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Published: February 16th 2013
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Notes from a Dug: Pondicherry - Chidambaram - Kumbakonam - Tanjore - Trichy - Madurai Man, have we been on the move! Two days ago we were to have left Pondicherry in the early AM but the three chicklets kinda liked the town and decided we could squeeze in the day's itinerary and still spend half a day in Pondicherry's French Quarter. The Dug liked that idea as well. Let's find that French Quarter and get immersed. Vinkie, our driving man dropped us in what he said was the French Quarter. It was more like the French Centime, only a fraction of the quarter. I don't think the Vinkieman knows the mystique of the phrase. Mind you, neither does anyone else in India. The French Quarter to the three women meant shopping (wouldn't ya know it, there was a FabIndia outlet here). To the Dug, it meant going on a search for some of the old grandeur of the place. I'm sure that would have existed here over 100 years ago but it has long since been replaced on these homes by mildew, decrepitude, nonchalance and new cars inside the metal picket fences that still surround these homes. But walk
On the left, she's 11. On the right, she's 12.
These two were otherworldly in their performance in a hotel seating area in the middle of 300 acres of an old coconut plantation. the streets outside and you can see that the riff and raff are gradually leaking in.
The half day in the French Quarter dribbles on past 2 PM. The Three Women and the Dug still have to get to Chitambaram and catch that last circuit through one more temple. Doddling pays off. It's raining. Whoosh! That's the sound of one last temple going down the drain. Whew! That's the sound of Three Women and a Dug movin' on. No temple today unless you count FabIndia.
We haul butt to Kumbakonam. Or, at least, that's where we think we are going. Instead, the Vinkie pulls over on the side of a bush road and says, "I go no further. Other vehicle come for you." What that meant is his kinda mini-van couldn't make it down the even smaller bush road to our accommodation in what used to be a 300 acre coconut plantation. But, once there, we find it to be a refuge from the Vinkieman's love affair with his horn, the unrelenting stream of scooters, turkey-balled / tinsel-festooned transports, the tinfoil tuk-tuks, the poverty ridden, barefooted pedestrians and the ongoing near-death road experiences that are just part of
normal here. These oases that we stay in are really just gossamer veils that keep our Western minds from crossing over to the lunacy of over-population and under-whelming prescience. If the world's economic health rests in the ragged embrace of India and China, the future of the idiot-savant has never looked better.
But, we love our oasis. The food in South India in quite different from the north. It's a softer use of spices, less meat, more variety and, surprisingly, equally delicious. Here at Mantra Veppathur, we have been given a villa in which to hang our dirty shorts and tired eyes. Taking full advantage of it, we glide into the pool and then ease ourselves into front row seats for a dancing performance by two spectacularly talented young girls, ages 11 & 12. My video camera was working overtime.
The next day we meet our guide and adjust his/our schedule. As we arrived too late the previous evening to see the Darasuram Temple, he said we could still see it today annnnnd get everything else on our itinerary completed. This boy or, rather, senior citizen was playing with burning coals. Surely he had been warned that his
Boy with head shaved out of respect for Lord Shiva
His entire family were at the temple, shaved heads covered with tamarind oil. This was a pilgrimage for all of them. audience was not a collection of friendly temple-goers. He better have rawhide skin 'cause this fanged crowd will chew him up and spit him out. We give him the benefit of the doubt as he pulls out his small notepad and begins to sketch out a "Temples 101" course. The foreigners are getting restless. Better move on, which he does. He gives us the Coles Notes version of the course and we let him live another day. He further endears himself by leading us out a side entrance from the temple and across the threshold of a nine generations old family home of hand-made silk weavers. Many homes here have looms in one of their rooms and micron by micron they fashion silk fabrics for retail shops across the region. They have hit a receptive audience with us and a couple of deals are closed. Debbie realizes the extra carry-on bag she bought only a couple of days ago may soon need a bigger sister. We leave their residence and make a walking tour of one block in the village. No one pays any attention to us except sending the occasional stare at our white faces. Most homes have row
upon row of dyed silk yarn drying on various assortments of racks. Goats are more interested in the garbage than they are in us. Little kids pose for our cameras. As much as anything can feel authentic when tourists are in town, this does.
Leaving this temple town we head for Tanjore, supposed home of the captivating Chula bronzes. However, before we can check these out, we let our guide take us to the Brihadeshwara Temple, a World Heritage Site. He says it's a must-see. OK, OK, so he's right again. He plays us like the out of tune violins we are. Reducing our screeching to a muted whine, we grudgingly begin to appreciate what we are seeing. He pulls out his wee notepad once again for the next mini-course and lets us wander and inhale. It goes well and it goes quickly.
We move on to the museum home in the Thanjavur Palace for the Chula bronzes. Palace is a stretch. More like a step above rubble with the bronzes installed in rudimentary display cases. We can see their splendour but the presentation is ragged. Sidestepping the debris, we hope these treasures will be better cared for
than the antiquities in the National Museum in Cairo. From here, our guide takes us to a backyard foundry where a supposed artist of note produces his work. He's a bit long in the tooth and overdue for orthodontic work but he walks us through the casting process that he and downtrodden partner apply. Later we find out he has been taking a few short cuts that marginalize his work but allow him to produce more cheaper tourist product with one mold as opposed to the one mold/one product work of a traditional but starving artist.
The next day we go to Trichy, home of the most revered Vishnu temple in India. It is enormous in scale (148 acres) and rich with symbolism and history. Out comes that damn little notebook again but we are growing a tiny bit fond of it. We know the lecture will be short and the self-guided exploration will be our saving grace, so we hold on and enjoy the ride. Some of the attached pictures will help capture a bit of what we saw. We conclude the day with Terry and Janice trying to negotiate their way through an Indian version of a
Debbie's left food stops walking
A failed forge operator, she treats it to an ice cube massage in the Vinkie-mobile. bakery. Not quite sure how much and of what they have ordered, Deb and I watch the line-up extend until our guide tries to shoe-horn them out. Having none of that, the Puffalt girls pick through their bags of goodies until they feel that what they will be eating is what they want. I should have had the video camera. They almost became Brides of Shiva the Destroyer.
Leaving our now somewhat respected guide in Trichy, we take our marginally respected lives and place them in the dubiously qualified hands of Mr. Vinkie. His tiny bladder, his smoker's horking and his denial of on-road mayhem make us wonder if today is the day that he doesn't get to tomorrow. We hope we aren't part of the package deal. A few brake slams later and a full stop in the middle of the freeway while Vinkie rips a strip off some offending bus driver are just part of the carnivorous road frenzy that people step into every day of their lives here. Step back a second in this narrative and picture Vinkie at a full stop in the passing lane of a two lane freeway. The driver of the bus
is sitting on the shoulder, shouting something at Vinkie. Vinkie is hollering back at him in light-speed Hindi. Freeway traffic, meanwhile, is zipping by in the one open lane between the two of them. Call it death defying but, you know, on this day one of your nine lives has been used.
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