Trees of South India

When one travels to another hemisphere or latitude, the first thing one notices is that the vegetation has changed. I remember a close friend of mine remarking on returning to New Jersey from California after a long absence, “My God! It’s so green here.” It’s not that he didn’t know. It just strikes everyone - the sudden, abrupt, indelible change - made entirely possible these days by the invention of aircraft.

Australia, geographically isolated from the rest of the world, has no doubt the weirdest plants and animals on the planet; while my own foreign refuge, South India, continues to provide me with much wonderment as well. It’s a little tougher here in India where the population is so great and comprises so much of the landscape, especially in the urban centers. The climate can often be described only as unbearably hot – well over a hundred degrees at the height of day during the summer months. The saving grace, of course, is Chennai’s close proximity of the sea and, believe it or not, the Tamil reluctance to cut down trees. You frequently find yourself traveling on well-paved, modern roads, suddenly confronted with a sign that reads “Tree Ahead”; and sure enough, there’ll be a magnificent specimen clawing up out of the asphalt.

The accompanying pictures represent some of the trees I have found there; trees, that may not be familiar to arborists in the States. True, some version of these may be found in the greenhouses of the Bronx Botanic Garden, but otherwise you’d be hard pressed to find anything like it, even in tropical Florida.

There’s the Cannonball Tree, for instance, with Christmas tree-like ornaments also called ‘Naglingam’. It has amazingly fleshy and intricate flowers and a fruit that resembles (what else?) cannonballs.

Banyans are found in various parts of the tropical world. It is basically a fig tree. Older trees can spread out laterally using aerial prop roots to cover several acres. It is also the national tree of India.

The branching of the Baobab, transplanted from Africa, looks stunning, even here. It’s probably the strangest looking tree God ever created. Some Baobabs are reputed to be thousands of years old which cannot be verified as they produce no annual growth rings. When confronted with a Baobab one is somehow reminded of elephants; yet they were exclusively made for long-necked giraffes.

In India, the Neem Tree is routinely planted around human dwellings. It is said that when the wind wafts through its leaves, it is transformed and assumes antiseptic properties. It is variously known as "Divine Tree”, "Heal All”, "Village Pharmacy" and "Panacea for all diseases." Products made from neem have proven medicinal effects. It is considered a major component in Ayurvedic medicine.

The Peepal Tree (or Bodhi Tree) is the one under which the Buddha is said to have attained enlightenment. Here in India, the Hindus also consider it sacred. Often, shrines and temples are built around them.

The national fruit of India is the mango. It is plentiful and can be eaten as a fruit, vegetable, or pickle. There are many regional varieties. Each variety is vigorously celebrated and promoted with patriotic fervor. The Mango Tree’s canopy is wonderfully lush and dense and provides cool shade for all those passing underneath it.

The Tamarind Tree can grow up to 66 ft. in height and can withstand rather dry soils and climates. Its fruit is a brown pod-like legume, which contains a soft acidic pulp and many hard-coated seeds. Tamarind is used extensively in Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh cuisines, where it is used to prepare the ever present rasam and sambhar.

There are too many species of palms here to mention. Palms effectively define the tropics for people who hail from the temperate zones. In India, one sees virtual oceans of Coconut, Banana, Decorative Travelers’, Date and Scrub Palms. In addition there are innumerable species of cactus. They all add spice to one’s tropical experience. The most prized real estate in Chennai (where most of these pictures were taken) is in areas where shade trees are abundant. Bougainvillea and Flame of the Forest provide brilliant color accents that intensify steadily as the heat of summer progresses.

Moore in America

The New York (Bronx) Botanic Garden in the Bronx had been running a photography contest relating to its Henry Moore sculpture exhibit. About twenty of Moore’s works were scattered throughout its 250 hilly acres. It was great fun to stumble upon these randomly – one after another – as one made one's way from one of the fifty garden plots to the next. BBG provided a map, of course; but it was far better to ignore it and trudge on, relying on accidental encounters with Moore’s monumental art.

At first blush, it wouldn’t seem appropriate to mix Moore’s abstractions with the natural beauty of any outdoor garden. His trademark metallic surfaces, reflecting sunlight so harshly, would seem to clash with the muted greens so prevalent on a hot summer’s day. But, for some reason, it worked just fine. I was quite enchanted as I just happened onto one or another of these.

Now, there’s the issue of the photography contest. It appears they were encouraging visitors to take pictures of Moore’s sculptures and by it show how they might interact with the general landscape. Taking pictures of any art is a bit like eating twice-warmed meals. Presumably, the artist will already have painstakingly crafted his perspectives. Taking a picture of the result only subjects the work to yet another (artistic) filter which, more often than not, is likely to destroy the artist’s original intent, especially as the photographic medium demands a leap from the three to the (considerably lesser) two-dimensional format. It’s no wonder that Henry Moore had agreed to this. There’s virtually no chance of his work being upstaged by such a process. And even the declared winner of such a farce could have expected little more than a condescending glance from the judges.

While knowing all this, I too got sucked into the game. The fact that the exhibit was not permanent made it more urgent that I get there in time before the exhibit moved on to Atlanta.

Any metaphysical arguments aside, I must admit I had fun taking these pictures. Anyone familiar with my work will appreciate that I’ve happily taken pictures of art (not Garfunkle) previously, gleefully trampling on copyright considerations. Since I tend to experience the world (admittedly second-hand) through my photographs anyway, why would I pass up this golden opportunity to practice this particular perversion?

I therefore invite you, dear side streeter, to participate in this (my) game as well and ask you to choose one of the six photographs shown here that I submitted for consideration and lost. Feel free to use the blog feature on this website to register your choice. The correct answer will be forthcoming in my next posting.

Burg Rötteln, Germany

Throughout Europe, one can find scattered piles of stones. These are not like the stones that are seemingly thrown up by New England’s cursed soil; that some bent-back farmer may have fashioned into a crooked wall, a mill or a snake condo. These are the stones that went into the construction of elaborate castles by royally anointed land barons. They were generally built on high ground from where it was easier to protect the (often burdensome white elephant) property from the thieving intent of neighboring ingrates.

In Germany there are two words for ‘castle’: “Schloss” and “Burg”. A “Schloss” is usually something even bigger than a mansion, often including elaborate, formal gardens. It might be located inside or outside a city. In either case, it was never built with an eye toward having to protect itself. Hence, it was not necessarily built on high ground; it did not have a moat, drawbridges or high walls. It was usually the seat of a ruler who was quite secure in the knowledge that his army could protect him from harm long before the enemy has had a chance to advance to his door step.

A “Burg”, on the other hand, was always in danger. It was built in parts of the country where the king and his army had only nominal control. It was built like a fortress with lookout towers, housing knights who were well trained and suited for fighting. Once the drawbridges were raised and the spiked gates slammed shut, there was virtually no way to penetrate the insular sanctum which was often self-sufficient and had access to its own source of food and water.

The remnants of “Burgs” that have been left for the land to reclaim are infinitely more numerous than “Schloesser” (pl.) many of which have often been assiduously maintained and today function primarily as museums to showcase the region or period.

For me, the “Burgs” have all the charm. As a small boy growing up in Arlesheim in Switzerland, we kids used to go up into the wooded hills surrounding the town; and, sure enough, there too were the remains of a castle that promised to provide us with endless hours of fun. Not much remained of this particular one except a few walls forming a rock strewn passageway that led into a grotto. In those days, places in danger of falling down and hurting someone were seldom officially condemned. In fact, we kids were quite unaware of the danger. We played with raw abandon among the ruins. At one point I remember falling off a wall and onto the ground below. It seemed like quite distance and I was already thinking how I would explain my broken leg to the folks back home as I fell. Nothing happened. Instinctively I had rolled myself up into a ball, protecting my vital parts from the shock. I simply got up and continued my play.

We moved quite a bit in those days. Every place we came to, there was a “Burg” – some better than others. Just outside the German border town of Loerrach, there was one dating from back in the 13th Century that was still in pretty good shape. In fact, some enterprising people had successfully halted its decay, built an open-air stage there, along with a beer garden. The whole thing was then thrown open to an enthusiastic public.

It’s called either “Burg” or “Schloss” Roetteln. It’s actually more of a “Burg” but even in Germany the terms have become blurred. It’s located on high ground, overlooking the Wiesental (the valley of the Wiese River) that skirts the south-western edges of the Black Forest. On a clear day, one can see all the way to Basel, Switzerland, the transportation hub of the region.

I visited Roetteln on a clear and beautiful fall day. There weren’t many visitors. The feel of history was palpable. The gentle breeze on my face as I absorbed the landscape from the tower seemed to beckon something eternal. There are many such castles all throughout Europe. Europeans tend to take them for granted. If you happen to be over there, do ask someone locally if there aren’t any old ruins nearby. Chances are very good that there are. Ask him or her to point you in the right direction. You won’t be sorry to have made the effort.

Tea Parties

When traveling to the Far East (from New York), there’s often a stop-over at Heathrow in London. I always enjoy getting off the plane after a trans-Atlantic flight and stretching my legs before the next leg. I browse the shops which often display goods that are typical of whatever country I happen to be in. At Heathrow there’s an emphasis on tea service: pots, cups and saucers, world famous (tea) brands, and richly embroidered cozies.

It’s fun to imagine all those refined English ladies taking high tea in their elegant drawing rooms, snacking on cucumber sandwiches, just beyond the treeless wasteland this (or any) airport represents. It’s delicious to think about their fresh, pink-cheeked maids, gingerly picking up porcelain shards off the black and white checkerboard kitchen floors with pale, trembling fingers.

They remain unaware of the big world outside, cleaving to ancient traditions that includes strict punctuality; no thought lent to the mysterious origin of the tea leaves themselves - the terraced gardens of Darjeeling, India, and those of what was once known as Ceylon.

I think of my mother’s hutch in her dining room at home and take note that the tea drinking tradition (or a part of it) has even found its way across the Atlantic to the New World. Only here it serves primarily only decorative purposes. The china remains unused and gathers dust while the coffee urn in the kitchen is stained a deep brown with use.

I remember, not too long ago, a tea room opened in the New Jersey town where I live off and on. It was bright and airy featuring translucent china, tea cozies and such. There were delicacies served on white bread with the crusts cut off. But nobody went - or not enough. The shop closed down after barely a month.

Back on the other side of the globe, in Chennai, India too, there was a shop my wife and I sometimes frequented, featuring the most exquisite teas. It closed as well. Meanwhile, the hole-in-the-wall shops, ten to a block, each prominently advertising ‘3Roses’ (bitter) tea (dust), are thriving.

I heard of an Indian girl sent to Leeds for an education practically dying of homesickness. Ultimately the problem was at least partially solved when she asked her parents (back in India) to send her a packet of ‘3 Roses’ tea.

All Things Are Buddha Things

In these (or any) days of turbulence, it is no wonder that many seek symbols of serenity. Most of us in our corner of the globe share the Christian tradition; and Christ, certainly, can be regarded as having been a man of peace. Yet, the overriding Christian symbol is hardly a monument of enlightened quiescence. While it is true that most area churches have long since removed the suffering Christ from the cross, leaving in its place only a vacuous arrangement of right angles, enough remains to remind us of His tortured flesh.

The principle symbol of Buddhism - the Buddha himself - affords a welcome relief to the battle-weary. The statuary, though always in strict compliance with traditional norms, nevertheless comes off as varied as the artists who give it shape.

Insofar as - according to Buddhists - “all things are Buddha things”, I invite you to enjoy a modest sampling of same, captured on film during my various travels abroad.

Brasilia/DF; Brazil

Back in 1960, a brand new city was founded in the semi-arid geographical center of Brazil. Brasilia took just four years to build. It was intended to be the capital of the country at a time when most of its major cities were strung along the Atlantic coast and little attention was being paid to the interior. Now, barely 50 years later, the city is home to about 2.5 million people and showcases the crowning achievement of architect extraordinaire, Oscar Niemeyer. He designed most of the public buildings in his trademark futuristic style.

Not only is the architecture of the buildings in Brasilia unique, but so is the way in which the plan for the city was originally conceived and ultimately realized. The urban project was the brainchild of Lucio Costa, winner of a national contest that was held at the time. His award was based on originality. Looking at Brasilia from the sky, the city appears in the shape of an airplane with two residential wings (North and South) and the fuselage (East-West), consisting of public sector buildings. A placid artificial lake was also part of the scheme.

Brasilia has no street corners per se. Residential buildings are limited to six stories maximum. Vast areas were set aside for parks and other open spaces where no construction will ever be allowed. The idea was to maintain numerous green oases for the pleasure of the people to enjoy.

Streets and avenues were not designed to find addresses in the usual way. Instead, destinations can be easily reached by first making oneself familiar with a simple matrix consisting of both numbers and letters.

The original concept of the city was anticipated to have no traffic lights, traffic jams, crime, etc. But the ideal of a safe and quiet place, where lawmakers would weigh their decisions (affecting the entire nation) in relative peace and comfort, would ultimately fall short. A massive rural-urban migration continues to this day, and a city originally planned to house 500,000 would grow five fold. Whereas new construction inside city limits is severely restricted, a host of satelite towns have sprung up on the outskirts where housing construction proceeds at a furious pace. Most of the people living in these communities commute daily to the capital for work (or to seek same). Sadly, Brasilia today is not exempt from the typical problems that also plague major urban centers around the world.

Nevertheless, Brasilia is worth a visit. It stands as a monument to a credible vision, brought to fruition by the unflagging determination of President Juscelino Kubichek and his friend, Israel Pinheiro among many others; including, of course, also “os candangos”, the thousands who arrived here from all over the country (and the world) to accomplish the impossible. It was a vision that by rights should have failed – a project (not unlike our very own Las Vegas) that was built where nothing had ever been or would ever be save for the almost superhuman effort of a talented people who dared look to the future and vowed to come prepared.

The weather is warm throughout the year, with only slight variations of temperature.

article by Filipe Werneck

Kalakshetra, Chennai, India

Kalakshetra literally means “A Holy Place for the Arts”. It was established in 1936 by Rukmini Devi in order to spark a revival of South Indian traditions in music, dance and handicrafts. Both her father and husband were influential members of the Theosophical Society in Adyar.

While most members of the Society, including her husband, were absorbed in their work to advance India’s political freedom, Mrs. Devi determined “that a cultural renaissance would be equally meaningful - that a country which was (in the process of) losing its identity would be best served by a revival of its traditional arts. . .”

Today, Kalakshetra is a thriving campus that hosts serious students from all over the world. Throughout the year, Kalakshetra’s unique auditorium, called the Bharata (Indian) 'kootambalam' (temple stage) is used for dance and music performances featuring top masters from throughout India. It pays to keep an eye out for who might be appearing there (and when) because the academy is not necessarily organized in the same way in which similar non-commercial enterprises might be. Kalakshetra often fails to advertise as they are philosophically opposed to any trappings of commercialism. As such, most public performances are free. (Not even donations are solicited.)

Rukmini Devi was deeply involved in the revival of South Indian crafts as well. The Weaving Centre she established on campus is still active, as is the Kalamkari printing and research center which helped to revive this once dying art. The showroom is open during business hours for those who wish to buy uniquely branded saris and other textiles at reasonable wholesale prices.

The grounds at Kalakshetra are exquisitely beautiful. During school hours, one can see children in bright uniforms gathered around their teachers in the cool shade of vigorous Peepal trees. Kalakshetra has been slow to adopt modern conveniences for its steady stream of delighted visitors. Not until very recently has there been a food court and western-style public toilets. It must also be said that the grounds are far from being wheelchair friendly.

I must have seen as many performances as I missed at Kalakshetra. All were first rate and downright intoxicating. I never had much background in Indian classical music or dance. At first blush, it all looks and sounds a bit random. As the performances progress, however, the artists’ commitment to seamless perfection draws one in. It’s interesting that Indians have a different idea about how audiences should behave vis-à-vis their entertainers. People are quite expected to get up and leave during performances for whatever reason and return whenever they wish. This they do with seemingly studied indifference, in stark contrast to the artist’s unyielding discipline.

Several of the accompanying pictures (below) were taken during the three-day Kathakali festival in September ’09. Kathakali is native to the state of Kerala located on the opposite Indian (Malabar) coast. Top dancers and musicians from there were asked to perform scenes from Hindu Vedic texts for the duration of the festival. Kathakali is said to be an expression of the ‘unworldly’. It is highly stylized (much like Japanese kabuki theater), involving largely small gestures – hand and finger contortions; eye movements, and shivering – and flamboyant, bell-shaped costumes. Make-up can take up to four hours to apply; dancers can only dance with broken arches; the whites of the eyes of the principals must appear red… The demands on performers are endless.

If you were to go to Kerala to see Kathakali, you would have to pay a pretty sum for the privilege. Performances there are usually held in temples at night by the light of a single oil lamp with as many as 63 wicks ablaze. The temples are generally off-limits to non-Hindus. Therefore, Kathakali can only be seen by foreign visitors when and if a tour operator is able to make it a part of a (rice boat) inland waterways package. Here at Kalakshetra it was free – and absolutely, wonderfully ‘unworldly’!

Basel, CH

Most people have a special place where they imagine they would be blissfully happy. The subject usually comes up in connection with talk about where best to vacation or retire. Sometimes, it’s a place one might have seen only in pictures; sometimes it’s as obvious as returning to the place of one’s birth. Those who are truly satisfied with where they presently find themselves are the lucky ones. Statistics, however, show they’re in the minority.

I have two such places. In fact, if I pressed to decide between one or the other, I’d have to seriously flip a coin. The first is Basel on the Rhine, where I spent just a bit of my childhood. The other is… Stay tuned.

Basel is literally the heart of Europe. It is where three great nations – Switzerland, Germany and France - meet at a single point (Dreilaendereck). Its recorded history goes back to 374 AD. For many centuries, Basel could claim to have the only bridge crossing between Lake Constance and the sea. As such, it has been at the crossroads of Europe all along. It can boast of having the oldest hotel (Drei Koenige) on the continent. It is also home of the oldest university in Switzerland.

Basel has been at the center of European history since the dawn of western civilization. Before 1501, when it effectively separated from the Holy Roman Empire and joined the Swiss confederation, Basel was ruled by prince-bishops. The bishop continued to reside in the city until the reformation of Oecolampadius in 1529. The bishop's crook (Baslerstab), however, was kept as the city's coat of arms.

Intrigue has always been a part of Basel’s ambiance, from the time when religion ruled the West through to the Reformation and then again during WWII when it became the backdrop for spy novels. Today, when finance matters most, it is the home of The Bank for International Settlements. The Mustermesse in Kleinbasel is internationally known for its trade shows and fairs. The complex also includes Switzerland’s tallest building.
The Drei Koenige Hotel registration book can be regarded as a virtual who’s who of great minds – from philosophy to the sciences - that have invariably gravitated to the city at pivotal times. It is a center of the pharmaceutical industry where, among many useful compounds, LSD was unintentionally discovered.

Basel’s mystique is reflected in its narrow, twisty cobblestone paths leading up to the Muensterplatz. All the buildings there are under Heimatschutz (which means they cannot be altered from the outside). The great gothic cathedral (Muenster) stands atop the hill overlooking the famous bend in the river. It is the central focus of a city that has many points of interest. People from all over the world come here to pursue the ghosts of their cerebral heroes in the claustrophobic alleyways of the Altstadt (old city).

And yet, Basel is seldom listed as a stop on any European tour. Aside from wildly celebrating Fasnacht (carnival) once a year in February-March, Baslers are a sober lot. They have never savored the prospect of having their city turned into a circus side show. That is not to say their restaurants are not the best in Europe; ditto their coffee and patisserie shops; their services and accommodations. It’s just that Baslers like to keep to themselves while, at the same time, enjoying the very best of what life has to offer.

Clinton, NJ

This time around, we visit historic Clinton (NJ) making sure we don’t forget our cameras. What better fun for parents than to take pictures of the children with arguably the most photographed building in New Jersey for a backdrop! The building in question here is the Red Mill, in the heart of Hunterdon County, on the banks of the south branch of the Raritan River. There are plenty of restaurants, coffee shops, antique shops and boutiques just across the river, squeezed into the town’s mere one and a half square miles. Each one of them would happily sell you some artistic rendering of the Red Mill, most typically on canvas, cloth, poster or photo paper, or even on stoneware.

Walking leisurely across the (one-way) historic truss bridge, which crosses the Raritan just a few steps south of the Red Mill and leads directly into the heart of the old town, affords one a lovely view of a sparkling white waterfall with two mills, one on either bank. Dappled ducks and Canada Geese, floating peacefully on their own fractured reflections, complete this idyllic scene straight out of a Currier and Ives print.

The 19th century stone mill on the town side of the river is the home of the Hunterdon Museum of Art, a landmark regional art center since 1952, which features rotating exhibits by both established and emerging artists. The day I happened to be there, they were featuring an exhibit of corrugated box art; that is, the stamped panels (usually lids) cut out and arranged in a variety of patterns. The resulting collages were then framed and hung. They looked quite arresting (as anything framed can generally be regarded as interesting) on the spare walls of this old mill. At the same time, I stood before its various windows and studied what could be seen outside. I have always considered windows as being similar to paintings, photographs, books, magazines or TV’s for that matter, as all these exist within the confines of some specific context that isolates the chosen subject from all that’s around it, allowing the artist to highlight, classify, and manipulate variously selected aspects of reality within the illusion of a separate laboratory.

I do not expect that this particular (box) exhibit would now still be around. But the same could be said of any exhibit one would wish to display on the proverbial (mill) walls. In any case, the windows would still be there through one of which I happened to capture on film the red canoes - in storage - awaiting someone’s Raritan River adventure. For directions, schedules, fees and current offerings, please consult the museum’s website: www.hunterdonartmuseum.org The museum also has a gift shop.

Directly across the river from the art museum is the Red Mill Museum Village which also houses a museum with an emphasis on traditional American handicrafts such as quilting and lace. Its ten tranquil acres offer Civil and Revolutionary War Reenactments and Big Band and Blue Grass concerts. For a listing of scheduled events visit their website www.theredmill.org

If by chance your picture of the family with the Red Mill in the background happens not to turn out just the way you wanted, you can always go to any convenience store in the State, buy a post card, scan it and cut and paste anyone you would wish to appear in the foreground (just as I just did it with my daughter, Ivy).