Temples and Spirit Houses

A modern rail line connects the airport with center city Bangkok: Oh, that Washington could come here and feel the shame of not having the Metro extend out to Dulles! 

Silom Road:  This section of Bangkok used to be on the outskirts of the city, its landscape that of canals, rice fields and wind mills.  Now, it is the financial quarter of modern Bangkok.  One of the sights of Silom Road is the Hindu temple called Wat Khaek Silom.  It was built by south Indians (specifically, Tamils) and looks nothing like the north Indian temples I have been seeing in India.  It is intricate and colorful both outside and in, but it does have a typical tapering top.  On the streets all around are vendors selling flowers and other offerings for those who plan to pray.  Thailand is not a Hindu nation, but migrants from India have been arriving for centuries.  Plus, I am discovering that the line between Hinduism and Buddhism is very blurry.  The deity of the spirit houses in this neighborhood all look like Hindu gods to me.  They are, someone told me, but they have equivalents in Buddhism.  The four-faced Hindu god is the same as the four-faced Buddha.  Boundary lines don’t seem to matter much here.  In fact, within a few hundred meters of the temple is a masjid (a.k.a., mosque) for Muslims (Mirasuddeen mosque) and a church for Christians.  Bangkok is actually more diverse than I thought it would be, but my view may be biased by the thin slice of the city I have seen thus far, just Silom Road, which has always been a focus of foreign businesses

Outside almost every condominium, office complex, and hotel is a spirit house where prayers are offered and offerings left.  Flowers are the most popular, but also a glass of juice or something else just purchased from the local 7-11.  Yes, 7-11.  I wandered into a small grocery store to buy something to drink (very hot here), and when I went to check out I discovered it was a 7-11.  That was after I just arrived, and now I see 7-11s everywhere.  Do you think it is a US chain?  Think again.  It was bought by a Japanese company, so it is really more at home here in Thailand than in the U.S.  The original one, though, was in Dallas as I recall.  By the way, Tesco (so common in London) is also here in large numbers, and Boots is, too.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

IndiGO

The Gateway of India:  This arch is where India begins.  Doesn’t it just look European and imperial?  It was built to commemorate the state visit of King George V to his Indian dominions in the early 20^th century.  Despite its colonial baggage, the Indian people flock to it during their holidays (which is what it is right now; most schools are not in session).  Wherever people are gathered, opportunities to make money present themselves.  Providing food and thirst quenchers are the most obvious; booklets and postcards, too.  I had a huge cucumber, peeled and quartered.  It was as sweet as the one in Egypt that made me sick years ago (still vivid in my memory, but that one I picked in a field along the Nile and ate it).  It’s amazing how cooling a cucumber can be.  Why do we only eat them in salads?  Hawking photographs may be the most lucrative business here and at India’s other heritage sites, however.  Photographers have invested in good digital cameras and they carry portable color printers with them.  It’s a slick operation.  Harbor cruises are also on sale here. 

Back to Delhi: I had a productive few days in Mumbai.  At least, I got some “office work” done.  You see I brought lots of tasks from home to do on my trip.  I left my very nice Ramada Inn on Juhu Beach and arrived at the airport around 9:30 am for an 11:20 flight on SpiceJet.  Delayed for an hour.   Delayed for two hours.  Delayed for four hours.   I finally arrived in Delhi around 6 pm, but on an Indigo (IndiGO) Airbus.  Spices and Indigo:  what clever semantics for drawing the world into India.  They already have brand recognition.  These two airlines, along with several others, are the budget carriers of the subcontinent and they are thriving. 

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Shoes

Bidhu:  A simple shoe shine today took charge of my soul.  I was in Colaba, a neighborhood shopping district not far from the famous Nariman Point.  I had no intention of getting my shoes polished, primarily because polish just doesn’t work on brushed leather.  I must admit, though, that in a country like this, any shoes get dirty.  Approached, I was, by a young man who wanted to make my shoes shine.  He seemed to recognize almost immediately that what I really needed was a shoe brush only, so he offered to clean ‘em up for only 2 rupees (that’s a nickel).  At first I said no, but after a city-block of polite harassment, I relented.  A bus stop was nearby.  It provided a place for me to sit, and it was there that Bidhu went to work.  Off came one shoe and his brush took over.  He cleaned it thoroughly; then he did the other.  I didn’t notice at first, but Bidhu was working out of a bag, not a specially-crafted shoe box.  That meant, he explained, that he could not compete in the high-profit zones like CST (the main train station).  In fact, without the box, the police would chase him away.  He had no money to buy a box.  He had been at this job for six months and he still could not afford a box.  When I discovered that his English was extremely good and that he could carry on a conversation without pause, I was inspired to talk to him more.  Where did he learn his English?  At a church.  Was he a Christian?  No, a Hindu.  He was lucky to have such good English lessons.  I told him that with English skills like his he could be doing more than shining shoes.  With his bright disposition, his seeming sincerity, and his intelligence (it came across very early in the conversation), he should be able to get a good job in Mumbai.  He couldn’t, said be, because he had no residence.  He had come to Mumbai from Jaipur, his home city, and had brought his mother and sister with him.  They were living on the sidewalk in a neighborhood by the airport, and he was taking the train (no metro here) to center city each day (for him, probably a free ride since the train largely operates on the honor system).  If he was making a few rupees per shoe shine, he could work all day for the equivalent of a few dollars, maybe enough to feed himself and his family and replenish his polish supply.  He wanted a box desperately and asked me if I would buy him one.  No, said I, but I did give him 100 rupees, rather than the 2 he initially asked for.  Remember, that’s a little more than 2 dollars: nothing, by American standards.  He seemed pleased with my “generosity” and insisted on walking with me for a while, making sure I knew how to get to the Marine Lines train station.  He asked again if I would buy him a shoeshine box, and I said no (as more flimsy thoughts of him being a scam artist went through my head).   How could I be sure he was legitimate?  Bidhu and I parted with a handshake at The Oval.  How guilty I felt.  I thought about the experience for the rest of the day and into the night.  I could have bought him a shoe box for a fraction of what I had paid a few days earlier to go to Agra.  Why didn’t I?  I should have.  I would have, were I to do it again.  I was not a good person today.  Bidhu was 25 years old.

Bidhu had all of the human qualities that could have enabled him to make a substantial contribution to India.  His potential was being wasted.  He could be doing more with his life, and India could be benefiting.  I thought of an advertisement I had seen in The Times of India:  “In pursuit of your parents’ dreams, don’t sacrifice your own.”  As I recall, the ad was sponsored by the newspaper and the mental health counselors of India.  I wondered if Bidhu had sacrificed his own dreams for the sake of his family, the two he had brought with him to Mumbai.  I didn’t ask about his father, but Bidhu might have been the responsible male if dad were gone.   He had made the decision that he could do better for himself in Mumbai.   But, with two more mouths to feed, how could he ever get ahead?  There are hard-working people on the streets on India, but most get virtually nothing for their work.  I just wish someone could harness their energy to the goal of economic development.  Millions of Bidhus could transform the country.

The Dobi-Wallahs:  Not far from Colaba, there is a little fishing village right in the city of Mumbai.  Next to the fishing village is a village of dobi-wallahs.  These are the people who do the laundry for nearby Mumbai:  businesses, hotels, restaurants.  You don’t see it from the street, but the interior of the block is pock-marked by vats of water into which the clothes are thrown.  Looks a lot like the tannery quarters in Middle Eastern cities, but without the smell.  People use their hands, arms, and feet to do the job of the agitator on your home washing machine.  Above the surrounding houses, clothes flap on lines as they dry.  And, there are places where ironing is done as well.  I saw a truck pull up with large sacks of laundry to be washed.  It was unloaded, and porters pulled it into the quarter, where it was apportioned out.  There seemed to be plenty of business and plenty of labor to do the washing.  These are jobs passed down from one generation to another.  Typical of India, however, most of the workers were males.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

SpiceJet

Delhi’s Domestic Airport:  I arrived in India at the new international air terminal (built in time for the Commonwealth Games), which is fantastically modern.  I am now at domestic terminal 1 because I am flying to Mumbai. I expected to arrive at a dingy old terminal, but it is totally modern, better than some US airports (LAX comes to mind, dingiest terminal in the US).  There is a laptop station, free wifi connections, a mobile charging station, high-end boutiques (e.g., William Penn The World Pen Store), lots of places to sit, and air-conditioning.  “Voted 4^th best airport in the world” said one placard.  Security is as tight as in the U.S., with separate lanes for men and women.  Everyone gets a pat-down.  The Indians here are not the same ones as I see on the streets in Karol Bagh, though the women are wearing their saris.  Traditional dress among the men is rare.  The airline I am flying is called SpiceJet.  The man I was talking to this morning said that English is the only language that all Indians speak (at least a little, and I know he was exaggerating).  In fact, he said that 20,000 taxi drivers and police were trained in English for the Commonwealth Games last year.  And now, the preferred accent is the American accent.  “It is considered to be sexy,” said he, “especially compared to the British accent.”  I later learned he was a Tamil, hence not a native Hindi-speaker; clearly, he prefers English over Hindi.  As I reflect on it, modern India, educated India, economically prosperous India is entirely English speaking.  India is an English-speaking nation as far as the rest of the world is concerned.  The language was supposed to have been supplanted by Hindi as the language of post-colonial nation-building.  But English never disappeared and, in fact, hauled into the 21^st century no ethnic baggage (in contrast to Hindi, the tongue of the north Gangetic  Plain.  Granted, English was stained by colonialism, but that was two generations ago.  So much has changed.  English has emerged as the language of Indian nation-building.

The drive to the airport was relatively smooth, though we did meet a few cars going the wrong way on the divided highway (happens all the time) and, of course, no one pays any attention to the lane dividers.  At one point, if the window had been open I could have reached out and petted the three cows that were mooning the passing cars.  This highway brings arrivals right into Delhi where they meet a roundabout with new sport-themed mosaics to welcome guests arriving for last year’s competition, now a permanent and prideful part of the landscape.  The Indians seem to have really used the 2010 Games to give themselves an excuse to modernize and aestheticize a bit.

Mumbai:  In case you didn’t know, Bombay is now Mumbai.  Still, you hear people here using ‘Bombay’ frequently.  My 2011 list shows the supermetropolitan area to be the home of 23.3 million people, making it 5^th largest in the world.  Surprisingly, my list gives the Delhi metro a larger population.  Coming in from the air, Mumbai looks like a real city with a New York-style skyline.   While New York is centralized on an island, Bombay is centralized on a peninsula.  Space is at a premium in both.  Most people know that the world’s largest film industry is located here:  Bollywood.  One of the first billboards I noticed hawked the evening TV show Bollywood Tonight.  That has a familiar ring, doesn’t it?

Also on view from the air and from street-level are the shanty-towns.  They seem to be patch-worked into the overall settlement fabric:  a tract of high-rise apartments, then a track of wall-to-wall shanties.   Even along the sidewalks people live in one-room dwellings.  In this city, there are really three Indias, up from the two Indias people spoke about decades ago.  Rather than a poor majority and a rich minority, India now adds a growing middle class.  My friend on the plane today told me that India would be among the strongest economies on earth in the near future, that India had the ability to solve its problems because it was a democracy, and that one day Pakistan might even want to join India (as it was pre-independence).  It would take a generational shift, he admitted.  I must say there is a profound sense of optimism here.  Now, if this country could just muster the energy to clean itself up.  Indians are great engineers and builders, but once a building, road, sidewalk, or park is built, no maintenance is provided.  Everything nice tumbles down quickly.  It the country could harness some of its unexploited labor as maintenance crews, its cities would be more functional and attractive (as some parts of every Indian city already are).  

My afternoon visit to Juhu Beach today made me feel bad.  It is strewn with trash and looks very uninviting. I returned in the evening when the sun had set.  No longer could you see the trash, but you could see throngs of people, vendors, carnival rides for the kids, and a few in the water.  I’ll try to store my evening experience on my hard drive and delete my afternoon memories.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

The Monkey God

It would take a lifetime to figure out the religions of India.  It seems like this is the one area of the world where every religion has been richly represented in the culture for centuries: Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, Jews (until they all took off for Israel after 1948).  Today, I spotted a Jain Temple which was closed, but I plan to come back.

The Monkey God:  No one who rides the Metro in Delhi can ignore the temple to Hanuman, the “monkey god” (see his mug and tail?) who is revered for his strength and his ability to prevent accidents.  His story is wrapped up in the Hindu epics, but from what little bit I gathered, it sounded like a Lord-of-the-Rings quality tale.  His temple is next to a major Metro stop.  You enter through the mouth of “something.”  Hanuman lives in the forest, so I guess the open mouth belongs to a 'servant monkey.'  Enter and ascend into Hanuman’s body.  There are “chapels” on each floor, some attended by priests.  One priest attended to me by marking my forehead with an orange bindi (dot) and wrapping my right wrist in a bracelet made of orange strings. These dots are typically red, but orange is Hanuman’s color, so everyone who saw me today knew that I was his devotee.  Temple visitors would appear in small groups, look, and leave.  Other deities, especially female deities, seemed to have their own alters in the temple, which may explain why so many visitors were women (unconfirmed observation; could be coincidence).  On the top floor, where I wasn’t supposed to be, there appeared to be a “set” right out of the Hindu epics.  Plus there was a place for the preparation of meals, so here is another instance where devotion to a particular God can get you something tangible.

  

Being a Vegetarian:  When you are in India, it’s not hard being a vegetarian (though that creature who ate me today apparently wasn't one).  I have been one for four days now.  Dal Makhani has become my favorite food, taken with naan, the flat bread of South Asia.  Here you have a perfect diet:  Protein from the lentils and beans, carbohydrates from the naan, and a little fat added by the butter (melted in the dal or on the naan).  Remember, fat (or oil) is a necessary part of any diet; otherwise, many of the vitamins you take (the fat-soluble ones) could not be absorbed by the body.  The perfect diet needs only a complete protein (all essential amino acids), a carbohydrate (for energy), and a little fat or oil.  For your micro-nutrients (vitamins and minerals), add some fruits and vegetables.  It’s as simple as that.  Someone told me that 35% of all Indians are vegetarians, and I would say a majority among non-Muslims.  They seem to be doing well on a diet without meat.  Eggs, milk, and cheese, however, are important to the diet here.  Tea is taken hot, with lots of cream and sugar, for instance.

When I had dal last night, it was at a small “hole in the wall”:  order-taker/money-taker out front, “kitchen” next to him, passage to a room big enough to hold about four tables, but lots of take-out is served.  There was no front on the building; it just opened onto the street.  Note:  kitchen out front where everyone can see what they are going to be eating.  How does that compare with American norms? This was in Karol Bagh, my home neighborhood.

When I arrived at the restaurant, there was no empty table, so I used my Middle East experience:  I sat down at a table with an elderly Sikh gentlemen who could have come out of the movies:  turban, big mustache, beard, robes.  He looked pleasant enough and accepted my intrusion as the norm.  We both cleaned our plates, but he drank the water in the stainless steel pitcher; I didn’t.  Space here is at a premium, and empty chairs are considered underutilized resources.  On the photography side:  people here don’t seem to consider me taking pictures of them an invasion of their personal space.  I have had a great time taking people-pictures in a country where it is so easy.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Last Day in London

I had much to do today to get ready for my departure, and I made it.  I arrived at Heathrow exactly two hours before my 5:35 pm take-off on British Air.  The eight hour flight means that I will wake up the next morning in India.  That's me before descending into the Tube station at Swiss Cottage.  What's in the pack, you ask?  Here's the list.

Packing as a Minimalist Activity:  All you need for any length of trip is a backpack or small bag (though traveling in winter does complicate matters a bit).  I took inventory as I repacked this morning and this is what I am carrying with me.  The list excludes what I am wearing.

1 pair long pants

2 shorts: regular and gym

1 swimming trunks

2 T-shirts

5 pairs of underwear

7 pairs of socks

1 long sleeve shirt

2 short sleeve shirts

1 ball cap

1 umbrella

1 microfiber towel

2 locks

2 books

1 kindle

1 camera

1 netbook

Various electrical converters

Various toiletries

Assorted documents

I often take old cloths with me and cast them off as I wear them.  This is what I shed in London:

1 pullover (donated to the British Heart Association!)

1 pair of pants

1 long-sleeve shirt

1 pair of socks

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Transport for London

The advantage of returning to a city again and again is that you get to see how the urban landscape changes over time.  Since my visit to London over a year ago, two new items have appeared all over the city:  Borris Bikes and new street maps.

Borris Bikes:  In London, bicycles are available for anyone to use in every neighborhood, on all the major thoroughfares, and in many parks.  Officially, the docking stations are called Barclay's Cycle Hire. But, they have been nicknamed Borris Bikes after the flamboyant mayor of London, Borris Johnson.  When the program began, membership was required, but a few months later it became open to anyone, even those with not a quid to their name.  The first 30 minutes are free; an hour is one pound, and up from there you go.  You take the bike from one docking station and leave it at another.  They are extremely popular. Where did this idea come from?  Deep in the recesses of my memory I thought about something we studied about the Netherlands when I was in junior high school.  The Dutch have always loved their bikes and in the period after  World War II (I think) you would ride your bike to the train station, be on your way, and take any bike there when you got back.  All the bikes were essentially the same, so it didn't matter which one you got.  Can anyone confirm this?  You can see the problems that would arise with a scheme like this, but we now have the technology to revisit a good idea in the form of ICT.  The whole Borris Bike system is computer driven.


In London and all of England, so much thought goes into transportation.  In the United States, we have only one thought about transportation:  buy a car,  I really don't know why anyone would want a car in London.  In fact, drivers in Central London pay a Congestion Charge (which can be remitted by cell phone), London's way of trying to reduce traffic on the streets.  The Congestion Charging started in 2003, and I can tell you that it has made a difference. London is more pedestrian friendly and 'greener.' 

Way Finding:  I don't know whether the cycle hire and the new maps were part of a single program, but they seem to have appeared at the same time, and many of the docking stations have a map of the neighborhood.  The picture shows a couple of shoppers in Covent Garden consulting the map,which shows everything within about a 15 minute walk.  Instead of using a traditional scale, they use a circle with a radius of 15 minutes of time, measuring geographical distance in time-space.  They are very attractive and easily read.  (Just a note on other maps I have encountered here:  the TV weather maps are the worst I have seen, or maybe I am spoiled by the great job the American networks have done in using maps to report the weather).

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Crossing the Solent

From Sandown to Ryde by bus; from Ryde to Portsmouth by ferry; from Portsmouth to Southampton by coach (intercity bus):  that's today's story.

New Place Names:  I like place names and always enjoy learning new ones.  'The Solent' was a new one to me.  It is what I would call a marinym:  a marine name.  The Solent is a strait: the band of water between the Isle of Wight and the English mainland.  The tides and currents in the Solent interact in complex ways typical of the English Channel.  Numerous ferries, hovercraft, and catamarans cross the Solent to the Isle of Wight; some proceed on to France.  On the north shore of the Solent is the county of Hampshire.  The major cities of Hampshire are Portsmouth and Southampton (home of Southampton Solent University), the anchor of the metropolitan region.  Opposite Portsmouth is Gosport. 

Commonwealth Connections:  Virginians recognized many of these names.  We have them in southeastern Virginia: Portsmouth, Gosport, Southampton County, and Isle of Wight County.  Some of the Jamestown setters came from this area of England.  They made the new continent feel like home by bringing their place names with them.  In fact, Southampton-Portsmouth feels a lot like Hamtpon Roads and is even comparable in population size.  Both are interdigitations of land and water, both are capitals of the country's naval forces, and both are major ports.  After the Norman Conquest in 1066 AD, Southampton was perhaps the most important port in England because it had a sheltered position on a tidal river with convenient passage to Normandy.  Inland from Southampton was England's Norman capital, Winchester.  Southampton served as Winchester's port.  Proximity to Normandy made the Hampshire coast essential to the D-Day invasion as well.  In fact, here in Southampton I stayed in a B&B that was on the site where US D-Day forces bivouacked before the invasion.  The end of World War II in Europe began in Portsmouth and Southampton. 

Geographically,
D.J.Z.

The Ise of Wight

Vectis:  The Romans called this island Vectis, and I presume that is where Wight come from.   The people here still find the word useful for naming bus lines and home businesses. After a ‘full English breakfast’ I headed to the nearby Southern Vectis bus stop, paid for a day pass, and spent the next 10 hours wandering around the island.  This piece of real estate is actually bigger than you think, and I didn’t cover nearly as much territory as I wanted.  It wasn't just distance that slowed me down.  I decided to do some walking.  It seemed like the island was made for walking, the walking festival (really!) had just ended, and walking paths (bridle trails, too) zig-zag all over the island.  I rode the bus to just beyond a very special little village called Freshwater. 

From there, I walked to the western tip of the island to see “The Needles.” I needed a little physical geography, I suppose.  What element of physical geography comes immediately to mind when I say English Channel?  Chalk cliffs, I hope.  Remember we are not far from the 'white cliffs of Dover.’  That chalk formation extends all along the south coast of England.  I walked to the top of those cliffs here on the Isle of Wight and from there viewed a series of small sea stacks at the end of the peninsula.  Yes, they looked like needles.  The disappointing side of the story was the human geography.  Naively, I thought I was going to hike to the end of Wight and have the territory all to myself.  Instead, fleets of buses kept disgorging passengers at the tourist souk that lined the way to the beach far below.  There were steps that led down, but after that long walk, I decided to take the chair lift.  Plus, it looked like fun and I got some really good views. I then hopped on a Vectus bus back to Freshwater, where I wrote some postcards over a cup of soup at the only restaurant in town, the Hong Kong Express.

Two-decker Buses on Two-lane Roads:  On the Isle of Wight, there are only 2-lane roads, something very typical of rural England.  The large, double-decker buses, however, were not designed for such carriageways.  You have city-sized buses on country-size roads.  That’s what we call a scale issue.  The bus drivers did a magnificent job, but other drivers often had to stop, pull over, or even back up.  Still, the buses were well used.  I caught a bus about 9:25 am, and at each bus stop after mine long lines of people boarded.  It seems that pensioners get free rides after 9:30, and at each stop they were waiting.  I suspect this might be a popular retirement island.  For tourists it is nice to have a top deck.  The views are great:  newly plowed fields, grazing sheep, medieval villages, country churches, thatched roofs, chalk downs, hedge rows, flowering shrubs, walking paths, coastal vistas, tree tunnels. The only frustration with bus travel is that you can’t stop and take pictures whenever and wherever you want.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Another Ferry Ride

The Unitarian Church:  A third Sunday, a third church service.  I guess you see the pattern.  One of my goals is to use Sunday mornings to cut deeper into the culture.  This Sunday, I stumbled upon the John Pounds Memorial Unitarian Church in Portsmouth.  Its pews could comfortably hold about a hundred people, and the minister (who came to the faith via the Baptist tradition) greeted me at the entrance.  The Unitarians (note: not ‘trinitarians’) have a tradition all their own: that tradition was reflected in the sanctuary, the sermon, and the hymns.  First, the sanctuary had an altar with a chalice and flame (that’s the Unitarian symbol) rather than a cross or a communion chalice.  There was a cross in one of the side windows, but in the other windows were symbols of the other great religious traditions of the world:  a sitting Buddha, a star of David, a Hindu medallion and others.  Second, the sermon was about light and darkness. The message transcended the boundaries between faiths.  One idea that seems to cut across all faiths is the equation of light with goodness and dark with threat. We must all, therefore, strive to be “people of the light” (the title of the sermon).  On light, the Hebrew Bible, the Gospels, and the Koran were all quoted:  how similar they sounded.   Third, the hymns were decidedly ecumenical.  We sang four, including ‘Morning has Broken,’ perfect for the brilliant sunshine that was filtering in through the translucent (but not stained glass) windows.  Many secular philosophers are also revered and made a part of the church service.  We heard a poem by Dylan Thomas.  It reminded me of the first time I attended a Unitarian-Universalist church (in Barre, Vermont) many years ago:  poetry by Robert Frost was read. 

Do Unitarians believe in Jesus?  Because there is no creed in the faith, many have the same view of Jesus as trinitarian Christians; others do not. Unitarians do seem to believe that ‘good works’ are important though, as they had just received a think you letter from some of the Japanese students in Portsmouth who appreciated the money they had collected for easing the pain of the earthquake and tsunami.  

As for John Pounds, their benefactor: he has a fascinating history and it is on display here.  His workshop and grave are behind the church.  If you want to know more, Google him.  According to one report I read, the people named John Pounds Portsmouth’s ‘man of millennium’ in 2000.

Wightlink:  Portsmouth is the main embarkation point for the Isle of Wight, and I couldn’t resist adding another ferry ride to my list:

Portsmouth-Isle of Wight Ferry (UK)

Once I made up that list, I decided I would be a ferry collector. The Isle of Wight is a real island, which means it has not been connected to the mainland by a bridge or causeway.  As a real island, you must come by boat, however, rather than fly in.  The passage forces you to leave something behind and to expect something new.  On every island a new beginning awaits.  From the ferry deck, it’s fun to watch the dream of a new place materialize on the horizon. 

The ride ended and I found myself in Ryde.  I stepped off the ferry, onto a train, and back into the mid-20^th century.  Ever wonder what happens to old Underground carriages when London decides to replace them. Here they are on the Isle of Wight.  One rail line runs from Ryde southward to the resorts on the English Channel. Soon I was in Sandown looking for accommodations. Queen Victoria looked for accommodations here once, but she bought a country retreat.  In one sense the Isle of Wight became the capital of the British Empire every summer.  With that, the island’s tourism industry boomed and the Victorian era treated the island well.  Today, vacationers still come, but the bloom is off the rose.  Cheaper and cheaper air fares have drawn the vast middle class to the warm waters of Europe’s Mediterranean south coast rather than the frigid waters of the English Channel.

The landscape of Sandown is a bit tattered, the chains haven’t moved in, and money hasn’t been invested in the resort’s infrastructure.  This seems only to have been exacerbated in the past few years by the brutal British economy.  The Isle of Wight has closed all of its tourist offices (libraries are next they tell me), for instance, which is one reason why I am meandering around Sandown looking for a place to stay rather than at the ferry terminal in Ryde.  Nevertheless, many of the hotels and B&Bs were “fully booked,” though there were still plenty to choose from.  I wanted one with free Internet, but there was nothing, so I finally ended up at what I think may be the best B&B in town.  It is called the Belmore and is run by a Church of Scotland Minister (assigned to the Royal Navy) and his wife.  His role model, he told me was a Scottish minister that emigrated to the U.S., served as chaplain of the U.S. Senate, and became one of the most famous ministers of the 20^th century.  If you are of a certain age, you might remember Peter Marshall.  

Believe it or not, today is the first time I have taken a full meal at a real restaurant.  What a treat.  It was right on the esplanade. I sat on the deck and watched the day draw to a close.  I suppose, though, that I ruined it because I ordered what the English would call fast food:  fish and chips.  They were served with mushy peas, which were delicious!  Really, I am not kidding.  Restaurant’s name: The Reef.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Staying in Hostels

I left home with too much on my plate, so I have spent most of the week working in the library and various Internet hot spots.  But, I have had fun staying in hostels on my travels.

What’s a Youth Hostel?  A place to stay, but not a hotel.  Accommodations are in dorm rooms, generally in bunk beds, of which there could be anywhere from 4 to 14.  I try to avoid “mixed dorms” (male-female) but sometimes it is impossible.  The price per night might be anywhere from $15 (low-end) to $50 (for smaller rooms in big cities).  Two things to know:  (1) youth hostels are for the young at heart not just the chronologically young, and (2) youth hostels are not hostile, rather just the opposite.  So far on this trip I have stayed in three different hostels and one B&B (since there wasn’t a hostel on the Isle of Man). 

In London:  I had my bed reserved when I arrived in London.  From Heathrow I took the tube right to Oxford Circus and walked a few blocks to the London Central Hostel, located in one of London’s best neighborhoods: Fitzrovia.  They were ready for me, but I couldn’t check in until mid-afternoon.  Graciously, they offered me a chance to store my pack in the basement.  There were six of us staying in the room that night (pre-nuptial night).  Spent night one there, zonked by travel and wedding walking. On night two, I got back a little Iate, entered the dark room, and sat down on the edge of my lower bunk.  Yikes!  Someone was sleeping in it.  Never mind, I told him.  The top bunk was empty, so I took it.  Turned out he was an American who arrived the day before without a reservations and found no rooms available anywhere, so he had been up for many hours and was jet-lagged to boot. 

In Liverpool:  Like London Central, the hostel in Liverpool is a member of the YHA (Youth Hostel Association), of which I am a card-carrying member.   YHA generally provides top-end hostels, but they charge for all the extras like breakfast and Internet wifi (which should be free!),  Liverpool was not busy and was very conveniently located not far from the waterfront.  There, one of my hostel mates was Tim, who was a serious traveler from the USA.  He had gotten out of the Navy and was travelling, planned to be gone until December, return to his Pennsylvania home for Christmas, apply for graduate school acceptance, and then head out again until September.  We shared destination stories and I encouraged him to visit the Isle of Man, since he was headed to Ireland on the next morning’s ferry from a town south of Liverpool, then to Scotland.  He had spent a prolonged time in France studying French and really wanted to go trekking in the Himalayas.  He had a program all lined up, but was suffering with a wrenched ankle and wasn’t sure he was going to make it.  He told me I was going to love Thailand.  These are the types of travelers I like to meet.  Their stories keep me going.

In London:  The other hostel where I stayed in London is called Palmers Lodge, located in Swiss Cottage on the Jubilee Line.  I am there now.  It is actually my favorite, and they include free breakfast and have free wifi in the great room.  It also has historical character, not a purpose-built hostel but a converted Victorian mansion overlooking the “north way” out of London.  There has been a very large German group (came in a big bus) staying here. I am struck by how much they interact with each other and how little they interact with others at the hostel.  I recommend travelling solo or in small groups; you then have to develop an outward orientation.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.

Sunday and the Sun is Back

Trinity Methodist Church: The Manx are Anglicans and Methodists, although I hear the proportion of Methodists is decreasing. It seems, though, as if there is any ample number of Methodist churches, large and small, on the island. I learned, in fact, that John Wesley himself sermonized on the market square in Castletown, which was the capital of the island during his lifetime. Since I was staying in Douglas, the capital since 1877, I attended a Methodist church that was only 4 blocks away (but straight uphill) from seaside where I was staying. Trinity Methodist Church is celebrating its 125^th anniversary, and we had a guest preacher, one who served the church in the early 1970s and is now retired: good sermon on Christians as the Easter People. When I met the regular pastor during coffeetime afterwards, I had a surprise. She was a native of Minnesota. Seemed like an energetic pastor and I told her that my home Methodist church had a woman pastor for the first time. Trinity was one of the those large urban churches with a brag-worthy pipe organ filling the front of the church and a pulpit that made the entire congregation (seated in box-like wooden pews) look up to the preacher. The Methodist hymnal in Britain has words only, something that suits anyone like me who doesn’t read music. We even sang a hymn by Charles Wesley. The neatest thing about the service was the end of the children’s sermon. They all got up and left, which was the first time I realized how many there were. The pastor later told me that youth ministry has been a priority for the church and one that can draw on a special endowment for Isle of Man children’s ministries. My pew mate Stephen asked me why I was on the island. All I could think to say was: Because I haven’t been here before.

Castletown:There are two castles on the island. I saw the bigger one yesterday in Peel. Today, I headed to the town that developed around the second castle fortification in the 1200s. The town is still called Castletown. Right next door to the castle is the House of Keys, the place where the Manx legislature met between the time it left the castle and the time it moved to Douglas. The island is proud of its democratic heritage and claims that the Tynwald is the oldest continuous legislative body in the world, dating back to Viking times.

Flags et Cetera: I was finally struck today by something obvious. I have seen almost no UK flags since I arrived, but tons of Manx flags with their signature "three-legs of Man." Symbolically, the best flag assembly was along the promenade in Douglas. The Manx flag was joined by the flags of England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, and the EU – but no UK flag! I am sure there is no serious consideration of independence on the Isle of Man, but they must be looking at the new Scottish Nationalist Party majority in the Scottish Parliament and wondering what the future of the UK is for the Celtic countries. Like their Celtic cousins across the sea, the Manx are taking pains to revive their language. All school children study it and there is one primary school where all subjects are taught in Manx. Like Scotland, the Isle of Man has its own currency (sort of). They have bills and coins issued by the Isle of Man Bank, but everything is fully interchangeable with British currency (though with considerable difficulty). They get to design the currency themselves, however. Every time you pay for something you confront one of the symbols of Manx nationhood. Likewise, at the Post Office, you buy stamps issued by the Isle of Man government, though they all bear the seal of Elizabeth II. As for Manx cats, I didn’t see any and was told they were becoming very rare. 

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z

On and Off the Bus

The four main towns in the country are Douglas, Ramsey, Peel, and Castletown, and my goal is visit all of them before I leave.  Saturday started off sunny, so I jumped on one of the island buses and headed for Ramsey on the north end of the island. 

Douglas Borough Cemetery:  Before I got out of Douglas, however, we passed a huge and ornate cemetery, so I had to jump off and go exploring.  (All day bus passes are liberating, aren’t they?  They let you be spontaneous.)  This was not an old cemetery (a bit more than a century in age), but it reflected the culture of the island perfectly, especially the motor culture.  There were the graves of those who had died competing in the TT or MOP (Manx Grand Prix) races:  most very young, but all “living their dreams.”  Tear-jerker messages on the headstones perpetuated their memories:  The Pesky Kid, for instance, “died tragically living his dream, gone from our home but never our hearts.”  He was 21.  Lee David Pullman was killed at 25:  “He lived, he loved, he laughed.”  Both headstones, and many more, carried the etchings of their bikes.   “One of the greatest risks is never daring to risk,” was the motto on the memorial wall that seemed to capture the view of what it means to live in the motorsports capital of the UK, and maybe a good motto for life.  The Douglas Borough Cemetery certainly provided an ideal venue for thinking about the push of governments all over the world to make life risk-free by regulating every aspect of being alive.  Without risk, though, would life be any fun?   Should we be given the right to manage our own risks, or should governments intervene and do it for us?  In today’s world, nothing seems like it will attract funds more easily than promising people that their governments will keep them safe.  So, why did Man become such a motor mecca?  In the early 20^th century when internal combustion engines first began to give people automobility, the authorities in the UK began to establish speed limits on roads.  The Isle of Man operated under its own authority and chose not to go along with the decision.

A Manxman:  I had yet to meet a Manxman.  But right outside the cemetery I saw man wearing a hat, which I had to take a picture of.  That hat was on the head of Allan Looney, a life-long resident of the island.  He spoke only a few words of Manx because the language was suppressed when he was growing up.  He was glad to see the push to bring it back, however.  He was proud of his name, Looney, a Manx name and asked me if I remembered an American by that name:  Shelley Looney.  She had medaled twice in ice hockey at the winter Olympics.  The Manx are everywhere!  But today, the island attracts many Brits and, interestingly, returning Brits from southern Africa (met several from South Africa and Zambia).

Ramsey:  By the time I got to the north end of the island, it was raining.   The lesson:  take your umbrella everywhere because this is the typical weather pattern of the British Isles.  I hadn’t, so I dodged the sprinkles for hours as I tromped around town.  I met a bowling pin I couldn’t resist talking to.  He was directing people to the new bowling alley that was having its opening day.  I should go, he said.  So, I did.  In fact, I had a hamburger there.  The building used to house the town swimming pool, but a new pool had been built.  After standing empty, the old natatorium was finally converted into a bowling alley and recreation center. 

After Ramsey, still raining, I caught the bus to Peel, just in time to catch the end of the Manx Telecom Rally.

Geographically yours,

D.J.Z.