We were fortunate to be in Sri Lanka and especially in Anuradhapura during a full moon festival (Siuru Pujawa) when many of the temples are decorated with saffron bolts of cloth, wound around the stupa or dagoba, as it’s called here. It makes for a stunning sight against the white bell-shaped structure. It seems that the biggest celebration is held at the enormous Runwanvallysayaa Temple where locals and visitors walk two-by-two in lines stretching more than 100 yards, each dressed in white and carrying a section of the unfurled bolt of cloth above their heads. When the procession reached the dagoba, monks and workers took the material and did the wrapping. The procession and the process made for some good pictures. David captured the essence on video.
After climbing the 3,750-odd steps to see the mountain-top Jain temple complex in Palitana, India, I was hoping that would be the last of the ‘stairway to heaven’ adventures for us. That hope extended to Sigiriya, a place in Sri Lanka’s central “Cultural Triangle” that we had read about in Lonely Planet. It’s a 660 foot granite monolith that rises up from the jungle. A king of Ceylon had made the area his capital in the 5th century and built his palace on the top of the monolith. It’s now a UNESCO World Heritage Site and is called the Eighth Wonder of the World.
There were all sorts of red flags we saw, as in “Don’t go if you’re afraid of heights! Or if you’re afraid of wasps or crowds or sunstroke.” There was another red flag when we learned we were there during the full moon festival and a 3-day holiday weekend. That meant the place was crawling with hordes of people and most of them would be making the Masada-like ascent in the morning’s shade. In an effort to avoid the mob scene, we reversed the order of our day and planned to visit the site around 4 pm, when we could survey how much of the pillar was still in the sun, and how much of the holiday crowd was still trying to make the climb.
I had just about convinced myself that, at least for me, Sigiriya was too hard, too hot and too dangerous. And I hate wasps. I was worried that if I tried the climb I would end up on someone’s endangered list. “It says in the book that there’s a lovely garden at the base of the rock. How about we just go there for a few hours instead of doing the climb?” I ventured. David agreed so fast that I could tell that without any prompting from me, he had arrived at the same conclusion.
As we entered the site, the monolith towered over us, baking in the scorching afternoon sunlight. The garden, looking cool and green in the dappled shade, was up a short flight of stairs. Ahead were a series of steep, long flights of steps rising to the base of a rickety circular staircase fastened to the side of the sheer rock wall. There was a large sign advising people to keep their voices low so as not to disturb the wasps but no one else paid any attention to the sign. The sign also warned that we should stand still and not run if attacked by a swarm of wasps.
We stood for a few moments in the shade, catching our breath, watching people begin the ascent. People carrying infants walked past us, small children literally skipped past us, and several old women in sarees seemed to float past us. Embarrassed to watch these people do something we were about to back out of, we ventured up several more flights and found ourselves at the base of the rickety spiral staircase. “What’s up there,” we asked the guard who stamped our passes. “Painted caves. Very beautiful.” The crowd around us surged forward and next thing we knew we were trudging up the stairs. “Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down,” was my mantra. I did actually look down once. The view was stupendous and terrifying.
We arrived at a wide open area and faced the final stage of the climb, up through the “Lion’s Paw Gate”. “How much farther could it be?” I asked David, adding with great hope, “In fact, I think I see the top.” “I think you see what you wish was the top,” he answered. At least there was a fairly solid hand rail on the next set of stairs. Up we went.
During our stay in Hyderabad, a friend in the city urged us to go to a concert that she promised would be outstanding. The performers were an all-star duo of Shivkumar Sharma and Zakir Hussain.
Shivkumar Sharma is an Indian musician who brought an old Indian 90 to 100-stringed instrument called the santoor back from obscurity. He is considered to be a national treasure worthy of the Indian title “Pandit” (from which is derived our word “pundit”). http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qvVtX-JiF28
Zakir Hussain is another giant in the Indian classical music world. He plays the tabla, which looks something like a pair of bongo drums. Sharma and his santoor were wonderful, but Hussain stole the show for me. What he is able to do with his hands on the drumheads was beyond amazing. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wOUM8K0-Wkc
Almost as amazing for us were the practices and audience etiquette at the concert. The first thing that struck us was the use of an emcee whose primary function was to get the audience’s enthusiasm up a notch: “Let’s put your hands together and give Pandit Shivkumar Sharma and Zakir Hussain a rousing welcome!”
Then the concert began and the audience participation really ramped up. Cell phones came out by the score and were held high to take photos and videos of the performance, with camera flashes going off repeatedly. Also, people continued to walk in and out throughout the performance, often walking across the front of the hall between the stage and the first row of seats, literally 10 feet from the two musicians.
The ultimate in audience participation was a man who climbed up a set of steps onto the stage to take in-your-face photos of the two performers. Because Sharma and Hussain were playing while seated yoga-style on the floor, the overly enthusiastic fan loomed over them. He left the stage only when Hussain invited him to leave.
The question I was left asking is how did the man ever make it up the steps onto the stage? There was a bouncer standing next to the steps, and his job was to stop audience members from going up onto the stage. The guy was big and all in black, including a black spandex polo shirt stretched tight across his rippling Schwarzenegger-like chest. He stood silently, back to the wall, legs slightly spread and arms crossed in front of him to expose biceps as large as a tree trunk. Later, our hosts told us that bouncers are routinely hired at concerts to keep fans and critics off the stage. But when our fan walked up the steps to shove a camera into the face of one of India’s national treasures, the guy in black didn’t move a muscle. Go figure.
The Internet – devil and angel. Devil when you’re thousands of miles from home, dying for news or an email from family or messages from Facebook friends. But you can’t connect and life becomes a game of watching the dreaded spinning ball or spiraling circle or glacially creeping blue line that goes no where. Angel when you throw a question into cyberspace and someone on the other side of the world responds and virtual friendships become real friendships.
This happened twice this trip. The first time was when I did a Google search for people doing alternative photography in India.* Only thing that came up was something called GoaCap – Goa Center For Alternative Photography. I applied for a short residency and was accepted for two weeks in February.
I pretty much didn’t know what to expect, so I packed up a lot of materials and supplies just in case (the biggest different between digital and alternative photography is the vast quantity and variety of things you need to actually make a photograph from film to chemicals to paper to cameras that don’t know from media cards). Much of what I took (film and photo paper) is negatively affected by trips through security scanners. Every plane ride necessitated first requesting and then arguing with gate agents and screeners about why my x-ray sensitive materials needed to be hand checked. Fifty percent of the time I won, the other 50 percent my film and photo paper lost.
who was incredibly gracious with his time and expertise, teaching me processes such as albumen and salt printing – things I had never attempted before. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albumen_print. I had brought a pinhole camera with me and we also made one out of a metal pot. which actually took some pretty interesting photos after a lot of fine tuning by Edson:
These are a couple of prints I made using albumen and salt processing methods.
The 2nd connection I made thanks to the Internet was to a fellow I met on a photography forum called (oddly enough) The Ugly Hedgehog. All I knew about Indrajeet Singh was that he lived in Goa and took amazing photographs of birds. I sent him a message asking for advice about where to buy film in India and one thing led to another which led to a gracious invitation to dine at a marvelous Indian restaurant during our stay here. Mickey (Indrajeet’s nickname) and his lovely wife Zwe were charming, gracious hosts and who regaled us with stories of their adventures taking groups of photographers on wildlife safaris in parks and preserves all across India. We left that evening with two new friends as well as a long list of places to visit on our next trip here.
*Alternative photography” in its simplest sense (and depending how strict your definition) is pretty much anything that’s not digital, although a digital picture that is processed (printed) in a way that doesn’t involve a ink jet printer (a cyanotype, for example) is considered Kosher – by some. It’s confusing. I know. I’ve been interested in alternative processing every since I took a course with Lana Caplan at MassArt. Lana Z Caplan. I’ve now taken this course 3 times and plan to take it again next fall. Last year I spent several weeks studying with Syko Song in Taipei (see the blogs for December 2013).
Apparently there was just a piece in The New York Times travel section about Goa as a beach vacation paradise. It is definitely that. The fine, white sand beaches are gorgeous. The water was of a “this ain’t the North Atlantic” temperature. The choices of restaurants serving great food is endless. The feeling is laid back and mellow compared with other parts of India. Would I come back here? In a heartbeat. But not just because of those selling points. Sam warned that after a few days we’d find the crowds of boisterous Israelis on R and R from the army exhausting. The large-framed, white bellied (sun burned) Australian and Russian tourists would be less than picturesque, The Indian tourists (mostly young men turned loose and out of control) would become quickly annoying. The 24/7 “let’s party!” culture would turn us off. None of those things happened. In fact, those were the very things that, at least for me, I liked the best about Goa. They presented a non-stop buffet of picture taking opportunities. People immersed in their few days of fun in the sun become both disinhibited and totally oblivious to anyone taking their picture. I had a ball.
From David: there’s one picture that Lora was not able to get. It was a shot of a gorgeous, young French blond standing at the water’s edge using a hoola-hoop — topless. Wham-O!!, for those of you who remember the brand name. And her thong was too small to cover the label “Made in France”.
We checked into the very lovely Sanctuary Tissawawa Hotel in Anuradhapura, Sri Lanka and were shown to our room. The bell boy showed us how to work the lights, turn on the AC, and locate the mini bar. While taking his leave, he requested that we “not eat the monkeys.” Hahahaha. Who would think of eating a monkey? Obviously a failure to communicate. We smiled and nodded as if we understood perfectly. Then he said, “When you leave your room, please make sure to tightly close the doors and windows and don’t leave anything outside as the bad monkeys will take it away. Especially food.” Oh, he meant don’t feed the monkeys.
After unpacking, we retired to the chairs on the veranda in front of our room and watched those cute monkeys cavorting in the nearby trees. Within no time they were swinging from tree to roof to veranda. All the while eyeing us carefully. I grabbed my camera to take a picture of darling baby monkey clinging to his mama’s back. Suddenly Papa aka Satan in Fur was snarling and hissing at us from the railing, dangerously close to where we were sitting. (We later learned that pointing a camera lense toward a monkey is perceived as aggressive direct eye contact. And monkeys apparently share our view that the best defense is a good offense.)
“I don’t feel too good about this,” I said to David who, in his most assertive lawyer’s voice, was rather ineffectively ordering the monkey to back off. There was a table between us and our bedroom door and the damn monkey was moving in for the kill. We looked around for something to throw but all we had were our iPhones, to which we are rather attached. We decided to make a run for it and as we slammed the door behind us the monkey flung himself at it. He meant business. He tried the window, hissing and snarling in earnest. We had to call reception to liberate us (weapon of choice was a broom), explaining that we didn’t, in fact, try to eat the monkey. The above photo was taken through the closed window, just moments before he jumped toward it a second time to further emphasize his displeasure with us. Trust me, that’s the last time I aim my camera at a monkey.
Meet Ganesh the lovable Hindu god who, among other things, removes obstacles and ensures success.
When our son Max returned from India with a small statue of Ganesh for his son, Elijah became so enchanted with the deity that he began to take on the persona. He actually began calling his mother Pavrati, which is the name of Ganesh’s maternal unit. He is also taking full advantage of Genesh’s ability to remove obstacles and give success. The ante was upped when Eli decided to make his own Ganesh costume, which we, his proud grandparents, think is totally brilliant:
Max asked if we could bring home another small statue or a tee shirt or book about Ganesh for Eli’s arsenal. We got a little carried away (the birthright of grandparents) and found an adorable Ganesh tote:
We haven’t found a tee shirt yet, but scored big time in the marvelous market in Mapusa (pronounced Mopsa) where we found a musical Ganesh nightlight that sings jaunty tunes to wake you up:
And helps you meditate your way to sleep.
I hope Eli likes it as much as we hope he might. Otherwise I’m claiming it for my bedside table.
Some images from the Mapusa market, which is where we went to ship home all the stuff the airlines will surely charge us for overweight.
David: Rajasthan was on Sam’s itinerary wish list because of everything he had heard of my visit there with Max in 1994 and with Lora in 2010. To give us enough time, he and I left Lora, Jonathan and Max in Varanasi a few days early and flew to Udaipur, a city in the south of the state.
Udaipur is the city made famous by the Lake Palace Hotel, where Max and I stayed in the flush days of 1994. (A story from our 1994 stay in the Lake Palace is later in this posting.) In the not-quite-so-flush days of 2014, Sam and I had to content ourselves with a distant view of the Lake Palace from a not-quite-as-plush palace on the ghat alongside the lake.
Movie buffs among you will remember the Lake Palace as the site of many scenes in the 1983 James Bond movie Octopussy. For those of you without that memory, every restaurant in town will remind you.
One of the high points for us in Udaipur was the Jagdish Temple, built in 1651 and devoted to Vishnu, the supreme Hindu god. The temple was just a couple of hundred yards from our hotel and Sam and I rushed over when we heard a ceremony in progress. A Sadhu holy man sitting at the temple’s entrance acknowledged us as we snapped his picture. The following video captures one man’s total commitment to the ceremony.
Udaipur Temple Video
One of the “medium” points in Udaipur, at least for me, was our search for a small jewel of a room that Max and I had discovered in 1994. It was in the Shiv Niwas Palace Hotel, which is part of the beautiful and vast City Palace complex. We had dinner one night alongside a reflecting pool in one of the hotel’s interior courtyards. While we ate, a sitar player performed on steps leading to the room on the opposite side of the courtyard. After dinner we explored the room, which was a beautiful two-story library room.
Sam and I found the courtyard and library. The courtyard’s reflecting pool is now a swimming pool, surrounded by chaise lounge chairs rather than by an elegant dining area. And the room is now a bar/cocktail lounge, not a library. It’s still very beautiful, but not quite what it had become in my memory.
The Shiv Niwas Palace Hotel “library” (above) and the City Palace at night.
Now about Max’s and my stay at the Lake Palace in 1994. Since Max was showing me “his India” on that visit, we were staying in $1 a night hotels. On at least one occasion, the bathroom was simply a hole in the floor in a corner of the room with a dripping spigot above it. Udaipur was the exception since I had heard of the Lake Palace. I reserved a room to make sure we could get in.
For some forgotten reason, we decided to arrive in Udaipur a day early and I wanted to make sure the Lake Palace would have a room for us. We were then in Agra and, in 1994, the only practical option was a telephone booth in the street where an attendant was on duty to place calls. Try as he might, he could not make a connection. Inspired after 20 minutes of frustration watching cows, pigs, goats, monkeys, water buffalo, sheep, etc. meandering past the phone booth, I asked the attendant to call my office in Massachusetts. Thanks to its being a satellite connection, the call went through effortlessly. I asked my assistant to call Udaipur to let the hotel know I would be arriving early, and her satellite call also went through effortlessly. All the while the attendant was still not able to make a landline connection.
When we arrived in Udaipur, we found the hotel almost empty. It seemed that the day after I had flown out of Boston there was an outbreak of bubonic plague in nearby Gujarat, and the world’s elite had cancelled their travel plans in droves. It was a lesson in “You never know…”
There must be something about Jain temples and monkeys. This Mama & Baby landed on the hood of our car as I was driving up Mt. Abu to see the Jain temples at Dilwara. The same thing happened four years ago when Lora and I were driving to the Jain temple in Ranakpur. The only difference is that Lora wasn’t warned by our driver: “NO WINDOW!” and the lead monkey tried to climb into the car.
Sam – another sport for you and Mary Ann to consider: