The Sacred Isle

The Island of Iona, a tiny spot of land just off-shore from the much bigger island of Mull on the west coast of Scotland, is one of those places that has called to Bruce and me for years.  Known as a sacred place, it has a mystical, spiritual, historical reputation as the site of early Celtic Christianity.  In 563 AD St. Columba arrived there from Ireland to introduce Christianity to the Scots and to Europe.  It’s where the beautiful Book of Kells was written.  In more modern times, it’s where Rev. Bobby Ives, of the Carpenter’s Boat Shop in South Bristol, Maine, became a member of the Iona Community, an ecumenical effort for peace and progressive Christianity.  And Dori and Dan’s Scottish brother-in-law, Rev. Erik Cramb, has had a nearly 50 year association with the Iona Community.  Erik and his wife, Elizabeth, Dan’s sister, joined us for this part of our Scotland tour.  

We awoke to snow that first morning in Crianlarich, where I left off in my story.  Dori and I felt so lucky to have dodged the bullet on that one for our hike on the West Highland Way the previous day.  The four of us drove west, farther into the highlands, through majestic snowy scenery, to the coastal town of Oban.  Gradually the snow disappeared from all but the tops of mountains.  In Oban, we met Erik and Elizabeth and, under the most perfect complete rainbow, took a car ferry to the island of Mull.  Just before we arrived, the ship steamed past the MacLean clan’s Duart Castle, positioned on a strategic point of land on Mull. 

Snowy cloudy highland forest

Misty Duart Castle, Seat of the MacLean clan

From here we drove the 20 miles to the southern tip of Mull and the tiny settlement of Fionnphort. The scenery along this route was mountainous and sweeping and grand – and elicited a whole new set of superlatives.  The sky was moody with shifting dark and light, creating constantly new vistas.  On the narrow, one-track road, Bruce began to pull over for photos without request!

At Fionnphort we left our silvery Mercedes behind, as required, and boarded yet another ferry for the 15 minute hop over to Iona.  We had forgotten to pare down our stuff and so dragged all our year-long belongings behind us – and ON us - as we made our way to our cottage on the island where Dori, Dan, Eric, and Elizabeth had stayed 6 years ago.  It was a beautiful three bedroom home, looking out on the ocean, with sun pouring in from all angles: my kind of place!  And, in a giant coincidence, we discovered from the guest book, that a friend of ours, a member of our church in Gorham and a Maine Dept. of Human Services co-worker from 40 years ago, had also stayed there just last fall!

                                                  Scene from our bedroom window

We were exceptionally lucky with the unpredictable Scottish weather, and our 3-day experience on the island was lovely. In addition to the famous abbey, there is a quaint little village with a school, a post office, a couple of small hotels, a great little grocery. There are potters and other crafts artists. Farmers still raise sheep and cattle on the island.

While there, Bruce and I walked a couple of the island beaches, over fields that fell steeply to the sea, sheltering momma sheep and babies.  We explored the ruins of religious buildings from times so long ago, as well as the beautiful abbey itself, now restored and serving as a place of worship for groups who come to the island for classes and spiritual renewal - or for travelers such as ourselves.  Dori and I had tea and scones in a hotel sunroom looking out on the sea.  Bruce and Dan had Guinness in a bar looking out on the sea!  Dori and I combed the graveyard where Norse kings and Scottish kings and French kings had been buried beside fishermen, soldiers, wives, mothers, and many young children.  Tall, Celtic stone crosses lined the old, old walkway.  The MacLean cross had stood sentinel since the 1400’s!  

                                                             MacLean Cross

Church services were held twice a day, in the morning and evening.  All of us attended several services at various times.  The most moving church service was communion on our last evening.  The ancient stone sanctuary was lit with many candles, while a long table was arranged down the center aisle, set with a simple white tablecloth and seashells, and around which sat those congregants facing it in the first row of seats.  A common cup (with a small wiping cloth) and a loaf of bread were passed from person to person.  The young piano player’s music at this point seemed extemporaneous, rising and falling in a rush of clear sweet notes.  Afterward, the passing of the peace among the worshippers felt warm and sincere.  Although it was a short service, by the time it ended, the hour was nearing 10pm.  We left the abbey and walked back to the cottage in the chilly moist night air.  It was a perfect way to conclude our visit to this special isle.

                                                          Iona Abbey 

                                       Our group as we were waiting to leave Iona

Kilts, Pubs, Salmon, Sheep, & Lochs!

It’s hard to believe that we’ve been in Scotland for only a little over a week.  We’ve packed a lot of sightseeing into that time.  We began in Edinburgh, capital of Scotland, and spent two days roaming around the majestic old stone city.  On the Royal Mile, in the heart of the Old Town, we happened upon a wedding with the handsome groom and best man outfitted in kilts (pictured below); got glimpses of fancy cars - a bright red Ferrari and an Asti Martin, owned by Sikh men from India, it appeared; heard bagpipes, of course, being played along the street; looked out over the ramparts at Edinburgh Castle; listened to sweet choral music in medieval St. Giles Church, where we also saw mention of our Murray ancestors, dating back to the 1500’s.

                                       The handsome groom and best man - in kilts!

Friendly guys along the Royal Mile, enjoying the afternoon sun and their Scotch whiskey!   

We ate the obligatory – and delicious - fish ‘n chips and drank pints of Guinness beer, that smooth, creamy mother’s milk of libations.  The "full Scottish" breakfast at our B & B was very full indeed, comprised of eggs, potato patties, sausage, bacon, baked beans, roast tomato, and toast - plus juice and coffee/tea, of course, as well as fruit if one wished. Enough to fuel hours of touring!  It must be noted that Scottish food has improved tremendously in recent years, often offering fresh local products served in creative ways.  I had a fantastic smoked salmon and fish chowder one evening. I haven’t had the wherewithal to try haggis or blood pudding yet, but that’s a goal while we’re here.  

                                              This fish chowder was YUMMY1

On Saturday evening Dori, Bruce, and I went looking for traditional music at a pub.  We found it, but the pub was packed with locals, putting us too far from the fiddler to hear any music.   Dori, who drinks nothing stronger than ginger beer, made her way through the crowd to request the song, Maggie, and, being asked to sing a few lines, made her Scottish singing debut.  Bruce and I, tucked away in a corner, missed it!

                                           Dori and Bruce at Belle's Pub in Edinburgh.  

The next day, Sunday, we all toured the botanical gardens, as we had done a couple of times in Ooty, India.  It was a sunny, brisk day and lots of families wandered the hilly terrain, past clumps of daffodils and among the 700 varieties of rhododendrons.  Highlights for us included the experimental organic garden and hoop houses, which got Bruce and me itching to do our own gardening at home; the Queen Mother’s Garden, where a lovely tiny building was filled with artfully displayed seashells and pine cones collected by the children of Scotland; the fairy wood – we ARE in a Celtic land - with its hidden miniature doors on trees;  the beautiful, delicate glass house where tropical plants are flourishing (we didn’t need to see any more of those and so skipped the tour); and finally, an extensive and inspiring outdoor visual display of the dire environmental state of our world – with ideas of various solutions and a website.  The theme was Bob Dylan’s song, Hard Rain, which was being broadcast in that area.  All in all, a dynamic and delightful place, the traditional mixed with the whimsical, the practical, and the timely.   And not one stranger asked to take our photo!   

Seashells collected by Scottish children to honor and remember Queen Mother Elizabeth, who was born in Scotland.  

The graceful glass house with the outdoor environmental display. You can find out more at www.hardrainproject.com.

That evening Dori, Dan, and I toured Mary King’s Close, an alleyway off the ancient Royal Mile.  The close dates back to medieval times.  Although it has been covered with street level buildings, underground it follows the steep slant of the hillside and extends downward for many stories.  It was pretty interesting to hear about life in the severely overcrowded houses that had lined the alleyway.  Much mention was made of the smelly, noxious human and animal waste that had washed downhill to the lake at the foot of the street.  And that explains why the relatively wealthy Mary King lived high up in the original 11-story building!

On Monday we checked out of our lovely B & B and picked up our rental car.  The rental agent pushed a Mercedes Benz on us, which is both a delight and a curse here in frugal Scotland.  We headed west.  Our destination was the tiny settlement of Crianlarich, one of the villages on the hiking trail known as the West Highland Way.  Dori and I had plans to hike a six mile portion of the trail. 

As we drove past the bright green fields of sheep with their baby lambs close by, past the cold blue lochs (lakes) and the beautiful sweeping, wide-open vistas of high mountains, Dori and I began our litany of superlatives.  Bruce and Dan at first mocked us, and then a few superlatives began creeping into their own reactions to the amazing scenery unfolding before us.  Along the way, we spotted a sign directing us to the grave of Rob Roy.  Remember the movie with hunky Liam Neeson? We detoured to the grave and found it in the churchyard of a charming old stone church out in the countryside.

 The churchyard where we found Rob Roy's grave.  The tiny dots in the background are sheep!

 It was 4 pm when we arrived in Tyndrum, and Dori and I set out on our 6 mile trek.  Normally, in Maine in April, that would be a ridiculous time to begin a hike, but in the highlands of Scotland, where dusk lingers and doesn’t become fully dark until 9pm, it was only a little crazy.  Although the temperature was chilly, there were patches of blue sky and we felt lucky to not have rain. We bundled up in many layers, found the trail, and began our adventure.  The trail followed a small stream initially, then crossed a government experimental farm and into a sheep pasture.  We were careful to close the gates securely, and then we became sheep paparazzi, our cameras whirring at the sight of those cute wooly creatures.

Standing next to our elegant Mercedes, Dori and I are bundled up and ready for our hike on the West Highland Way.

Never ones to pass a cemetery, the ruins of a 13^th century priory and nearby graveyard captured our imaginations and slowed us down a bit.  The estimated time for this portion of the trail was 4-5 hours. However, we figured that two old ladies with cameras should add an hour or more!  

                                                                   Along the trail

                                             
The mountains around us were in the 1000 meter range.  Some were capped with snow and were absolutely majestic.  Although the trail did not ascend the mountains, it certainly ranged much higher than we had anticipated.  We huffed and puffed, up and up, higher and higher, through lovely, moist woods covered in moss, across stream after stream rushing downward.  It was pretty cold, and I was lucky to have Dori’s gloves and Bruce’s cap.  Dori was toasty warm in too many layers of hoodies and jackets.  Finally the trail began to descend, as we knew that it must at some point, and we both picked up the pace, concerned that our husbands would be worrying.   The light was just about gone when we reached Crianlarich and made our way, in a cold drizzle, along the highway to our rural B & B.  Dinner with the guys at a hostel across the road was the most delicious steamed salmon, with a coal fire in the fireplace and the host plucking out tunes on his mandolin.  Couldn’t have been lovelier!

                                                                    Climbing high on the trail.

  

Ahh, Western Pleasures

We arrived in Edinburgh, Scotland last Friday.  It had been a very, very long day. Just like the persistent tuk tuk drivers, Delhi didn't seem to want to let us go.  Although our plane was due to depart at midnight, it took another three hours, and FIVE changes of departure gates, before it happened.  Each time that the gate change announcement was made, our growing contingent of passengers bound for Paris would arise en masse, like sheep, and troop up or down the escalator. Most of us grumbled just a bit under our breath.  But the Indian passengers felt comfortable voicing their frustration loudly. I had a sense that somewhere there was a manager getting a good laugh out of it all.  Not until 3 am did we fall into the welcome arms of Air France.   No matter the unusual hour, Bruce and I clinked our little plastic wine glasses high above the tumult left behind and then fell promptly asleep in our air chariot.

                  Tuk tuk in New Delhi.  These guys can be very persistent in wanting to drive you around              for the whole day!

Bruce was especially eager to be out of India.  In retrospect, I guess that it was a long-shot that a person with sensory issues would enjoy a land that has so often been described as sensory overload.  He was a happy boy when our connecting flight from Paris landed in Edinburgh, where the pleasant, easy-going  immigration agent wished us a great holiday. (US agents could take a lesson in politeness from him!)   Outside, the weather was cool,  the roads were clean, traffic was organized, the air was fresh.  We checked into our beautiful B & B, Culane House, where the manager was a friendly young Pakistani woman - good segue!  It's a spotless, comforting place, with little chocolate Easter eggs, wrapped in gold foil, on the pristine white bedspread.  Coming from a part of the world where life is very basic, this was a luxurious touch that struck me as both delightful and inane!  The room looks out through high antique windows onto several garden spaces.  The daffies are in blossom, as well as the forsythia and the pink crab apple trees. Lilacs won't be far behind. We are in heaven - or "at home" , as the airport sign says!

                        It's so delightful to see spring right outside our B & B window.

As immense frosting on the cake, we have family here (seems only natural if we're really "at home".)  Actually, Dori and Dan, my Canadian cousins, are the reason that we are in Edinburgh, since they were here for Dan's sister's anniversary party and suggested that we join them for a couple of weeks.  They are staying in the same B & B, so we are loving exploring this beautiful city with folks who are dear people and great fun, as well as Scots experts.  The only time that I had been in Edinburgh previously was 43 years ago - with Dori.  We had tried to reach the Isle of Skye, ancestral home of our MacLeod grandmother, by hitch-hiking through the highlands, which didn't work out too well in that sparsely populated area.   This time we'll hire a car and drive there, stopping off en route to do some hiking on the West Highland Way.  As I write, Bruce and Dan are off procuring the car.

                                    Dori and Dan, right here in the "auld sod".  We're happy travelers!

New Delhi

New Delhi IS better!! It's actually an amazing city. With 10 million people, it has both the lovely and the not-so-lovely. We haven't seen the real slums, and that's a good thing, but I know that they exist.  Our first impression of Delhi, on the taxi ride from Indira Gandhi International Airport to our little guest house, was that there is much better infrastructure than Coimbature, there is MUCH more greenery (beautiful tree-lined avenues and lots of expansive parks), slightly more order on the roadways, and many more sights of historical importance! In fact, we've seen only a few of these sights, and we'll be departing this evening, leaving many more unseen. They say that it's good to leave with more left to do, so that you'll come back again. Don't think that will happen, at least not with my current husband.

The history here is ancient and modern, ranging from emperors and shahs who left incredible monuments and tombs, to the British raj lasting several hundred years, to the inspiring struggle for independence featuring the saintly Gandhi. We are soaking it all up like sponges with a feeling that we have barely a clue about India in all her complexity. But we know a lot more than we did a few weeks ago, and suddenly I can sense that we have crossed into a different part of the world, where the influence of Persia and the middle east is all around us, especially in the architecture and Muslin traditions.

On our first day in Delhi, we visited the Gandhi Memorial, very simple and dignified and reminiscent of the Viet Nam Memorial in DC. This is where he was cremated on the banks of the river (which couldn't be seen). I loved the inscriptions of his quotes embedded in stone, using the beautiful calligraphy of Hindi and Tamil and Telugu.  Later, resting on the grass in the shade, we were again objects of photographic interest!

                                                        Gandhi's Memorial

A quote from Ghandi, written in Hindi and enscribed in stone

We followed up with a visit to a nearby dusty, unsophisticated but powerful museum, housing many photographs and artifacts of Gandhi's life.  We were reminded of what a humble and brilliant force for good he was. How could the Brit's have resisted for so long his lofty ideals for the freedom of his people? I began reading a borrowed copy of Gandhi's autobiography.

In addition, we figured out the metro system, tangled with a pushy tuk tuk driver, and had our first ride in a rickshaw! We were exhausted after a hot day and hunkered down in our fan-filled room for the evening, snacking on delicious cookies bought along the way.

Day two was cooler, due to the previous evening's thunderstorms. We set our sights on just two tourist venues: the tomb of a Mughal emperor, dating to the mid-1500's, and the Red Fort, an iconic symbol of India's freedom and history.

Humanyun's tomb was breathtakingly beautiful and consisted of a whole complex of massive buildings, set on many acres of land. The grounds were spacious and cared for, offering a cool and welcome oasis in the midst of the city.  The tomb itself was a monument which set the standard for all later monuments, including the Taj Mahal. Since I was disappointed that we weren't gong to see the Taj, this made up for it!  We wandered around at a leisurely pace, delighted to be in such a peaceful and lovely space, away from the heat, dirt, and pestering.  Bruce says it was the highlight for him.

                                               Humanyun's Tomb

The Red Fort is located in the heart of Old Delhi.  It, too, is ancient and astonishingly huge, dating from the 1600's and built of red sandstone.  Inside, we got sidetracked for an hour or so in a fascinating museum describing in more detail the fight for independence, putting Gandhi's role in  perspective with the other patriots.  The Red Fort is the location where the Indian flag was first flown on Independence Day:  August 15, 1947.  It, too, is a complex of buildings, including an old bazaar and a small mosque, all surrounded by tall, thick red sandstone walls and a wide moat.

                                                    The Red Fort

That was the end of adventures for day 2 for Bruce.  I wasn't finished yet.  On the strong recommendation of our hostess, I decided that I "must see" the sound and light show at the Red Fort, starting at 8:30pm. The last sound and light show that I saw was 43 years ago in Rome, when I set off alone, determined to see it.  Guess I've got a thing about sound and light shows! Does that mean that I haven't changed a bit in all that time?  Depressing thought.  Anyway, this time I invited a bright young Italian PhD student, a housemate who is doing research here, to accompany me.  With the two of us, I figured we'd be safe.   And we were.  In the end, after the show, we had a cluster of Indian police officers waiting around us until our taxi arrived - just to be sure!

I wish we had time and stamina to discover more of "incredible India". Today we may explore our own neighborhood surrounding Lifetree B & B, where we have been nurtured by Kanta and Ramish.   But then we pack up and pay up  -  and then check out and hang out - until midnight, when our plane departs for Edinburgh.  Arrival tomorrow on the "auld sod" will be a welcome shock to the senses, we expect.

Trots and Toy Trains

It’s Easter Sunday, the day before our departure for New Delhi tomorrow, April 9. Bruce and I find ourselves holed up in a hotel room in Coimbature, South India, both recovering from a stomach bug that had the bad timing to foist itself upon us during a transition period. I came down with it on the night before we were checking out of our “cottage” of two weeks duration in Ooty. Not knowing exactly what had laid me low, I kept hoping that it would run its course and be over by check-out time at noon. That was not to be. Though I was worried about dehydration, my innards refused to keep anything inside, be it just water or the oral rehydration solution prescribed by Raj, our new Indian physician friend. A 3 hour trip on the tiny, historic, narrow gauge UNESCO “toy train”, built in the early 1900’s to carry passengers from the mountain peaks to the plains, loomed large in my mind. I didn’t relish the specter of myself vomiting out the window. Luckily, our friend graciously prescribed an “anti-vomit” pill that worked wonders in getting me down out of the mountains without any embarrassing incidents.

The train ride was something that Bruce and I had been looking forward to since we had learned about the Nilgiris Hills. We hadn’t counted on the fact that our trip would coincide with Easter weekend, as well as a Hindu holiday and the start of the summer season in touristy Ooty. So tix were hard to come by on the train that carried about 250 passengers once a day. We had ordered our tix more than a week in advance but didn’t know if we would be allowed onto a car until it happened - at the moment of departure. Our success at finally being assigned seats may have been due to white privilege, plus a little extra requested “fee” to the station master. The fact that we had purchased tix in both 1st class and 2nd class cars, a total of 4 seats, probably had no influence on the final decision. I honestly don’t think that anyone was left behind. We were the last to get on, and the only ones dragging big bulging suitcases. In my weakened condition, I was of no help to Bruce, who had to muscle them over people’s heads and finally leave them in the middle of the aisle. I guess that 2nd class travelers from the early 1900's didn’t bring big cases with them!

Our small, narrow antique car was stuffed to the gills with passengers who seemed to know each other. They were families of all ages and definitely in a party mood, hooting and whistling every time that we entered a tunnel, of which there were many! Beside each set of seats was an open window space, from which I could lean out and feel the fresh air and see the incredible scenery. We traveled through gorgeous, far-reaching tea plantations, looking so orderly and fresh, ranging up and down the impossibly steep mountainsides. People living near the tracks in the countryside sat outside on the grass, waiting to wave as the train passed.

"Toy train" stretched out

Tea plantation climbing the steep mountainside

Afternoon entertainment: waiting to wave to the passing train!

The train chugged along at a pretty slow speed, which I appreciated, especially as we crossed trestles high above river gorges and began descending the steep terrain. Bruce befriended a beautiful toddler girl across the aisle, with big brown eyes, dark eyebrows, and a sweet smile. We made stops at a few stations along the way. Each time, older gents came along, selling cups of sweet tea through the windows. Monkeys reigned at one of the stations, dashing down from the station roof and beguiling passengers with their humanoid mannerisms, obviously familiar with the train routine, gobbling up whatever edible tidbits were thrown their way.

 We switched to a steam engine with a cog about half way down the mountains.

Can you see me in the window? I'm smiling because I haven't lost my cookies - yet!

Monkeys getting a daily treat from a passenger.

As we made our way from a height of 6000 feet to an area just slightly above sea level, the air became hot and humid and the vegetation tropical. By the time we were on the plains, we were seeing date and coconut palm groves, as well as sugar cane fields.

The train was right on time for its 5:30pm arrival at the station. Since we were still an hour and a half away from our destination of Coimbature, we had arranged for our original taxi driver, Pon, to meet us at the station. I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to see him stick his smiling face through the train window, dragging our suitcases out with no effort. We felt very cared for. I rewarded him with one last vomit as I entered his taxi (into a plastic bag: we were prepared :).

The frantic, break-neck ride to the hotel provoked the same thoughts in both Bruce and me: I’ll be glad to leave this area. I feel sorry about this conclusion. I want to love India as much as Rudyard Kipling, whose novel Kim I’m enjoying greatly, or as much as Mark Tully, longtime BBC correspondent and author of The Heart of India, a lovely collection of stories about Indian village life. We’ve encountered astonishingly heart-warming kindness and generosity here, which we won’t soon forget, and gorgeous color and scenery, but life is difficult and often uncomfortable, especially in the overpowering heat – and downright dangerous on the roads!  Maybe New Delhi will be better.  Stay tuned!

Sweet Times

Just before we left Ooty, we had one of the most delightful experiences of our time in India. It seemed to pull together our visit to Ooty, like a delicate Indian pastry knotted at both ends with kindness. This experience had its beginnings on our first full day in Ooty, a couple of weeks ago, when we encountered a fascinating couple at a resto. We had noticed them arriving amidst hugs from the waiters, he with the biggest, warmest, smile imaginable and she, obviously a western woman, red-haired, tall and elegant, wearing a flowing saree. They made a striking couple - and they sat near us, eventually starting up a conversation with us. We liked them immediately and found that we had a lot of similarities in our ideas. He, Raj, is a doctor, trained in western medicine but now working in a practice that integrates western and eastern, traditional methods. She, Susan, is originally from northern California and is now an Indian homemaker (and Raj’s wife). After we chatted together non-stop for quite a while, they went on their way, offering to host us for a get-together of some sort before our two weeks were over.

We looked forward to the invitation, which got postponed due to Susan’s intervening illness. Just as we were running out of days in Ooty, the call came for an afternoon visit that day at their house, followed by a walk in the hills. With anticipation, we took a tuk-tuk about 5 miles out of town to their village. The road twisted up and down sharp curves, past beautiful, lightly shaded, glossy green tea plantations covering the steep mountainsides and through woods full of tall eucalyptus and cedar trees. It felt good to be out of the city and into the open air and peacefulness of the countryside. Raj and Susan live in a small home surrounded by a field where a couple of cows - the source of their milk and butter – were grazing calmly.

Inside, we were treated to chai and dates and cookies. Raj’s sister, also a doctor and the head of the school health program for the 14 million children of Kerala state (!), was visiting with a couple of friends.

After introductions and snacks, we all set out for a walk in the neighborhood. It took us down the road and through a tiny village populated by Badagas, one of the area’s hill tribe peoples. As befits the communal relationships of the Badagas, their homes were constructed to share common walls and were painted in bright, cheerful colors, with spotlessly clean front patio spaces. Little kids came to greet us as we passed through the area, which had an intimate feel.

The walking group, including Raj and Susan; Bruce; Raj's sister, Rani; and her friend and daughter

On the other side of the village, the wide path descended past more tea fields and a lush crop of carrots. A rustic white-washed stone home, sitting part way up a hill, reminded us of France or Switzerland. Farther along, in a low wet area, wild calla lilies brought thoughts of Guatemala, where I had fallen in love with the sturdy white blossoms.

                                                  tea field

White rustic stone house in the tea garden

                                                            Beautiful calla lily

As we walked along, we were met by a group of older women, dressed in the typical white robes of the Badagas. They were returning from harvesting garlic, small sickles in their hands. They stopped to exchange pleasantries with Susan and Raj and eagerly agreed to my photos! Bruce and I were surprised that women of their age were still working the fields and plodding the steep hills – but perhaps that’s what keeps them going strong! I loved that they were working together in a sisterhood of gardeners.

Badaga women returning from the garlic fields

On a small rise, we came to a surprisingly large Christian church, given the rural setting. Apparently many Badagas have been practicing Christianity for several generations. There was also a Hindu temple in the village. It was inspiring to see religious inclusion being lived right here. Certainly Ooty had churches, both Catholic and Protestant, as well as Hindu temples and mosques, all co-existing respectfully, it seemed.

Pretty blue countryside church

Our visit ended with tea at the home of one of the Badaga women whom we had met on the walking path. She greeted the seven of us and found seats for everyone in her cozy sitting room, formerly an animal stable but now a warm, sparkling clean space with shiny mint green painted walls. Attached to this room was a very tiny cooking room, replete with a wood stove, as well as an electric induction hot plate and a gas burner: equipment ranging from ancient to modern. Our hostess’ daughter-in-law slipped out to get water at the community spigot. Soon tiny metal cups of milky sweet tea were passed around the group along with sweet crackers. We chatted with our hostess’ son, a young man who had learned to speak English in the hotel industry. A spontaneous invitation for dinner was extended but we declined, while feeling great gratitude for yet another expression of Indian hospitality.

                                                   Our gracious tea hostess

We climbed the hill back to Susan and Raj’s home as the sky darkened, the full moon rose and stars popped out. It had been a wonderful opportunity for us to spend time with this lovely couple in their own home, to get out into the beautiful Nilgiris hills, and to catch an extraordinary glimpse of the life of a family living in the old but evolving traditions of rural India. “And there they were made welcome…after the custom of the kindly east.” (Kipling’s Kim. ) We felt very welcome, indeed!

Celebs

It is a delightful reality of life that children and young adults are often more willing than older adults to put aside inhibitions and gently break out of social restrictions. We have found that, here in India, kids of all ages, who have been studying English in school, are eager to say hello (often shyly and with a giggle) and engage with us. Sometimes, children are encouraged by their parents, who are proud of their children’s burgeoning fluency. More frequently, these young people, on their own, just seem to get a kick out of being able to use their English skills successfully.

This was what was going on when we passed a home with four young girls outdoors in the yard. They said hello and we responded, engaging in a short conversation. We continued down the road and, as we passed by on our return, they invited us into their home for coffee (perhaps at their mom’s suggestion; she had been standing in the background). We were a little dubious, but also honored at their hospitality and so followed them into their humble home. The small entry room was dominated by a double bed and two plastic chairs to which we were graciously directed. The girls, cute as could be, all sat themselves down on the edge of the bed facing us. Soon their dad appeared at the door, having seen us enter his home from his insurance office just up the road. Mom slipped into a back room and quickly reappeared with two cups of sugary, frothy coffee and a plate of sweet crackers (biscuits). The girls, two sibs in this family and two neighbor friends, attend a nearby private school where they are learning English. When I asked the eldest, 10 year old Mythili, what she wants to be when she’s grown, she immediately said, “a doctor”. As if to underscore that this is a real possibility, she jumped up to show us multiple first place academic and sports trophies. Her parents were proud of her, of course, and also seemed a bit in awe of her. She also asked us to buy her a camera like mine and bring it to India next time we’re here, and she would repay us. Given her intelligence and assertiveness, I have no doubt that Mythili will do very well in this world!

Our adorable, serendipitous coffee hosts!


At other times, the fact that we look like we do – with fair skin and western clothes (despite gray hair and wrinkles) - sets us apart as objects of fascination and photographs, most often it seems, by groups of young adults. We have been surprised, honored, charmed, and amused to find ourselves being asked, again and again, to have our photos taken with/by young strangers. We’re also thrilled, as it gives me an opportunity to turn the tables and take THEIR photos – and they are always enthused to be pictured with us.

The first time that this happened to any extent was last Sunday at the Botanical Gardens. There were, literally, thousands of people strolling the paths, when we were approached by a group of young guys who asked if they could take our photo. As soon as we agreed, several of them jumped into place beside us, while others snapped away. This was followed by a short conversation, exchanging names, finding out our country of origin, etc., and then they went on their way. Not long after, a group of beautiful young women approached us with the same request. Usually, there is one brave person who makes the initial contact, and once we agree, then all the others rush to be in the photos, snuggling up close in youthful enthusiasm. The people behind the camera switch out so that they, too, can get into the pics.

Manly young tourists at the Botanical Gardens in Ooty.

Lovely young ladies at the gardens.

Seeing this interaction must have given courage to a foursome of older women, who asked us to take their photos. That’s all they wanted, just to be in our collection of photos of Indian people. No emailing them copies, no taking photos themselves, just notice and remember them. Their request could not have made me happier.

They seem to be saying, "Please remember us!" (We will!!)

In the intervening week, this occurrence has happened several more times. One day we were walking beside Ooty Lake when I realized that a bunch of young guys, all with expensive cameras, had their long lenses pointing at me. I laughed and hammed it up a bit, and they immediately flocked to our side, asking questions and clicking away happily.

Caught in the lenses of Ooty Lake photography students on a field trip.

It still takes us by surprise that complete strangers would want photos of us, but then again, no. I want THEIR photos just as much! It certainly gives a lift to our day, and for a moment or two, we feel like celebs!

Wedding Crashers

Our first impression of Indian people was that they were rather gruff, a little pushy, and seemed to have, as a default facial expression, a slightly suspicious, grumpy look. We’re not sure why. Perhaps it has to do with the numbers of people and the struggle for survival. Perhaps we were too used to the smiles and gentle approach of the Thais and Laotians.

However, on one of our first days in Ooty, we had an experience that added a whole new dimension to our first impressions. We learned that Indians are also gracious and generous hosts, especially when celebrating joyous events, such as weddings!

Bruce and I had been on one of our exploratory outings, wandering around a new part of the neighborhood. We had chatted with a taxi cab driver and a film producer and sundry other folks that we met in our meanderings, when we saw a hotel. Thinking that it might serve as a possible venue for an evening beer, we poked around inside and happened upon a gathering. Just as we were backing away, not wanting to intrude, a forceful man told us, “It’s a marriage, ma’am. Come. Come. Do you want to take pictures?” I don’t wait for that question to be asked a second time and followed him into a large room where a line of professional photographers faced the wedding couple on a stage. I could feel Bruce’s hesitation as he came along, too.

I stood beside the fancy cameras and clicked away with my little digital, very excited to be invited to capture a couple of shots of this special event. Before I knew it, I had been ushered onto the stage for photos of me with the bridal couple. They were an incredibly handsome duo, she looking like an Indian princess and he, tall and debonair. I congratulated them on their marriage, and they responded with shy grace and warmth, just as if I were meant to be there!

The bridal couple had their photos taken with lots of groups of guests, including us!

The beautiful bridal couple.

Bruce and I were then whisked into the adjoining room by Mr. Host, where a buffet line of food was being served. He gave us plates, explained what each dish was, and urged us to participate in the wedding feast. We hadn’t had lunch, and Mr. Host was so very eager for us to accept their hospitality. I couldn’t refuse, despite Bruce’s reservations regarding food safety. So, we loaded up our plates and dug in. It was delicious. (We took one of Barb’s charcoal pills when we got home and were just fine!)

There were not enough chairs lining the wall for all of the guests who kept trickling in, but Mr. Host made sure that we had chairs. Many other people stood while they ate. As is customary in South India, no utensils were used for dining. When we had finished eating, we took our dishes to the tub, washed our messy hands in the communal sink, and made motions to leave so that others could use our chairs. But Mr. Host had folks for us to meet and more photos to be taken, this time including Bruce. No one seemed at all surprised that we strangers were there. In fact, everyone in the families of the bridal couple thanked us for coming. Apparently it’s the custom to welcome strangers to bridal festivities. Wow! Can you imagine that happening in America, where the guest count is scrupulously kept and anyone without an invitation is shunned?? It was astonishing to us and warmed our cockles for a long time!