away into the Teesta River that burbled below, and gazed out on to the moonlit slopes in the hope of catching a glimpse of a brown bear or elusive leopard. Eventually, the bumpy track came to an end, signalling our arrival at Yangsum Farm, where a large bonfire burned in welcome.
This was the first stop on my village walk itinerary, in the western mountains of Sikkim, India's greenest and least populated state, close to the Nepalese border and far from well-trodden trails. The plan was to visit places in the Lesser Himalayas so remote that they don't appear on any maps. Indeed, in three days, I didn't see a single tourist or souvenir shop. You could call it soft adventure, this concept dreamed up by eco-adventure company Shakti Himalaya which introduces people to the history, culture and lifestyle of remote areas through supported walks and overnight stops in simple village houses. Comfort, however, is ensured, as Shakti helps local owners to convert their houses, by adding bathroom facilities, for example, and introducing homely touches: a Buddha statue here, framed thangkas there, or a comfortable sofa to flop on.
Siddhartha, my guide, tailored the daily programme to my interests, and scaled the walks to my abilities. Indra, my driver, was to follow at a discreet distance with the jeep ("in case you get tired"), while an advance party welcomed us at each stop with G&Ts by a roaring fire, and ensured that everything was tickety-boo.
It's all part of Shakti's plan to develop small-scale, rural tourism to help the local economy. At Yangsum Farm, my host was Thendup, who, unusually in these parts, spoke English. Thendup lives at the farm with his wife, a teacher, who fed me pork momos (dumplings) and fried fiddlehead fern with cheese for dinner. Generations of Thendup's family, who came originally from Tibet, had occupied this stone and wood farmhouse before him, as witnessed by the black-and-white portraits of his ancestors, formal and unsmiling in ritual Tibetan dress. I dined beneath their gaze, sipping Sikkimese wine called Et Tu Brutus [sic], whose treacherous promise remained happily unfulfilled as I retired to my cosy barn, one of three converted for guests.
I awoke at dawn to the call of a cockerel, and bounded out of bed to survey Sikkim's star attraction. Yangsum Farm nestles beneath the magnificent hulk of Kanchenjunga, the world's third highest mountain, said to represent the sleeping giant, Kumbhakarna. But the giant, alas, was shy this morning, and remained veiled in mist. Instead of the snow-capped peaks I had expected, lush, sub-tropical vegetation greeted my eyes. At 1,450m, I found myself surrounded by terraces of kiwi, mango and avocado, banana and betel palms living happily amid slopes clad in wispy pines, crimson rhododendrons, stunted oak and hardwood sal, from which Thendup carved his own furniture. Plum and peach trees were in delicate blossom and pink magnolias bloomed. Vegetables grew in abundance, along with the traditional cash-crops of oranges, cardamom and ginger. Cows munched contentedly on fig leaves. Chickens roamed freely.
After breakfast of potato, ginger and coriander pancakes, with omelettes cooked on a wood stove (eggs courtesy of the cockerel's consort) and juice squeezed from oranges straight off the tree, Thendup guided me through his 60-acre farm and around the local village, home to two dozen families. Already, the village was bending to its daily chores. A woman sat on her porch, grinding grain in a stone mill, while the men headed for the fields. We saw the small school which Thendup had attended, and a ramshackle health centre which was countering superstition with medicine.
We bade farewell to Yangsum Farm, and set off on a walk to our next destination, along the beautiful Maggi Durra ridge, fluttering with prayer flags. Up and over we walked, through forests draped in Spanish moss, past scattered houses with dung-caked bamboo walls and through the valleys, majestic despite the swirling mist. Handsome black pigs had the run of the place, and we saw children carrying water from mountain springs in churns hanging from head-straps. Wives waved hello while their husbands ploughed the terraces with oxen.
Lunch, a reprieve for aching legs, was a picnic of sandwiches and salad in the grounds of an ancient Lepcha heritage house. No ordinary abode this, but a grand and beautiful creation of intricately-carved wood embellished with natural dyes, which had belonged to the Kazi, the local fief. His descendants, subsistence farmers stripped of influence, still lived there, and invited us inside. I discovered a traditional design - including a Buddhist shrine and accommodation for visiting monks - curiously juxtaposed with architectural traces of British influence: a cupboard under the stairs, a chimneypiece, even a tarnished soda siphon. As neighbour to Nepal, Tibet, Bhutan and Bengal, and an independent Buddhist kingdom until annexation by India in 1975, Sikkim's sensitive borders attracted the British Raj, and secured the country a role in the Great Game. "Look at this!" cried Siddhartha, opening an ancient trunk he had discovered in the attic, to unleash a musty, ammoniacal cloud. Piles of foxed papers lay within: a jumbled, as yet un-archived repository of the past. Enchanted, we spent some time sifting through the fading documents before a chill air blew away the cobwebs, and we went on our way.
Sangdyang Lee House was our next destination. Perched on a hillside, it is owned by a politician whose family occupies the main building, while I was housed in a self-contained wing, in the care of the travelling Shakti team. We had walked 15km in a day, which felt a lot more to a townie used to living at sea level. While the chef prepared a restorative Indian feast, Siddhartha had organised a surprise: a troupe of young girls from Kalimpong, to entertain us with traditional dances. Friendly and curious, they spoke of their hope for careers in tourism. Word of the event had spread, and soon half the village crammed into the courtyard to watch, while I sipped evil-tasting tongba - fermented millet - from a bamboo mug, and slipped into the rhythm of the night.
The next morning I was woken by the distant braying of trumpets. We followed the sound down to the tiny, colourful monastery of Rinchenpong, blissfully remote and corralled by white prayer flags. Despite the influx of Hindu Nepalis to Sikkim, Buddhism, which was introduced to the country in the eighth century by the Guru Rinpoche, remains a way of life. We greeted a young monk stoking a fire of juniper leaves to ward off evil spirits, removed our shoes and squeezed into the temple, packed full between walls depicting gods and mandalas.
On the altar behind flickering butter lamps sat a blue-faced Buddha, a female shakti, representing feminine energy, straddling his lap. On either side, magenta-robed monks, some as young as six years old, crouched on low benches, lost in an eerie chant. Their hands moved in synchronized gestures, according to the esoteric Tantric practice, while the hypnotic sound swelled and abated, then swelled again. The reverie was shattered by the sudden cacophony of bells and trumpets, before the chanting resumed to the insistent thud of the drums. The ceremony, which I witnessed by chance, remains the most spell-binding and memorable experience of my journey.
As for the sacred Kanchenjunga, I had to take its omnipresent, snow-capped proximity on trust, since it remained resolutely, tantalisingly hidden behind the protective mist for the duration of my stay. Nothing unusual about that, apparently. "Sometimes a tourist has waited 22 days and then been obliged to go away without a sight of it," wrote Mark Twain from Darjeeling in 1896. But I take this as an enticement to return.
India has changed - but so have I6 April 2008, The Observer (UK), By Emily Barr
We landed in Chennai in the middle of a hot winter night. I had been away from Asia for a long time, but suddenly I felt I'd never left. It was warm and windy, and our cab veered all over the almost empty roads. We sped past sleeping cows, mobile phone ads, and auto-rickshaws parked in clusters. It looked like India. It smelt like India. Half of my head was still in France, but I was undoubtedly in India.
Eight years ago, my life was transformed when I spent a year travelling. During the months I spent in Asia, I made lasting friends, had unforgettable experiences, and met the man who is now my husband. Since then, I have had three children and settled in France. I have avoided long-haul flights for environmental and sanity reasons. Now, suddenly, here I was, back in India for a research trip for my new novel, with a female friend, Sam, and no responsibilities. It was heady and surreal.
Chennai is a sprawling city with a long and pleasant seafront. On our first morning, we set off to walk to the beach. Everywhere, young men were playing cricket. There were families out for strolls, and ice-cream merchants had set up stalls every hundred metres. The Indian middle classes were visible everywhere, hugely more so than they had been eight years earlier. Despite her red hair, Sam and I attracted barely any attention, because a lot of other people were better dressed and clearly richer than we were. Only the rickshaw drivers were interested in us.
The only way I could manage not to pine for my children was to keep wildly busy, so we took in the sights of Chennai, negotiating rickshaw fares as best we could. In a blur, we saw the museums and the Cathedral San Thome, which houses the tomb of Doubting Thomas, the apostle. We made a hectic night-time visit to the vibrant Kapaleeshwarar Temple and marvelled at how much fun it must be to be Hindu. We raced from place to place, bombarding ourselves with India, constantly amazed at how easy it was, how heady, and how enjoyable.
And we stopped to eat, as often as we could. The food was one of the reasons we had come to Tamil Nadu. I am a vegetarian living in foie gras country: south Indian cuisine is heaven. We had vegetarian thalis for lunch and dinner, parathas for breakfast, and never any meat at all. We shared tables in restaurants with other guests, and copied them, eating with fingers and mixing the dishes. Refuelled, we would set off, back into the rickshaw for another buzzing, bumpy ride to the next stop.
Everything about the experience - living out of a backpack, rushing wide-eyed around a city - was familiar yet different. Eight years ago, I ran away from my life in London because I was seized by an urge to see the world, and to leave a lot of things in London behind. This time it felt different, because I had a happy family life to go back to. I felt contented this time, and was determined to wring every drop of experience out of this rare trip.
Still, we were soon ready for a change of pace. On my previous trip, I travelled by local bus, and by train. This time, feeling older and less hardy, we went to our next destination, Auroville, by taxi, since the three-hour journey cost less than £20. In fact, as we were covering a small geographical area without a convenient train service, we did all our travelling by taxi, which, depending on the driver, was alternately luxurious and terrifying.
Auroville is 160km south of Chennai, and ever since I stumbled upon its website, I had been intrigued. It describes itself as an 'ongoing experiment in human unity and transformation of consciousness'. It is intended, eventually, to house 50,000 people, though at the moment there are around 2,000 in some 25 sq km. Auroville describes itself as 'a city for the ideal society of the future'. From a distance, it looked flaky and cult-like, but I wanted a closer look.
It is founded on the vision of a French woman known as the 'Mother', and is inspired by the teachings of Sri Aurobindo, a Cambridge-educated Independence activist, who spent time in jail under British rule for treason, and who died in 1950. I thought I would be able to snigger in an aloof manner while we were there, but the place was strangely inspiring.
To start with, it has impeccable eco- credentials. Since Auroville's inception in 1968, an enormous area has been planted with trees, bucking the trend of deforestation in India. The solar kitchen, largely powered by a rooftop solar bowl, produces thousands of meals every day. There is a cashless economy for all but the most fleeting of visitors. Surface and ground water are managed, and myriad eco-projects are under way at any time.
As soon as we arrived, we stood still and listened to the peace. It was a haven: villages with names like 'Bliss' and 'Quiet', are connected by paths and small roads. There are schools, restaurants, guest houses, and many classes and study programmes in Auroville, but visiting is seductively relaxing. We strolled around smiling at people with impeccable yoga posture, most of them riding bicycles.
Just when it was seeming like Utopia, rather than a personality cult, we were jolted by the sight of the Matrimandir, or Mother Temple. This huge, spherical structure is Auroville's spiritual centre. It is gold. It looks as if it has Nasa receptors all over it. Visitors are allowed to stand or sit in one section of the 'peace area' outside, and look at it. It looks like a hallucination. The 'Mother' envisaged the inner chamber in 1970, and asked her architect to start designing the outside. You have to admire someone who can actually get that built.
Pondicherry is close to Auroville, and this town was a surprise, too: I had never before been anywhere in India where the roads were almost empty. Pondicherry (or Puducherry, as it's now officially known, though everyone seems to call it Pondy) is a joy. It used to be French, and its wide streets still feel slightly Gallic. In the Government Square, we sat watching children playing and missed our own families.
Pondicherry is home to the Sri Manakula Vinayagar Temple, dedicated to Ganesh, the elephant-headed Hindu god. We were delighted to see a real, decorated elephant on the street outside. The temple, as ever, assaulted the senses. Bells tinkled, incense wafted, and there was ochre pigment liberally daubed around. We followed the crowds, admiring brightly coloured shrines, and were surprised when one golden shrine was ceremoniously unveiled and suddenly the real elephant was indoors, standing feet from us, inadvertently blessing people with its trunk.
Wherever we went in Pondicherry, we ended up strolling along the seafront. The water is treacherous, and no one was swimming, but a crowd had gathered to watch a naval display with manoeuvres and fireworks, and a band playing tunes including the Mission Impossible and Indiana Jones themes. Sam and I looked at each other and laughed. This place was fabulous. I began refining my plans to bring the family.
We headed back north and, finally, I found the backpacking enclave I had half been looking for. Mamallapuram is a small coastal town on the Bay of Bengal, and was devastated by the tsunami. There are sculptors on every street, working on everything from tiny stone elephants to enormous Hindu gods. There are also internet centres, stalls selling loose cotton clothes, and everything else you find in a place that caters for budget travellers.
But the temples and caves of Mamallapuram are the real draw. The Shore Temple faces out to the Bay of Bengal - uncompromising and majestic, it dates from the seventh century. The Five Rathas are temples carved out of rock, and include a spectacular stone elephant. A hillside a little way inland hosts numerous temples and caves, as well as 'Krishna's butterball', an enormous round rock that seems to be balanced precariously on a slope, though legend has it the British tried to remove it with seven elephants, and failed.
We spent our final day hanging out with other travellers. Even though, at 36, I was probably a bit old for 'backpacking', I felt I slotted straight back in, and the excitement I was feeling at going home paralleled the old excitement I used to feel, in my travelling days, at the prospect of moving on to the next adventure. We set up camp in a restaurant called Le Yogi, which could have been anywhere in Asia. It was a comfortable environment, frequented equally by westerners and Indian visitors, and we read our books, drank lassis, and exhaled. I watched with fascination as a woman at the next table to us talked on one mobile phone, while sending a text on another. India has truly changed.
It had been a magical trip, but I couldn't wait to get home. As we sped back to Chennai airport that night, in a taxi, I was deeply thankful for the fact that I don't feel the need to run away. My sons were so pleased with their 'India' T-shirts that they've been wearing them to school under their jumpers, and my daughter has not yet stopped saying 'Mama'. Perhaps, one day, we will all head to South India together. Until then, I'm staying home, and telling them all about it. |
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