Sitting there, alone in a foreign country, far from my job and everyone I know, a feeling came over me. It was like remembering something I'd never known before or had always been waiting for, but I didn't know what. Maybe it was something I'd forgotten or something I've been missing all my life. All I can say is that I felt, at the same time, joy and sadness. But not too much sadness, because I felt alive. Yes, alive. That was the moment I fell in love with Paris. And I felt Paris fall in love with me.
This only happens when you are alone in an unfamiliar place and you suddenly feel a connection with the world around you which transforms your loneliness into a moment of recognition and harmony.
I want that to happen to me, here, where I am...
Showing posts with label people and places. Show all posts
Showing posts with label people and places. Show all posts
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Friday, 19 February 2010
Life in the Hills
I always tell J that India has this magical ability to catch you off guard and enfold you in its many complex folds that conspire to keep you safe/trapped in a comfy time warp. The past year has been like that. It has simply whizzed by. Married life has been fun and it has re-affirmed our friendship and love in many different ways. The husband's field work has gone well and I have enjoyed our quiet 'own' time in the foothills of the Himalayas.
Life there was slow yet intense at the same time. Like the winding mountain roads that we used to ride along on 'Anna' our scooter it presented us with many surprises and left us with lifelong memories.
We suffered for our pleasure as we shivered through the cold winter nights in our poorly insulated flat huddled by the inefficient heaters. We managed with our frustratingly slow internet and temperamental connection. We got used to the altitude and could walk up hills without huffing furiously like the tourists from the plains! We endured the dry and hot summer months with severe water shortages.The mountains turned arid and brown as the dusty air longed for water. We learnt to ration water and share our meager resources with our neighbours. Then came the incessant rainfall and sudden thundershowers which were a relief from the heat. The accompanying dense fogs and resulting mouldy walls over the monsoon period had to be scrubbed off the walls which was hard work! The dull monsoon wetness transformed into autumnal crispness which was the most pleasant time of the year. We survived daily manic rides on the pot holed, bumpy mountain roads, we lived with giant laddoo-eating spiders, we watched from our living room the langurs outside our flat, we chased the crafty monkeys when they got to our mangoes and the water supply. I survived the classroom teaching Frost and Marlowe to fresh faced youngsters. There was also a rumoured leopard attack near our house( apparently a calf was mauled outside on our driveway in the middle of the night). We contended with the dreaded Indian bureaucracy, an arduous trek to the top of Manimahesh and much more.
On the other hand we have had the privilege to live at the edge of a forest with striking valley views and stunning sunsets that would make anyone take up painting.The forest roads where we would go walking were great for getting lost in. The toy train would wind its way past our house before it disappeared into the long black tunnel and we could hear it whistling in the distance. When the white mist would hover over the wooded hills in the valleys that stretched beyond our vision and the sky would change into varying shades of pink before taking on a deep blue hue it was truly a delight. The lack of street lights also meant that we could see the starry night sky in all its glory. And the silence - it was for real and only broken by distant noises of traffic and birdsong. It was a lovely space to start off and would be a great place to retire to!
I miss it already - the bustling mall, the lazy afternoons spent drinking cardamom tea and watching the baby monkeys, us haggling over the price of vegetables, the ride into town on clear days where we could see the valley from different angles, the tall and majestic deodar trees, the tudor style architecture, the steep climb up to St. Michael and the friendly shopkeepers at Tutu market. I wonder if they think of us and wonder how we are.
But we are done there and have moved on to new things.
Here, we are in a new country, by the sea, where they speak a different language and its so cold that the sea has frozen over. We have found a lovely flat in the old medieval town and we even have a cat but shall we stay here for long! Who knows, that remains to be seen.
More adventures to follow.
Life there was slow yet intense at the same time. Like the winding mountain roads that we used to ride along on 'Anna' our scooter it presented us with many surprises and left us with lifelong memories.
We suffered for our pleasure as we shivered through the cold winter nights in our poorly insulated flat huddled by the inefficient heaters. We managed with our frustratingly slow internet and temperamental connection. We got used to the altitude and could walk up hills without huffing furiously like the tourists from the plains! We endured the dry and hot summer months with severe water shortages.The mountains turned arid and brown as the dusty air longed for water. We learnt to ration water and share our meager resources with our neighbours. Then came the incessant rainfall and sudden thundershowers which were a relief from the heat. The accompanying dense fogs and resulting mouldy walls over the monsoon period had to be scrubbed off the walls which was hard work! The dull monsoon wetness transformed into autumnal crispness which was the most pleasant time of the year. We survived daily manic rides on the pot holed, bumpy mountain roads, we lived with giant laddoo-eating spiders, we watched from our living room the langurs outside our flat, we chased the crafty monkeys when they got to our mangoes and the water supply. I survived the classroom teaching Frost and Marlowe to fresh faced youngsters. There was also a rumoured leopard attack near our house( apparently a calf was mauled outside on our driveway in the middle of the night). We contended with the dreaded Indian bureaucracy, an arduous trek to the top of Manimahesh and much more.
On the other hand we have had the privilege to live at the edge of a forest with striking valley views and stunning sunsets that would make anyone take up painting.The forest roads where we would go walking were great for getting lost in. The toy train would wind its way past our house before it disappeared into the long black tunnel and we could hear it whistling in the distance. When the white mist would hover over the wooded hills in the valleys that stretched beyond our vision and the sky would change into varying shades of pink before taking on a deep blue hue it was truly a delight. The lack of street lights also meant that we could see the starry night sky in all its glory. And the silence - it was for real and only broken by distant noises of traffic and birdsong. It was a lovely space to start off and would be a great place to retire to!
I miss it already - the bustling mall, the lazy afternoons spent drinking cardamom tea and watching the baby monkeys, us haggling over the price of vegetables, the ride into town on clear days where we could see the valley from different angles, the tall and majestic deodar trees, the tudor style architecture, the steep climb up to St. Michael and the friendly shopkeepers at Tutu market. I wonder if they think of us and wonder how we are.
But we are done there and have moved on to new things.
Here, we are in a new country, by the sea, where they speak a different language and its so cold that the sea has frozen over. We have found a lovely flat in the old medieval town and we even have a cat but shall we stay here for long! Who knows, that remains to be seen.
More adventures to follow.
Friday, 15 February 2008
Inuit Names and no I'm not talking about Eskimos!!
A couple of weeks back I went along with a friend to the opening of an exhibition on the material histories of the fur trade (Northern Canada) which was very interesting as there were all these artefacts from the far north: snowshoes, wooden googles, beautifully embroidered fur boots and parkas and jackets and bone miniatures of animals etc. The Inuit fascinate me and I've always wanted to experience living in an igloo! The image of curious explorers with their packs of huskies in the bleak white wilderness encountering polar bears and the Northern Lights is the stuff which makes great stories. I met an anthropologist who had lived with Inuit people in Canada as part of his project and wasn't I was jealous.
Then a few days back I watched this short on television about Inuit names and as the narrator read the names aloud they sounded so poetic : 'Irniq, Tulugaq, Nauja, Amamruq, Taliriktuq ...' I could go on - and they all mean something - they derive from the elements that are important to Inuit culture - animals and birds, the spirit world, the landscape, the sky, relationships. For example, Tulugaq stands for raven and Nauja for the sea-gull. I wish my name wasn't so mundane! But there is also a political narrative embedded in these Inuit names. In the 1920s the Inuit names were replaced by E numbers which they had to wear as name tags around their necks. Since, Inuit often have multiple names for a person or object( 31 to describe snow) the Canadian government devised the E number system to keep count of the population. Along with a loss of names there was an accompanying loss of culture. The Inuit are trying to reclaim their lost names and identities by legal means at the present moment. That is indeed a way forward. This ties in interestingly with the way in which the Irish language was officially suppressed until its more recent resurgence. Irish poets like Heaney try and use old Gaelic place names in their verse to recover what was lost like the Inuit.
For more information on The Inuit you can go and check out this website from where I got some of my background information: http://www.athropolis.com/links/inuit.htm. Enjoy exploring...
Friday, 8 February 2008
Lake District:
The Lake District is synonymous with Romantic poetry as Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey all made it their home and their Muse. It is a favourite with holiday makers and hill walkers and literary types who want to soak in its unique atmosphere.
'When the mist creeps in from the mountain top like an army of raiding ninjas and the trees and lakes are veiled by white smoke screens one sees the landscape transform before one's very eyes into something quite spectacular and spectral. Sheep graze in the grassslands unfazed by the changing light and the ancient mountains gaze back at you stolid yet sympathetic. The craggy hills surround you at every turn as you walk past and the lake waters beckon you with every step. The melting ice runs down the rock face gliding down like silver ribbons glittering in the dusk. The air is fresh and the heart feels wakeful in anticipation of some revelation. The roads curve and twist like out of a belly-dancer's choreography and the lights of the small towns burn like beacons in the dark. You walk on but slowly so that you can savour the moment to the fullest. You wish that you were a painter who could record that loveliness on the canvas for posterity'.
It is indeed a special place. It brings out the poet in even the most practical of souls. The beauty of nature is hypnotic: ever-changing, evergreen, eternal. We need to preserve that...
'When the mist creeps in from the mountain top like an army of raiding ninjas and the trees and lakes are veiled by white smoke screens one sees the landscape transform before one's very eyes into something quite spectacular and spectral. Sheep graze in the grassslands unfazed by the changing light and the ancient mountains gaze back at you stolid yet sympathetic. The craggy hills surround you at every turn as you walk past and the lake waters beckon you with every step. The melting ice runs down the rock face gliding down like silver ribbons glittering in the dusk. The air is fresh and the heart feels wakeful in anticipation of some revelation. The roads curve and twist like out of a belly-dancer's choreography and the lights of the small towns burn like beacons in the dark. You walk on but slowly so that you can savour the moment to the fullest. You wish that you were a painter who could record that loveliness on the canvas for posterity'.
It is indeed a special place. It brings out the poet in even the most practical of souls. The beauty of nature is hypnotic: ever-changing, evergreen, eternal. We need to preserve that...
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