On the passing of souls ...

My Nan passed away a few weeks ago. I can't say I knew her that well having lived chunks of my adult life outside of Australia. I couldn't even tell you how old she was. I think I stopped counting when she turned 95. But I do remember fantastic summer holidays with her in her trailer park home in Wollongong. I remember her teaching me to knit. I remember her teaching me how to place a bet on a horse at the bookies. I remember her quiet observations in the background of family dramas, noting the repetition of history. So this story from Varanasi is for her. She would have hated the place but I think she would appreciate the sentiment that death is just transitory.

At first impressions Varanasi is not so much a holy town in north India as a very dirty, crowded one; the accumulation of 3000 years of pilgrimage and industry. It is famous as a centre of learning and for the rituals of death that have been carried out here on the banks of the Ganges for much of that time. Flowing from the hair of Shiva, the Ganges is holy, created in mythology as a sacred site to which over a million people come each year seeking absolution, to bring the ashes of loved ones to be released in the river, or to be cremated by the river itself. To die and be cremated in Varanasi is said to end the cycles of rebirth and to set the soul free. 

The river bank is lined with over 100 ghats, bathing areas with wide steps leading down to the water. One section is reserved for cremation, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, some 150 to 200 each day. The dead are first washed in the river to clean away the past, wrapped in a cloth that is colour coded depending on age and gender, and then placed on a pyre lit from a constantly burning eternal flame. The further a pyre from the water’s edge the wealthier you probably were. Cremation here is expensive by Indian standards according to my ten year old tour guide, Raj Kumar, mostly because of the price of wood. Behind the ghat are stacks of lumber and the constant sound of axe-men at work. Also behind the ghat are hostels for people who have come here to die.

The presence of the burning ghat has made for a voyeuristic tourism. Note the man with telephoto lens capturing the face of a dying woman as relatives remove the cloth to bring water from the festering river to her lips. It is strangely compelling, probably because the public nature of death here is so different from my English traditions that are marked by a fear of the end of time and a judging god. 

My first viewing of a cremation South Asian style was in Kathmandu. On one pyre a tall man was being cremated; too tall for his pyre as it turned out. As a part of his leg burnt through and fell off, the caretaker of the fire hooked his second leg up and over to prevent it falling off the pyre as well. At another pyre, the flesh of small feet melted and burned through, to be swept further into the flames by the keeper. The coffins that brought bodies back on Qatar airways are stripped down and reused. The clothes of the dead, removed by mourners so that we leave the world as naked as we entered it, are gathered up by the urchins, the lucky one with the bag outracing the others who’d like a share. People washed, laundered, and played next to the pyres, that continued to burn as the ghats were repaired and the river dredged around them. The tourists with digicams captured posing Saddhus and a very good Hanuman lookalike;  the going rate should get them to Nirvana, just around the corner I’m sure. Women weep and keen as an audio backdrop to the guides chatting up tourists before they know they’re being chatted up. Monkeys scavange, their red tumourous arses swaggering over the temple stone. And pervading it all is the smell of burning wood and rushes; the smell of oily BBQ. I have never thought of death or the human body in quite the same way since.  

However, the burning ghats are just a fraction of Varanasi’s attractions. The old city itself is a series of narrow, crowded alleyways with the secular and divine piled on top of each other. There are temples of all persuasions, and the usual stalls selling the usual puja material - flowers, incense, candles, brightly coloured cloth - next to the tailors, haberdashers, sari, pots, pans and stationary shops. There are two ‘German’ bakeries run by young Nepalese migrants where the backpackers shelter from the heat of the day. There are the ubiquitous cows that have right of way and will none too gently shove you out of that way should you be in it. I’m pretty sure it was a puddle of cow pee I stood in after one such encounter but consoled myself that it was sacred.

Adding to the melee is the main Shiva temple. It sits next to a mosque that Hindu fundamentalists believe was built on top of the original temple, resulting in a constant heavy police presence to prevent communal trouble in the name of god. The temple itself is crowded, noisy and slippery thanks to the litres of milk presented to Shiva each day. There are so many lingams inside (stone phalluses representing the deity) that never have I left a religious place feeling quite so irreligious.

The Ganges is also a source of livelihood for local fishermen who launch their boats and nets in the evening to carry out their secular duties. Not that I would recommend eating anything that comes out of the Ganges. Despite its holy status, it’s not a clean place and I couldn’t bring myself to jump in like a good devotee should. I’m hoping that a dip of the hand is enough for my redemption. The Ganges has now made the World Wildlife Fund’s ten most endangered rivers list as a result of years of neglect. Over one million people live in Varanasi alone, a small city by Indian standards but now bursting at the seams. Both up and down stream there are innumerable other cities and villages that use the river as a source of water, food and waste disposal. There have been various schemes to clean it up, including the bits of bodies that don’t quite get the full cremation. Unfortunately, the flesh-eating turtles introduced to take care of the latter were soon eaten themselves. Cycles of life. Saddhus in the pilgrimage site of Rishikesh, upstream of Varanasi, have begun to lobby the government in earnest to take action before the river dies altogether.

It’s well worth visiting before that happens. Varanasi is a sound and life show; a place to just sit and watch the constant noise and busyness that surrounds the peacefulness of death and devotion. Pilgrims come to the banks at sunrise and sunset for puja that at the main ghat is marked by loudspeakers and crackling pre-recorded music. While some bathe to wash away their sins, others simply wash off the day’s dirt. Dobhis beat clothes to within an inch of their life expectancy next to the herds of buffalos also getting a wash. There are plenty of yoga schools for those wanting to brush up on postures, but note to the young woman who was trying out her asanas on the steps of the ghats: there are some positions that just shouldn’t be done in tiny hot pants in public. It’s guaranteed to get too much attention and I’m sure Parvati, Shiva's consort, would not approve. 

All day and into the night, Bollywood songs mix with Sanskrit chants, drums, dogs, bicycle bells and honking geese. The dull sounds of building boats and pyres mixes with cows, goats, touts, tourists, voyeurs and crowds of people seeking salvation. In all the rampaging cacophony it’s hard to distinguish the divine from the profane, the holyman from the conman. I was blessed so many times by saddhus seeking baksheesh in return that I’m sure I’ll live forever along with my family and anyone else I could think of at the time.

But just as the noise seems incessant, move away from the ghats and there is no peace like that found by the river banks at dawn, where there are more rituals as the burning sun crawls out of the plains. Thousands dip their hands or their entire bodies into the water to thank which ever god they choose to believe in that they are alive another day. And there is no peace like an evening boat ride, even with a hundred other boats doing exactly the same thing, reflecting on the meaning of life and death. Tiny tea lights are placed in the river representing the prayers of hundreds wishing to let go of the past and have a brief respite of redemption before the cycle starts again. The lights are carried away down the river, taking our hopes, regrets and wishes with them. Nothing is possibly more representative of the Hindu philosophy of unity between the individual and the universe than to see my single tea light join hundreds of others to become part of a collective sea of souls, including my Nan's.

God Bless America

Say what you like about the USA ... and let's face it, we all do (it's overweight, it's unequal, it's imperial, it's a state of exception, it slavishly clings to a American Dream that has long since died in the arse if it ever did exist, its super-PACs make a mockery of the last vestiges of democracy, and none are so blind as its religious fundamentalists) ... but they really do make the best pancakes.

Cafe Rage

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a gentrifying neighbourhood, with an increasing number of cafes out-competing the greasy spoons despite charging £2.50 for a cup of tea, will very soon attract an increasing number of baby buggies. Now my friends with kids know that I am ambivalent at the best of times when it comes to procreation. I love their kids as long as I don't have to manage them. When they are old enough to have a proper conversation I will take them on long walks in the mountains but until then I have to confess that I just don't find them interesting. And the sky has not fallen in and as far as I can tell my womb has not shrivelled up.

So it should come as no surprise then that when I'm having lunch with a friend in a new cafe on the towpath, and the waitress comes up and asks if we can move, even though we've started eating, because a woman wants to park her buggy next to her table, and it is the equivalent of an SUV for babies and therefore requires our space as well, I'm not going to be impressed. Could the buggy not be folded up and put in the corner? Could she not move to another table (of which there were plenty on the other side of the cafe)? No ... apparently the only solution was our removal.

While my lunch companion, who is younger and clearly less self-righteous than me, offered to move, I have to confess I heard the taut strings of patience snapping inside. It is for just such situations that I have perfected a look that could freeze Santa at 20 paces. As someone who has always had problems coming up with witty retorts at the right moment (usually it's 3am the morning after it's needed), the beauty of the ice stare is that you don't  need to say anything. Needless to say, the hint seemed to have been taken, the baby with its buggy was moved to another part of the cafe out of everyone's way, and even more sensibly, eventually removed from the buggy so it could sit quietly in its mum's lap and cause no problems for anyone. Sorted. 

Explaining Mr Darcy

It is a truth universally acknowledged that once a year, no matter how many times I've seen it, I will sit through the entire 6 hours of the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice, and wonder, yet again, will Lizzie and Mr Darcy get together at the end. I will go through the agonies of his refusal, her critique, his growing affection, her rebuttal, his acts of redemption, her growing affection, and the final declarative  snog.

What is it about Mr Darcy? Is it the fact that he fulfills a female fantasy of having our bad boy but only under our own terms? Is it because he's loaded and able to supply Elizabeth with the 18th century equivalent of a Bergdorf account and Jimmy Choo shoes? I'm defaulting to sexual selection and strictly biologically induced behaviour and therefore it's not my fault. As psychology studies among university students repeatedly show ... women prefer wealthier men, or at least men 'with prospects', and men prefer attractive women with child bearing hips. Makes perfect sense. Women have to invest in child rearing so we need men who can invest in us, just like a fish needs a bicycle.

So we shouldn't feel guilty about making him pay for dinner. It's just testing his capacity to pay the rest of his life for fish and bicycles. And we shouldn't feel guilty that thousands of us objectify poor Colin Firth, as he dives into a weedy pond to emerge the other side a dripping sex god.

Finnish Saunas and other of life's necessities

After any more than an hour skiing north of the Arctic circle the only way to defrost is to use the sauna. Forget cellulite, sagging flesh and modesty. If you're in Finland, get in, get your gear off and stop worrying. There are of course, basic hygiene principles to follow ... none of which I managed to work out on my first attempt even with helpful instructions in English posted in several prominent positions in the chill out area. (Tip 1: bath towels are out, but the stack of paper towels in the corner are very important).

It's not just the cold that is arrested in the sauna. It's the point at which daily velcro wars, when outer fastenings meet inner fleece, can be forgotten (Tip 2: always put your gloves on last!). It's the point at which the damp sheep smell that comes from merino thermals can be removed for the evening. It's the place where no-one can see me ski, thereby avoiding the look of compassion that comes into the eyes of the Finns when they do. 

I am nothing if not the triumph of hope over experience, or cowardice, when it comes to skiing. To me, a bump on a blue run seems to generate stellar speed. And while the idea of having a nice machine make tracks for me to ski in everyday is very comforting, it was not until the last day that I realised I could in fact step (or skate if you're one of those show off ski skater types who deserve no space in the sauna as punishment for the ungodly grace that was given to them) out of them and snow plough, rather than tumble anarchically, down a hill. (Tip 3: the great advantage of skiing in the off season is that it reduces the chances of such descents causing damage to anyone but myself). No matter how graceful or ungainly the skiing, though, everyone on the trails has the possibility at some point in their day to come to stillness in a landscape that has the quality of silence that only comes when the world is wrapped in snow.

Just as I managed to give up on braking and turning when on skis, hoping that the run ahead would eventually even out and there would be no corners in the meantime, so too with my sled driving abilities, where my dogs adopted the same look of compassion as the Finns. Huskies, apart from having to put up with dodgy drivers, also suffer from a beauty myth. On every postcard in every Arctic gift shop in Lapland are the familiar grey and white, blue eyed standard models. But most in my crew were just a motley bunch of mongrels with a one-dimensional love of running. They really do. As we approached launch time their barking reached the dog equivalent of a jet engine before take off.

The recuperative power of the sauna is complimented by the Finnish buffet. (Tip 4: it is not stealing to make nutella and cheese sandwiches from the breakfast buffet to take with you for lunch). Finland isn't known for it's vegetarian friendliness but luckily I'll eat fish because somehow they don't count. Put it this way ... it's either compromise on the fish or eat reindeer and it will be a warm day in the Arctic winter before I eat Rudolph. This did not stop Chemical Elvis from tucking in however. It is slightly discomforting to be sitting in a restaurant enjoying the bucolic scene outside of reindeer grazing while Chemical Elvis eats one inside. I made up for it with a 'pint of cream with a hint of mushroom' soup, followed by lappish cheese in a sweet cream sauce and berries. If it can be made with berries the Finns have done it, including the lovely sounding cloudberries, bilberries, arctic brambles and sea buckthorns.

If any further solace is needed after the sauna and food, there is that great scientific phenomenon of the Arctic guaranteed to bring comfort during the long winter: the Finnish love of karaoke. Forget seeing the aurora - most tourists spent their evenings sitting out in -20 degrees, under cloudy skies, still thinking they're going to see something, and missing the most fantastic renditions in Finnish of  'Almaaz', 'Walk the Line' and 'Crocodile Rock' in the local bar all of which seem to have karaoke machines and remain at a steady +20 degrees (Tip 5: the bar man will sing the male parts if you need to duet). Unfortunately no-one chose to sing Bowie's 'Space Oddity' while we were there. I would like to have heard that version while sipping on the pint of gin and something (yes that's a PINT) that they serve on tap .... Perhaps a sauna might be better.    

Fiddler on the Roof

As I relaxed into my post-NYE position on the couch to watch one of my all time favourite films, 'Fiddler on the Roof', cup of tea in one hand, remote in the other and Indian take-away in front, I realised that I had probably wasted about 5 years writing a book on managing cultural change. You just need to watch Tevye struggling with what is happening in his family, his village and in Russia at the turn of the 20th century to know everything you need to know:

First, what keeps us balanced on the roof, happily playing our fiddles, knowing our place in the order of things ... TRADITION .... TRADITION (deedle de de de dee deedle de de de dee deedle de de de dee) TRADITION!

Second, what happens when you unpick a thread? Things start to unravel and it can cause great personal anguish resulting in Tevye's wrenching appeal to god and TRADITION ... TRADITION (deedle de de de dee deedle de de de dee deedle de de de dee) TRADITION!

Third, dreams and myths are created to enable small changes to be accommodated - Tzeitel gets to marry the poor tailor Motel instead of the butcher without the help of a matchmaker, and Hodel gets to marry Perchik without asking Tevye for permission.

But fourth, there are limits. Tevye expresses the universal fear that if he bends too much he will break and will not accept his third daughter, Chava's, wish to marry the Russian other.

Fifth, then there must come the inevitable EXPULSION .... EXPULSION (deedle de de de dee deedle de de de dee deedle de de de dee) EXPULSION of both Chava and Tevya's community, both of whom now represent fear and the threat to order that generates a tendency to homogenise space and demarcate difference so as to maintain a sense of control and restore the balance.

All this and great music, dancing, and Topol. Save yourself £50 and watch the movie.

Notes to Self for the New Year 2012

1. Remember that the world will not end ... It will just be different.

2. Remember that we have survived numerous governments in the past who have replaced spine with political expediency or which have been held upright by torrents of irrational venom. They too will pass.

3. Remember that said spineless or vengeful governments do cause injury to those vulnerable to their Manichaean world view and, while they will pass, the damage they wreak in the present must be challenged at all times. Occupy, reappropriate, land, words, hearts and minds.

4. Remember that all real dissent takes time ... Patience really is a virtue and real change is not fast food.

5. Take the 66 days holiday owing to me ... Work will not fall apart if I'm not there.

6. See more live music (I know I say that every year but have just discovered the very funky jazz cafe in Camden, and the uber-funky 'tortured soul' from Brooklyn, NY, not to mention Jazzie B as the late night DJ - my feet hurt from the dancing).

7. Make more chutney.