Mick Canning

Travel Photography and Paintings

Local Colour - illustrated journal pages

I always keep a journal when I travel, and usually send out self-indulgent emails to long-suffering friends. This is a selection of extracts, illustrated occasionally, which I hope will help to convey a flavour of the parts of India that I travelled to.

 

Leaving Bodhgaya

(Monday 22nd March, 2004)

I have made up my mind to go to Darjeeling at the first opportunity and, suddenly, everything is different. I investigate flights and trains, and start deciding on days. Strangely, I now start finding reasons for postponing my travel date, rather than bringing it forwards, as though the decision has given me permission to enjoy the place. Bodhgaya has become so familiar to me, that I start getting those 'leaving home' feelings.

After I have eaten, I head back in the night along the road that runs around past the site of the Tibetan market, now empty since the Tibetans have long-gone by now, largely by the end of February, most in January. It's far too hot for them now.

To my left, in the darkness, I can feel the open, flat market area, sense the emptiness by the sudden silence and the moving airs; it is now merely hot, the sun long gone down and the breeze gives almost a feeling of coolness. I walk around the corner and know to a metre when I shall see the soaring Mahabodhi temple, floodlit, through the trees behind the darkened stalls, filled by families already settling for the night. On the other side of the road the familiar pattern of lights on the low hillside. I walk on, to the sound of the frightened cries of chickens in small cages on the corner by the clinic. I know where I am by sounds alone.


Down, then, to join the Gaya road and a maelstrom of traffic. Dust lies thick beside the pot-holed road and I kick it up with my footsteps to join the thick cloud hanging heavily in the air and churned about by the traffic, so thick that the few cars or buses with lights merely illuminate the confusion. The dust settles on your head, your clothes, in your mouth, in your nostrils, your eyes. The glow of headlights merely hurts eyes already smarting.

In the darkened area beside the police compound (they have to keep them somewhere), I await the point where I am suddenly assailed by the strong scent of flowers, heady and unexpected from some low, unobtrusive and nondescript blooms that give off a sweet, pungent odour remarkably powerful for their size.

Almost immediately I pass the Burmese monastery, where rickshaw wallahs pounce, then home.

Yeah, yeah. Okay.

 

Homesick in the Himalaya

(Friday 2nd April, 2004)

I had been six weeks in India. Most of it had been spent at Bodhgaya, the site of the Buddha’s enlightenment, soaking up the ambience of this friendly, very Buddhist small town, as well as helping out in an orphanage. All this while, the temperature on the Northern Indian Plains rose steadily from around thirty centigrade each day until it reached the low forties. Eventually, I felt that it was time to get out and headed for the Himalayas, hoping for some much cooler weather.

After a hot and dusty bus ride to Patna, four hours away, and an extended overnight train journey, I found myself and my rucksack jammed into a bicycle rickshaw heading north through the long streets of Siliguri, at the foot of the Himalaya, during what should have been lunchtime. There followed a three hour jeep ride in which we immediately began to climb up away from the plains as we left Siliguri, through farms, tea plantations and jungle that gradually began to look more typical of Nepal than the India that I had travelled through for the previous month and a half.

I arrived in Darjeeling at dusk, found myself a room and settled in to enjoy a week’s rest. I then proceeded to explore the temples, markets and surrounding countryside, make plans to move on to Sikkim and dropped into Joey’s bar for the odd beer. Later on, I decide to have afternoon tea at the Planter’s Club, a hangover from the tea planting days of the Raj. Its something that I felt I ought to sample.

I wasn’t disappointed. Inside, I was the only customer and it was much as I had imagined that it would be. Dark wood floor and ceiling, brick fireplace, piano in the corner, trophy heads high up all around the walls. I was served tea by a Nepali who wanted to talk politics - the water issue again. This morning there had been a strike that had closed the town down for several hours, over the irregularity of water supplies. We agreed that it was down to the government. And when that’s finally solved, he added, then there’s the electricity...

He asked if I wanted music and I said yes, almost immediately regretting it, but was surprised when it was classical music. Looking around, it really did look as though the Colonels and their ladies had gone home and everything was still waiting for them. Outside, it was raining gently and just above me a couple of lights glowed yellow in the afternoon gloom. The shade of Miss Haversham from ‘Great Expectations‘ seemed to hover at my shoulder. All that was needed was a thick layer of dust over everything and the image would have been complete.

Also, it was strange that there was nothing Indian in there, and if this was in the UK, then it would look really ordinary, yet it had a powerful atmosphere here. Only, I suppose, because I knew that I was in India. And then, as Fur Elise played softly in the background, I was suddenly, utterly and helplessly homesick. Nothing like the continual yes, it’ll be nice to get back and see everyone once I’ve finished here, but I could picture myself strongly, sitting in an old stone inn somewhere in Wales having a beer with friends, or perhaps sitting around a log fire with close family. Seeing my family! As the music continued, I sat at the table with my tea, unable to think of anything but home.

It finished, and another piece started. I forget now what it was, but I had to literally shake myself to break the spell. I sat a while longer, paid the bill, and left.

A couple of days later I went and had tea again at the planters - this time there were several Indian families in there and some Hindi pop playing - a decidedly different ambience! Although the afternoon was again gloomy, the piano still in the corner and the threadbare heads staring balefully down, I was unable to conjure up anything like the same feelings. It seemed impossible that I should have felt so differently here a couple of days before. I felt that I had rejoined India again.

 

Holi

(26th and 27th March, 2005)

If you can't beat 'em...

I bought a very fetching pair of white Nehru trousers and had a long, white shirt made up. Yes, I decided to make myself a target for everyone in the area with a supply of dye and coloured powder. The 'before' and 'after' photos should be amusing.

This year Holi coincides exactly with Easter, which seems odd but makes perfect sense, really. They are both spring festivals, and we've just passed the equinox. You wouldn't have any idea that it's Easter here, though. The whole thing started on Friday, as all the shops started closing early from Midday, and a few children who couldn't wait began stalking the streets like miniature ragged versions of Clint Eastwood. By nightfall, a fair amount of alcohol and ganga had been consumed and, despite being invited to the evening celebration by a couple of Indian friends, we decided to stay in the Guest House.

A huge bonfire had been built in the middle of the dried up river, and by 9pm a huge crowd had gathered on the bridge (being India, all male and predominantly young) with lighted firebrands and a goodly amount of noise. After a while the shouting began to resemble more and more the chanting at a football match, the bonfire was lit and people swarmed across the bridge swinging their torches round and around. At this point, we felt that our vantage point on the roof was perfectly adequate.

The following morning the fun really started. This is when there is license to soak everyone and everything in dye and gulal (powder): people, cars, rickshaws, passing dogs, whatever. The first few hours of the morning really are not a good time to be out, since this is when the mud and other unpleasantnesses can also make their appearance. We nipped down the road when the coast was clear for breakfast, then holed up until lunchtime back at the guesthouse. At lunchtime we returned to the same cafe, since very few were open and this is the nearest in any case. As we sat there minding our own business, a stray dog appears at the door. Okay so far, and perfectly normal, but this was the first time that I have actually seen a dog drooling and foaming at the mouth. It kept wandering away to howl a bit, and we felt it might be a good idea to make sure it came no nearer. Next up were a party of Indians, some of whom we knew, who screeched to a halt in a car, came in loaded with beer and whisky, got the ganga out and very loudly invited us to join them. We made our excuses and left soon after.

At this stage, I had already had a couple of hits from the kids (all good-natured) and went over to the Foundation, where I had been invited to join in the festivities in the afternoon. As I approached the village, it became clear that I was not even going to reach the Foundation without much celebration (I guess thats the best word). A few soakings from kids, then as soon as I plunge into the alleyway that leads to the Foundation, A group of men emerge from a house, A bit of squirting, handshakes all round, we swap gulal markings (on each other's foreheads, like cast marks) and I am presented with a piece of buttered toast soaked in milk for Holi - I had this last year, it's actually rather nice! This escalates until I reach the Foundation, where I walk into what feels like a carefully laid ambush, but is actually just the on-going hi jinks.

In no time at all, I am soaked from head to foot in dye and gulal (quite literally. The photos will prove it!) All the Foundation kids are there, plus the adults, and it also seems as though half the village are charging in and out. Colours are flying in all directions, people have handfuls of the stuff and rub it into each other's faces and hair, handfuls of powder are dabbed on feet, on foreheads. We rub foreheads together spreading the powder further and Islam tips a whole bucket of blue dye over me from behind. A man from the village who is the father of one of the children in the school swaps gulal marks with me and says 'now I am your son.' I probably should have replied 'and I am your father' but just smile and say that I am honoured. It seems okay, because he beams and gives me a great bear hug.

After an hour or so of this, it begins to wind down and the kids are slowly introduced to soap at the pump. Eventually we return to the guest house and I spend an extremely long time in the shower trying to remove the worst of the dye. Most of it eventually comes out, but I suspect the turquoise will be on me when I return to England. Goodness, I've got dye in the parts that other beers can't reach!

Evening, and we decide to try the other cafe that is open, since the party still seems to be going full-pelt in our usual cafe. We go in and, whilst impressed at the variety and quantity of insect life that it is possible to get into one small cafe, decide that perhaps it is not the place to eat. We return to the first cafe, where there is an equally impressive array of human detritus - stoned, drunk and asleep. We eat, we go.

Yesterday, Sunday. Holi day two. Easter Sunday. Whatever. I go into town after breakfast, where there is a little desultory squirting going on (don't titter), but mainly people (at least young males) seem to be gathering in groups. There is one on the Tibetan Market ground and one on the river bed by the bridge. I'm not sure of the significance, but it seems to involve small bonfires and noise. Not much else seems to be happening.

After lunch, I walk over to the Foundation. It is still very quiet as I walk over, the bridge almost deserted and the only noise from some parties in the distance. As I walk towards the Foundation, the noise level rises and I turn the corner to see the afternoon's entertainment in full swing, on the open ground in front of the Foundation.

A clay pot is suspended from a rope that hangs between two poles, containing coloured water and a load of rupee coins. Beneath it are twenty or thirty village lads engaged in attempting to reach it.This they have to do by means of making a human pyramid. To be successful, it must reach three persons high. To complicate matters ever so slightly, an equal number of lads hurl dye, water, mud and straw, etc, at them as they climb. The passage of time is enlivened whenever a rickshaw or bicycle attempt to get past, with predictable results. One group of three on a motorbike particularly unwisely decide to hoot imperiously at the group as it approaches. It and it's riders immediately disappear beneath a deluge of water, dye, straw, mud, etc.

It takes two to three hours before one lad successfully reaches the pot, hanging by one hand from the rope and tipping out the dye and rupees onto the crowd below. The waiting children swoop, and everybody slowly drifts away.

Bumping into a friend in the evening, it turns out that she spent the afternoon at a teacher's house (she works at a school in Bodhgaya) where it was music, dancing and feasting. Really not the same.

This morning the world appears to be back to normal, although I'm certainly not the only person who is still a funny colour. I think that there will be a certain amount of red and turquoise about my complexion for some while yet. I'm very glad that I decided to join in this year, though.

The Ashes

 

 Written at the start of the 2005 Ashes series:

The 1981 Ashes series, popularly remembered as ‘Botham’s Ashes’, is now a generation distant. I suppose that this is why the country appears to be so gripped by the current series, even more so, it seems to me, than it was those twenty four years ago. This may be because we have waited for so long to compete on even terms with the best, in the series that is the most important to English cricket followers. And as I write this, the third test of five has just been drawn, leaving the series balanced at an intriguing and nerve-jangling one-all.
 
Yet even this is as of nothing compared to the fervour with which the 2004 India/Pakistan series was followed in the sub-continent. I had the good fortune to be in India for the entire series, from the first of the One Day Internationals through to the last ball of the third and last Test match.

 Everybody follows the cricket in India, and everywhere that I went, somebody was playing cricket. Beside the dusty river bed in front of my guest house in Bodhgaya, each afternoon a host of children of all ages, from youngsters of five or six to almost adults, formed into two teams, and a serious game of cricket would then ensue; the fast bowlers steaming in from the water buffalo end, the spinners employing their guile where the pigs had roughed up the pitch around leg stump.

 It was whilst I was in Bodhgaya that the first of the One Day Internationals took place. Everybody who could, was watching or listening to the match. The press were almost hysterical over it’s significance - the first time that the two countries had met in Pakistan for fifteen years, and the first matches between the two teams for several years. Transistors were on all over the place with little groups around them, and any café or shop with a little black and white TV had a crowd gathered around it. And the internet was down - I’m sure that that was connected to the cricket! Every time that a Pakistani wicket went down, a great cheer went up. At the end, India won a high scoring contest by five runs, and you could hear the yell from every corner of town. I doubt that there was a town in India that didn’t get completely engulfed in a tidal wave of yelling at about 18.05 IST. As I walked back through the streets, firecrackers were going off all around me.

 Towards the end of my stay in Bodhgaya, just before the final ODI, I went to change some money at the bank. After the usual round of form-filling and waiting, I finally sat in front of the desk of a severe and tight-lipped bank official. He curtly asked me a few questions as he read my forms and looked through my passport. Then his demeanour suddenly changed.

‘Tonbridge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sussex? Sussex won the Championship last year. Do you watch them?’

‘No, Tonbridge is in Kent.’ I replied. ‘I follow Kent.’

We then chatted cricket for five or ten minutes until he sighed, looked at his watch and waved me to another counter where I would collect my money.

‘Enjoy your stay in India.’

 India win the fifth ODI and with it the series. Predictable reactions. The manager of my guest house lets off two firecrackers just outside the front door.

 After this, I travelled up to Darjeeling. Darjeeling is built on a steep hill, and the majority of it’s roads snake along and up and down hillsides with steep drops below. In many places children would set up games of cricket, skilfully avoiding the ‘six and out’ hit into the adjacent chasm. Even in the middle of markets, one had to squeeze past keen games of cricket being played amongst the stalls. Occasionally a tennis ball would ping off a bat towards me, followed by a cry of ‘Catch it!’

 One evening I sat in a bar in Darjeeling, chatting to a New Zealander who gave his name as Greg and told me that he had been a professional cricketer who had played one test match for New Zealand, and who had recently been a sports coach at Tonbridge School. A small world indeed.

 When India won the final test match, and with it the series, the whole country seemed to erupt again. I wonder how we would react if England manage to wrestle the Ashes off of the Australians this summer?

The rest, as they say, is history.