We Three Kings

Merry Christmas!

It's been a few days since I have posted so to kick things off again I thought I would touch on the original Christmas story -- baby Jesus, the manger and of course the three kings.

A few days before my trip home I finished a fantastic book, titled In Xanadu, by the British author William Dalrymple. Dalrymple has written a number of incredible books on India but In Xanadu was his first literary effort. It's a travel story about his attempt to retrace Marco Polo's journey from Jerusalem all the way to Xanadu, Kubla Khan's palace in Mongolia. He successfully made the trip during the summer before his final year at Cambridge and published the book at 22. It's fantastic and I highly recommend it but enough background.

In one stretch of his journey through modern day Iran, Dalrymple finds his way to a city that according to Marco Polo once hosted the bodies of the three kings or wise men who came to Jesus in Bethlehem. These wise men, or Magi, made the famous offering of gold, frankincense and myrrh and in the course of their pilgrimage founded the fire-worshiping religion of Zoroastrianism in Persia.

This is where I found myself intrigued. The following are a few passages from Dalrymple. Despite references to several almost forgotten historians hopefully you will be able to follow. Apparently, Marco Polo may have actually been onto something.

"At first sight the legend looks interesting, but wholly mythical...But one or two of the details in the story made me think twice about dismissing it in its entirety. According to Yule, the word 'Magi' used by St. Matthew in his gospel does not actually mean wise men, as I had always assumed. The word is Persian, and so stands out in the Greek of the Gospel as a solitary foreign word. Its meaning is specific. It is the name of the ancient Zoroastrian priestly class. In all the elaboration that has grown up around the story in the Gospel, St Matthew's original meaning has been obscured. In the text the men who follow the star from the east are not the kings. Nor are they numbered or given names: this is all mediaeval legend. The Gospel text simply reads 'Some Magi came to Bethlehem from the East.' St Matthew's original audience would have understood that this meant a visit to Bethlehem of fire-worshiping priests from Persia."

He continues, "As I read Yule's footnotes I remembered depictions of the Magi that I had seen on sarcophagi in the Vatican Museum and in the mosaics of St Apollinare in Nuovo in Ravenna. The Magi are shown wearing trousers, tunics and pointed felt caps--the distinctive dress of the ancient Persians. This in turn reminded me of a story I had read the previous year in Runciman's The First Crusade. In the seventh century, the Persians had defeated the Byzantines and had swept through Palestine burning and pillaging every important building they had come across. Only one structure was spared: the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. According to Runciman, they made this single exception because over the doorway of the church was placed a huge mosaic showing the three Magi worshiping the Christ child. If the specifically Persian origin of the Magi is perhaps obscured today it was clearly understood into the early Middle Ages."

I suppose make of this forgotten piece of history what you will but I found it particularly interesting. Dalrymple is not finished here but I thought I would save the second part of this story for another day.

Old Delhi and Chandni Chowk

For obvious reasons, medieval cities or neighborhoods are hard to find these days. I have wandered through a few, notably the Trastevere neighborhood in Rome, the cities of Sienna and Venice and most recently Old Delhi. These places are defined by impossibly narrow streets and almost non-existent city planning. For the most part, maps are worthless.

While I only had a few hours to get lost in Old Delhi, I was left with a lasting impression. Never had I been to a place with so many people in such tight quarters. When just a block or two away from the main commercial arteries, the architecture is fascinating – looming three and four story havelis with incredibly elaborate entrances that open to magnificent courtyards. I was in India but at moments it seemed I had been transported to a more colorful, Eastern set for Romeo and Juliet.

But as interesting as the buildings and monuments are in India the people always steal the show. Outside of the canopied jungle of medieval streets and alleyways I decided to shoot a quick video of the scene on Chandni Chowk – the 500 year old “main street” of the Mughal city. If you look closely at the end you can see the famous Red Fort in the distance – the ultimate symbol of Mughal power. Enjoy:

Back to the States and Prince (again)

I'm cold, really, really cold. I think the transition from 80 degrees and the Indian sun to 25 and snow in Washington would be tough on anyone. Pulling my bags out of the car in topsiders and no socks last night was inadvisable.

But anyway, I'm home for Christmas for a few weeks and while I'm going to continue to write about India while I'm here (there is more than enough in the vault) I'm also going to sprinkle in a few other topics as well.

When I woke up at five this morning I browsed a few of my favorite blogs and came across an interesting post from the Atlantic's Ta-Nehisi Coates on sexuality and Prince. He writes about sitting down with his son and telling him how to talk with women and that Prince will absorb a significant part of that conversation.

He goes onto to write, "Watching Prince as a kid, we derided him as gay and had no sense as to why all the young girls were into him. But looking at him now, though it much it aggrieves me, it must be said that Prince is, indeed, a sexy motherfucker.

Homophobia doesn't just make you bigot, it ruins your music taste and makes it harder to understand women--perhaps not in that order."

I couldn't agree more. I think back to watching Prince on MTV in the early 90s. The video that sticks out to me is "Diamonds and Pearls" and I remember being utterly confused by him but transfixed by the sound. I'm not saying your homophobic if you don't like or appreciate Prince but give him another listen if you passed him off because of the androgynous look.

For a fantastic video of him performing "If I was your girlfriend" go here.

Sepoys and Squares

I stumbled onto a fantastic website dedicated to the Mysore Wars and came across a Scottish manuscript describing the training and regulations for a company of native infantry (commonly called sepoys) in the service of the East-India Company. I haven’t read too many military manuals but I think you would be hard pressed to find one so colorful.

“If a Battn. (Battalion) is attacked by a large Body of Horse on a plain, it is to form the Square or Oblong, half and face outwards. Should the Horse appear within the distance of 300 Yds the Bttn with a well directed fire of Grape or Case shot will in all probability keep them at bay; if however from superior numbers and the intoxication of Bang they should approach within the distance of 100 yds, the front rank will make ready. If the Cavalry should still persist in advancing to the distance of 60 yds, the front rank will present and the rear rank make ready. It is of the first importance that men should preserve their fire on this occasion. If the Cavalry should however persist in advancing to the distance of 50 yds the front rank will fire.” When the cavalry approaches within 20 yards the square is to remain “steady and fully determined to defend themselves like Gallant soldiers to the last extremity.”

The language is rich and inspired. For example, the author describes the smoke produced from musket and cannon fire as “intoxication of bang.” And the last sentence reads like a Hollywood script: “…defend themselves like Gallant soldiers to the last extremity.”

For all of the destruction and terror of war, the scene described above has a certain beauty to it. Splendid, Indian lancers rushing across a plain, foam coming from their horses’ mouths, the gold and silk of their uniforms gleaming in the sun as they close in on the red lines of soldiers in front of them. The ranks of British infantry stone faced, squinting through the smoke of the field, holding their fire as the cavalry comes like a wave. Sepoys and highlanders shoulder to shoulder, bayonets fixed, waiting for their officers' commands.

Four Days in Delhi: Part 2

The tour bus is a time portal to 1978. There is an abundance of fake wood paneling, synthetic carpeting and knobs and buttons that don’t work. Despite my instincts, I refrain from making a judgment about the coming tour based on the vehicle. I have my fingers crossed the guide will be a magical repository of knowledge about the seven cities of Delhi. I’m imagining him as an old, gray-haired Indian storyteller who has traded an audience of hookah-smoking locals for busses of tourists. With the first crack of the intercom my hopes are dashed.

The noise directed at the 20 of us on the bus is technically English but even that description might be kind. I turn my attention away from a guy peeing on the wall just outside the bus to get a good look at our guide. He is middle aged, short, a little plump and seems genuinely irritated he has to narrate our tour. He is wearing a plaid fedora, a bushy mustache, a Cosby sweater, gray slacks and white tennis shoes. His English is suspect but the ancient intercom system makes everything he says almost completely unintelligible. He is well aware no one can hear or understand what he is saying but he simply doesn’t give a damn.

What I’m able to pick out from his mumbling and from the schedule of the tour is that the morning will be spent in New Delhi and the afternoon is reserved for the old city. At first I’m slightly amused by the guide but after ten minutes of driving I find myself disgusted with the prospects for the day. As we head to our first stop, a large but relatively new temple blessed by Gandhi, we drive down an impressive avenue lined with embassies. The narration from the front of the bus is as follows: “US embassy,” pause, “Canadian embassy,” pause, “Malaysian embassy,” pause, “Chinese embassy,” longer pause, “Pakistan embassy,” followed by a guttural throat clearing noise and silence. I turn to Chetan, who is sitting to my right across the aisle, and with a sorrowful headshake say, “riveting stuff.”

The first stop at a completely forgettable temple flies past. I take a few pictures, dodge postcard sellers and return to the bus. As I wait for the rest of the group to return, I notice several motorists weave through traffic, pull over as they come upon the temple, say a few prayers and keep moving. It’s a wonderfully Indian scene.

Back on our motor chariot we head for the Qutub Minar, a nearly 240 foot brick and sandstone minaret built by an Afghan conqueror at the end of the 12th century. The tower was erected as a victory monument in the midst of the ruins of a destroyed Hindu temple complex. It is massive, beautiful and awe inspiring.

Our guide gives us 30 minutes to explore the tower and ruins littered around its base. A comically short amount of time for the site but I duck in and out of crumbling mosques, through Indo-Saracen arches and around intricately carved pillars, repurposed from the Hindu temples once the heart of a destroyed city. The 30 minutes fly by. Back on the bus we head for an unannounced stop.

After 20 minutes of battling rush-hour traffic we pull into a gravel parking lot of a handicrafts emporium. Our disgruntled guide announces we have 45 minutes to shop. I immediately pull out my map of Delhi, pick out a few sites I’m dying to see, announce to Chetan we are leaving the tour and begin my hunt for a rickshaw. As we leave the tour behind, I grab one last glimpse of our guide. He is sitting on a broken down chair outside the Emporium, staring at nothing, irritated as ever.

Four Days in Delhi: Part 1

We are already running late. Our Gurkha driver, Seeray, flies down the highway in our Ford into the center of the city, his face almost completely covered by a winding scarf. It’s winter in Delhi and barely 50 degrees. The car windshield is completely fogged up but we shoot forward, split two rickshaws and scream into the parking lot of the city Tourist Department which also happens to double as the city’s sprawling flower market.

Seeray, a sergeant in the 10th Ghurka Rifles and personal attendant to a Brigadier General, throws the car into park and beckons us forward into the maze of flower peddlers. He is thick and noticeably athletic. While immensely kind to us he is precisely the type of soldier no man wants to meet in the field. He is under strict orders to get us to the tourist office by 7:45 am sharp to ensure we are on time for our 8:00 am bus tour. Failure is not an option.

He moves exceptionally fast through the single-file paths of the market, jumping over flowers, dodging lazy buyers sipping chai and reversing direction when need be to reroute around human roadblocks. He is in front, followed by my impossibly close friend Chetan, – the nephew of the Brigadier General – me and then Chetan’s girlfriend Rosie.

When cutting through the pushy tangle of the flower market proves impossible, Seeray leads us out to the edge of the road in an attempt to circumvent the mess and get us to our destination. As we move down the street, motor bikes and rickshaws fly past inches to our left. I keep edging further out into the street trying to use my body as a shield for Rosie as we push forward. My plan doesn’t work. A motorbike flies past me and a side-view mirror clips her shoulder. She grunts, assures me she’s okay and we keep moving.

Delhi

India is not for the casual tourist. I have heard it called the most difficult place in the world to travel and my experiences have yet to suggest otherwise. But for its challenges I can't imagine any place more rewarding.

Four days in Delhi overwhelmed the senses. There are too many places, anecdotes and pieces of history to put into one or ten posts but an introduction to it all.

Christmas came early this year.

The Tiger of Mysore

When things didn’t work out particularly well for the British in the American War for Independence they turned their attention elsewhere, most notably India. By the 1780s they had extended control over significant portions of the subcontinent but their future subjugation of the country was still very much in doubt.

India was locked in an almost constant state of war between rival states and their European allies – such as the Mughals in the north, The Marathas in the west, the Nizam of Hyderabad in the Deccan and Tipu Sultan of Mysore in the south.

Tipu Sultan was a thorn in Britain’s side. He was young, ambitious, aligned with France and possessed a European trained and equipped army that had already beaten the British in two wars during the 1760s and 80s. The British called him the Tiger of Mysore.

Future British expansion in India meant inevitable conflict with Tipu. Sighting his close ties with France, the British East-India Company convinced parliament to launch a decisive campaign against Mysore in 1789. The final push against Tipu would result in two wars – both resulting in British victories – but the conflicts were hotly contested and featured an incredible cast of characters. Lord Cornwallis, the general that surrendered to Washington at Yorktown, and the future Duke of Wellington, who would later defeat Napoleon at Waterloo, both commanded on the British side.

Since my first visit to India in 2008 and a trip to the Tiger of Mysore’s island fortress, Seringapatam, I have been fascinated with this relatively forgotten moment in history. War elephants, Scottish highlanders rushing over Indian fortress walls, and a sultan called Tiger – this struggle had it all.

Village Market

Last weekend I spent two amazing days at a coconut farm five hours outside of Bangalore. There were trips to temples (a post is on its way), beers around the campfire and the village India I had only read about in books.

The countryside, the farm and the villages were beautiful. But, just when I thought the weekend had come to an end, there was one last stop at a local market to top it off.

I couldn’t help but pull out my camera and begin snapping away. I have found that a smile and a thumbs up are a common language not to be underestimated. For a half hour I moved through onion, lentil, ginger, banana and spice tents. I dipped around fashion stands, candy stalls and rope vendors.

After each photo I would spin the camera around and let my subjects see their portraits. I patted backs and laughed with the locals. It was the kind of morning I won’t soon forget.