Straits ahead: Malacca in Mint

Iam trying hard not to laugh at my guide. He has been very friendly, chatting in Tamil on the bus to Malacca. He has also organized a vegetarian lunch for me, after he’s recovered from the shock of encountering someone who doesn’t eat meat. The reason I am having trouble is, talking about the history of Malacca, he keeps mentioning the Chineast and the Portugueast. Finally when he says, “After this, you all get into the bust”, a giggle escapes; I hastily turn it into a cough and end up choking.

Malacca (or Melaka as locals call it) is one of Malaysia’s few Unesco world heritage sites. There is a lot of dispute over when the city was founded but my guide authoritatively says it was in the early 15th century. It flourished as a trading port, attracting the attention of invaders. In many ways, Malacca reminds me of Fort Kochi: Portuguese, Dutch, British and Chinese influences are scattered around the city.

More here on Mint – this appeared a few weeks ago – forgot to post it here… Have a nice day, lah!

Stranger in my country

Published in Mint Lounge (September 04) as Stranger in a strange land…

***
Nancy is the local school teacher at Lachung village in North Sikkim and has recently returned home after some years outside the state. She has been chatting non-stop with me in the darkness of the late evening about her school and students. Among other things, she says that Hindi is one of the languages taught in her school, as in all other schools in Sikkim now. In the middle of the conversation, she leans over and says confidentially, “It is for the Indian children, you know, Sikkimese children really don’t need Hindi”.

I am slightly taken aback but do not give it much thought. Till a few days later, when back in Gangtok, Norgey, the owner of the guesthouse we are staying in, tells me breezily, “Oh, but there is nothing much to shop for here in Sikkim, we do all our shopping in India”.

In the time I spend in Sikkim, India truly feels far away – and it is not just about what the people say. Like everywhere else in the country, kids are out on the streets but it is not cricket they are playing. It is football that rules here, the way it rules the streets of perhaps only Goa. It is Baichung Bhutia who smiles from posters and hoardings all over the market, kicking a careless ball and seeking votes for the reality dance competition he was once part of; from Soccer King to Dancing King, they proclaim.

Barely two hours out of Gangtok, on our way to Lachen – base village for the trip to the high-altitude Gurudongmar Lake – we encounter groups of giggling, uniformed children waving down our vehicle for a ride. Our driver finally stops to take in Shaily, who gets into the front seat with him and starts chatting rapidly in the local language. She smiles diffidently when I ask her a question in Hindi but refuses to answer. At school 7km away, she hops off with a soft thank you bhaiyya, thank you didi and disappears through the gate. All along the route, we see school children getting into and out of tourist vehicles, hitching rides with perfect strangers. The city cynic in me is horrified but our driver says this is normal in Sikkim: “Children have nothing to fear, madam”.

Apart from this distraction, the roads are quiet. No blaring horns, no overtaking on the hills, no stopping in the middle of the highway. I realize I am overly sensitive by this point but I keep thinking about how different Sikkim indeed is from the India I know. The “difference” is perhaps in my mind as much as it is in theirs.

For, in the general elections last year, Sikkim had a record 83% voter turn-out (compare this with just over 41% in Mumbai). In Gangtok, I keep meeting people who came back to their homes in towns and villages across the state just to vote. Sikkim became the 22nd Indian state in 1975, when the Chogyals (the royal family of Sikkim) gave up their right to the throne after 300 years – driven, people say, by fear of invasion from neighbouring China. It would be 18 more years before China finally gave up claims on Sikkim and accepted it as a part of India.

But it’s perhaps no accident that the army is omnipresent in Sikkim. Most of the state is served by the 19th regiment from South India and the signboards and slogans on the rocks are written in Tamil, perhaps aimed in keeping the soldiers motivated in their arduous efforts. In conversation with one of them (in Tamil), I get a sense that these army-men feel as much strangers in this part of the country as I do; the bitter cold, language, food and terrain all unfamiliar, perhaps even inhospitable.

After a pit stop at the “The world’s highest cafe at 15,000 feet”, proudly managed by the army, we pass only bunker after desolate bunker on our way to Gurudongmar Lake. There are no signboards to show where we are headed. Our driver forges ahead on the rocky terrain on what seems like pure instinct. The landscape is stark and stunning, the snow-capped mountains of the Kangchengyao range seem within touching distance. Most of this part of the drive is in monochrome, a dry brown with a few spots of snow visible in the distance. At the lake, the army makes its presence felt again, maintaining the tiny shrine on the shore and providing welcome cups of hot tea to visitors who feel rapidly breathless, sick and disoriented at that altitude (over 17,000 feet).

Even within Sikkim there is nowhere that gives such a strong sense of being alien as Gurudongmar. Like many other Sikkim lakes, Gurudongmar (named after Guru Padmasambhava) is held sacred by locals; indeed, it is the most revered of them all. The lake remains frozen for most of the year but, when the ice melts, the waters are a clear, sparkling blue. Colourful prayer flags flutter in the breeze, as a few brave souls walk down the steep steps for a stroll around the edge of the lake. The wind starts to get bitter, cutting through the layers of protective clothing we are ensconced in. Despite the acute discomfort, there is a desire to linger but local legend has it that after noon, the wind factor is so strong that stones start flying. And so, we reluctantly head back towards Lachen village, and then on back to Gangtok.

The next evening, I am strolling on MG Road, the cobble-stoned promenade in Gangtok where locals and visitors, young and old alike meet, shop and drink. I am here to shop for souvenirs – local tea and cherry brandy mainly – to take back to ‘India’ with me. Kanchenjunga, the venerable protector deity is an invisible presence in the far distance, revealing itself only in the post-monsoon winter months.

Sikkim, I learn, is known variously as Sukhim (new home) to the Nepalese, Denzong (valley of rice) to the Tibetans and Ney Mayal Lyang (paradise) to the Lepchas. It is the Lepcha interpretation that I agree with the most.

In the next few years, it will be possible to fly into the new airport coming up at Pakyong, close to Gangtok. Enhanced connectivity with the mainland may perhaps infuse a greater sense of belonging among locals. For now though, I have to make that long drive to Bagdogra for the return flight. Entering West Bengal, the cacophony of cab horns and traffic jams sounds unnaturally loud after two weeks of peaceful driving on the Sikkim roads. Close to the airport, painted signs by the road say ‘Be Indian, Buy Indian’. I think they could have just as easily been ‘Be Indian, Bye Indian’.

TRIP PLANNER

Getting there

Fly to Bagdogra from Kolkata or New Delhi (Rs. 8,000 round-trip on Jet Airways & Kingfisher). Or take a train from any of the major cities to New Jalpaiguri and a bus or cab further on to Gangtok (3.5 hrs by road). If you’re in the mood for a unique experience, try a chopper ride from Bagdogra airport to Gangtok (Rs. 3000 per head, 35 mts).

Where to stay

For the best local experiences, stay in homestays / small guesthouses in Gangtok. We stayed at The Shire Guesthouse (Rs. 1,500-Rs. 2,500 per night per couple, inclusive of food). Or stay at the Tashi Tagey Guesthouse for some of the best home-made Chowmein & local cuisine. If you are inclined towards the comfort of large hotels, check out The Oriental (double rooms from Rs.2800 per night) or the up-market Mayfair Gangtok (Rs. 12000/ onwards per night inclusive of breakfast and dinner). In North Sikkim, your travel agent will put you up in a small guesthouse as part of the package.

What to do

Take a day to visit the monasteries in and near Gangtok – Enchey, Phodong, Rumtek – and another to visit the China border in the East – Nathu La via Tsomgo Lake. Spend your evenings on the pedestrians-only mall road (Mahatma Gandhi Road). All trips to North Sikkim and Nathu La need permits which can be arranged by local travel agents along with tours.

In North Sikkim, drive on surreal lunar terrain to Gurudongmar Lake and take a picnic basket to the picturesque Yumthang Valley of Flowers, a rhododendron sanctuary. Closer to Gangtok, you can take white-water rafting expeditions on the cold waters of the Teesta. Make this another day trip from Gangtok, or as we did, stop en route to Bagdogra airport on your way out and end the trip with a bang. Of course, you get to the airport drenched and have to change before they let you into the aircraft!

An uneven path to peace

This piece on Sri Lanka appeared in Mint Lounge of April 24th.

I am in Anuradhapura at the Sri Maha Bodhi shrine, a must-visit destination for locals and visitors alike. The low fence encloses a cutting from the Bo tree (Ficus religiosa), protected and venerated by Buddhists, under which Siddhartha Gautama is believed to have attained enlightenment. Walking along the designated path, I muse slightly derisorily on the kind of things that take on religious significance. Suddenly, I stop.

Ahead in the open ground, a group of soldiers in full uniform (sans footwear) is sitting under the sprawling branches of a tree. They are listening intently to, and repeating, the prayers a yellow-robed monk is reciting. Or not so intently. I bring down my camera sheepishly when one of the soldiers, baby-faced, looks around and spots me. As I freeze, wondering if I have just committed a faux pas, he grins broadly at me. The chanting continues, the monk’s tones sonorous, the soldiers’ soft.

While the world may be debating whether the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) has truly been vanquished, the country itself seems to be enjoying its hard-earned peace. Everywhere in Sri Lanka, there are domestic tourists in large numbers. The president, Mahinda Rajapaksa, seems popular among his compatriots for the tough decisions that steered the country towards the end of the civil war. Everywhere there is a buzz about the impending general election and the streets are lined with fluttering pennants. In a predominantly Buddhist country, these could be prayer flags but for Rajapaksa’s beaming face on them. My driver sings his praises and is confident that he will win (and despite his several detractors, he subsequently does).

On Galle Face Green by the sea in Colombo, hundreds of people are walking around, thrilled as much by the cool evening breeze as their new-found sense of freedom. A young couple I talk to say they have never seen so few soldiers on this road. “This is the first time nobody has stopped to question us,” they say. There are groups of soldiers on the main streets of Colombo, but they all wave us through with friendly smiles. There are metal detectors everywhere too, but coming from a country where they are just as common, I do not view them as particularly ominous.

The only time I experience a frisson of tension is on the second day of our week-long drive through Sri Lanka, when I reveal to our driver-guide my Tamil ethnicity. A Sinhalese Buddhist, he has been telling us all morning about the racial strife in the region and describing in great detail the numerous bomb blasts the country has survived. He stops mid-sentence but recovers immediately and asks in a worried voice: “Aishwarya Rai? She is not Tamil, no?”

In Sri Lanka, aggression seems to have co-existed with or preceded peace throughout its history. Sigiriya, now a part of the country’s cultural triangle, stands testimony to this fact. Built on a foundation of violence by King Kassapa, who murdered his father Dhatusena in the fifth century, Sigiriya was partly absolved when it was converted into a monastery after its ruler’s downfall.

When I reach Sigiriya, the morning drizzle has turned into a downpour. I am standing on the muddy path leading to the Lion Rock, staring in dismay at the sheer rock face (600ft high, I remember reading) that appears and disappears in the thick mist. I am half tempted to turn back: Do I want to risk life and limb to see the ruined palace of a patricidal king? An old lady clad in a monk’s white robes stops next to me and flashes an almost toothless smile. Holding on to a thin plastic sheet that serves as her raincoat, she points to the rock and me in turns, silently urging me on. I smile in return and start walking ahead, only to see her scamper away into the fog that has descended on the steep steps. Each time I stop to catch my breath, I look around for her, but doubtless she has climbed all the way to the top by then.

I understand Sigiriya’s inaccessibility—Kassapa intended it to be an impregnable fortress—but that knowledge does not make it any easier for me to walk down the wet steps. I am suddenly distracted by the cackle of the young boys next to me, oblivious to the rain. No such worries for them; they are giggling, perhaps at the memory of the topless women on the walls midway to the peak, the frescoes of the mysterious “Sigiriya maidens”. I remember seeing in Anuradhapura a group of schoolboys roughly the same age, walking single file holding lotus buds in their hands. None of the boisterousness of the young there, they fit right into the rarefied surroundings.

It was faith that brought them—and kept them well behaved—to that small shrine to worship a tree, just as it is unassailable faith that attracts people of all ages to Kandy, home to the temple that holds Sri Lanka’s most important religious artefact, believed to be the tooth of the Buddha himself, retrieved from his funeral pyre, no less. Legend has it that the tooth was carried into Anuradhapura in the fourth century by Prince Dantha and Princess Hemamala, hidden in the latter’s hair. Paintings in the temple show the princess in a hairdo reminiscent of actor Sharmila Tagore’s 1970s beehive. The tooth soon came to be associated as much with royalty as religion; among contenders, custody of this relic guaranteed access to the throne. Consequently, it has a troubled history and has changed hands several times—including, in later centuries, the Portuguese and the British—before arriving at its final abode in Kandy.

The relic lies in a casket behind closed doors, taken out only for important visitors and on important days. That does not deter the thousands who make their way to the temple daily. “Every Buddhist in Sri Lanka must visit it at least once in his lifetime,” says our guide. I join the men and women clad mostly in white who queue outside, patient through the numerous security checks and barriers. Inside, they devoutly place their lotus buds at the entrance of the shrine, take photographs, light lamps and head straight to the pleasant lake beside the temple, with its duck-faced paddle boats bobbing about idly in the middle.

The people I meet across Sri Lanka—the happy families at Galle Sea Face, the white-robed monk at Sigiriya, the young soldier at Anuradhapura, the lotus vendor in front of the Kandy tooth temple—have all been gentle and friendly, making it easy to forget that they live in a country that has seen decades of violence. Perhaps they smile hoping—or knowing—that it is now time for peace.

Temple performance

Published in Mint Lounge recently – original version posted here…
Read the pdf version online here – or if the link vanishes, you can read it here…

***

Day one among the temples and I keep remembering a delightful phrase I had come across long ago. Vuja de. Looking at the familiar with new eyes.

I have seen all this before. Apsaras dancing to the imagined beat of drums. Asuras (demons) and devas (gods) churning the ocean of milk for nectar. Garuda and Vishnu and Brahma. Hinduism and Buddhism. Men and women lighting incense sticks in front of idols. After a while, the guide’s stories from the ‘Ramayaaaana’ fade away. I watch instead. Monks in bright yellow and orange robes walk about with disposable cameras, taking photographs of each other against the murals. And the children.

Khmer kids, pesky, persistent, adorable, running behind you, selling everything under the sun for one dollah! Only one dollah, this-t-shirt-very-nice-made-in-Cambodia-madam, they intone, the pitch rising to a crescendo by the time they get to madaaaam. Where are you from, asks one particularly bold imp. I tell her and she points to my bare forehead and asks, where is your bindi? Bindi, bindi, bindi, the chorus follows us as we walk away to the waiting cab. Another one says, another day, another place, give me one dollah, we become friends.

And why not? The visitors seem to be amused by it, even like it. And it is not only Cambodia’s one-dollah-kids who are doing what their guests like, the adults aren’t very different. The Khmers seem to be experiencing their own vuja de. After decades of the Khmer Rouge oppression that ravaged the country and kept the tourists away, the world has discovered Angkor. And so the Khmers have decided to see their own country and culture with new eyes, those of the outsider.

Except, in those days at Siem Reap, I also get the sense of locals cocking a snook at the world, enjoying a private joke at the expense of the thousands who drop in to stare at the temples in silent awe. Look at the earthly celestial maidens, if you don’t believe me.

When I first catch sight of them, the apsaras are resting on the cold stones of Angkor Wat. One is flexing her foot, mimicking the action of the stone apsara dancing just behind her on the wall. The others are talking to each other in muted tones, bored expressions on their faces. The American tourist, khaki shorts and all, walks up to them and points with his camera, and they spring into action instantly. As a group, they strike well-rehearsed poses, peacocks flanking the line-up, the boy with the lion’s head in between, a dancing apsara on each side of the utterly discomfited tourist, as his friend clicks. As they pose for the camera, for a dollar, I notice the boredom doesn’t shift from their faces. Shot over, they get back to rest mode without so much as a smile at their temporary benefactor.

That also explains why, in a town that has more than 100 temples, the guidebooks and guides gush only about the most magnificent of them all, Angkor Wat (built between 1113 – 1150 by King Suryavarman II). The average traveller heads to Siem Reap primarily to see that, or more precisely the spectacle of the sun rising from behind the temple which uniquely faces the west. At dawn, when we make our way through complete darkness with slow hesitant steps to the pond in front of the west tower, a few hundred people have already assembled there. Did they spend the night there, I wonder, as excited shoppers at the Walmart sale do each year? Or did the tuk-tuks and buses disgorge their eager passengers in the wee hours, the drivers giving out instructions in broken English on finding the best spots from which to view the sunrise?

If Angkor Wat – built on the Hindu concept of the world, with the tall tower in the middle representing Mount Meru (the residence of the pantheon of Hindu gods and the centre of the universe, says my guide; my learning for the day) – is the biggest tourist magnet, the most fascinating of them is easily the Bayon temple. Bayon is situated inside Angkor Thom, established by King Jayavarman VII as his capital city, soon after he ascended to the throne in the late twelfth century. Bayon has 216 faces of the King Jayavarman VII, embodied as Bodhisatva the Buddha etched on the outer sides of its 54 towers. Like the Mona Lisa, a faint hint of a smile lingers on each of the faces, and the beatific eyes seem to follow your progress through the massive complex; is it mockery or pity one sees in those orbs?

The French novelist-explorer Pierre Loti seems to have grappled with the same issue when he wrote of Bayon in Un pelerin d’Angkor (A Pilgrim of Angkor) in 1901: “I raise my eyes to look at the towers which overhang me, drowned in verdure, and I shudder suddenly with an indefinable fear as I perceive, falling upon me from above, a huge, fixed smile; and then another smile again, beyond, on another stretch of wall… and then three, and then five and then ten”. Now, more than 100 years later, the greenery has vanished, but catch a sudden glimpse of the frozen smile and a chill runs down your spine. I can only imagine what it was like for Henri Mouhot, the French explorer who cut his way through the thick dark jungle to discover the hidden temples, in the mid-19th century.

Not all the temples of Siem Reap are massive and awe-inspiring. My favourite, Bantaey Srei, is small and exquisite; delicate would be a better way of describing this “citadel of women”. The pink stone and the intricacy of some of the carvings convince scholars that the temple was actually built by women.

And then Ta Phrom in the middle of thick vegetation, dedicated to one woman (the mother of King Jayavarman VII) and made famous across the world by another. Angelina Jolie shot for Lara Croft: Tomb Raider in this temple and, for most visitors, that fact is as dazzling as the sight of the giant roots of the tree holding the temple structure in a vice-like grip for centuries.

Indeed, “Anjelina Jolie was here” seems to be a bit of a theme song in Siem Reap. We follow her path later that night to The Red Piano, weary to the bones after a hot day among the ruins. This popular pub is at one end of Pub Street, overflowing with trendy bars and restaurants serving international cuisine. As we walk down the narrow lane, music from the cafes spilling out on to the road, the enigmatic smile of the Bodhisatva Buddha at Bayon seems as if from a distant dream.

CHILD-FRIENDLY METER

No stars – Siem Reap is about temples and more temples, most of them in ruins, enough to make even adults weary after a while.

TRIP PLANNER

How to get there

Unlike a century ago when explorers had to cut through dense jungles to get to Angkor, now you can fly directly into Siem Reap from many places in South East Asia. From India, the best way is to fly to Bangkok and fly on to Siem Reap on Bangkok Air (prices start at Rs. 6000 one way) or Thai Air. It is also possible to travel overland into Phnom Penh from Bangkok and then take a car or boat to Siem Reap, though procedures at the border are said to be cumbersome. You can get a visa on arrival at the Siem Reap airport for $20.

Where to stay

You will be spoilt for places to stay in Siem Reap which caters to the budget traveller as well as the high end luxury seeker. We stayed at the friendly Palm Village (http://www.palmvillage.com.kh/index.php – prices from $30 a night) set away from the main town and closer to the Angkor complex. You can choose to stay in town though it involves some travel to get to the temples each day. The FCC (http://www.fcccambodia.com/angkor/) is highly spoken of in discerning travel circles as the place to stay in. Try to catch a meal at the restaurant overlooking the river, or drop in at their gallery to see John McDermott’s fabulous photographs of a sepia-tinted Cambodia.

One of the best eateries in Siem Reap is the Blue Pumpkin, a café serving international cuisine, open from breakfast through the day. Their main outlet is near the old market, off Pub Street. (Tip : go past the diners on the ground floor on to the mezzanine floor for relaxed lounge seating). They also cater to the Angkor Café, situated just opposite the main entrance of Angkor Wat and have another outlet at the airport. For authentic Khmer and Thai food, the Chao Praya on the road to Angkor Wat is highly recommended. Drop in at Angkor What? for a drink, if only for the name, as we did.

Midsummer madness

Published in Mint Lounge – May 31 – read it online here or the pdf version here…

We are just finishing a salad lunch at the tiny restaurant opposite the library when the dragons walk past. A bright red patch on a black face, a black-and-red body, head waving in a friendly fashion. A fairly amicable dragon, as dragons go. A large wooden elephant follows, a man’s face peeping out tentatively from inside a crate on its back. Behind that, a bunch of little fairies dressed in pristine white, with identical “don’t-mess-with-me” looks on their faces.

And just then, a little boy, a pair of white trousers in the midst of all the frocks, turns to the girl next to him and sticks out his tongue at her. For a moment, there is a frisson of unrest among the fairies but hard discipline kicks in, overriding the attractions of a street brawl.

The ever-informative Wikipedia says: “In 1564 the Midsummer Watch Parade (in Chester) included 4 gyants, 1 unikorne, 1 dromodarye, 1 luce, 1 camell, 1 dragon, 6 hobbyhorses and 16 naked boys.” The naked boys have gone into hiding, but most of the others are still around at the parade: giants, dragons, camels and dromedaries (the single-humped camel), hobbyhorses (and elephants). Huge floats convey the dragons and the sun and the moon and several stars, little girls dressed in lacy white frocks, old men and women in blue fancy suits, and tall men on stilts making them taller still. And jugglers and fire-eaters and drummers marching to their own beat. Perhaps the luce, too, whatever it is.

The Midsummer Watch Parade at Chester is a ritual believed to have begun in 1498, according to the city council, with “the outstanding features of the show (being) the Giants—enormous structures made of buckram and pasteboard and carried by two or more men”. Somewhat disturbingly, the naked boys featured even then: “There were also fantastic giant beasts including the unicorn, the elephant, the camel and the dragon. Originally the dragon was beaten by six naked boys, but this practice was banned in the late 16th century”. There’s something to be said, then, for Elizabethan morality.

Today, the parade is one of Britain’s largest and most colourful street carnivals. But there is no sense of anticipation, no eager waiting crowds, in fact, no major indication that such a parade is about to take place, except for the posters all over town. One minute, all is quiet on the streets, with just a few tourists craning their necks to see the well-preserved Tudor buildings lining the streets. And the next, dragons and drummers are out in full force, and the streets are chock-a-block with people.

Midsummer’s eve, associated with summer solstice and the longest day, has been celebrated in various ways from ancient times, from worshipping the healing powers of the sun’s rays (a reaction, perhaps, to the bitterly cold winter months) to lighting bonfires through the night to keep evil spirits away.

Superstition finds its natural home in midsummer, when any kind of madness is possible and, in the hands of Shakespeare, the queen of the fairies gets besotted with an ass-faced pleb, and young couples fall in and out of love at will (and sometimes against their will). The rituals have changed slightly down the years, but midsummer is often still considered licence for the laity to slip on fancy dress, blow trumpets, drink copiously and make merry.

The history of Chester goes back even further, to the times when Romans came, saw and conquered their way through Britain, leaving behind walls and wells for later-day tourists. History has it that all towns with “chester” in their name (the Roman castrum, meaning fortified city or camp, was corrupted to “chester” and “caster”, as in Colchester, Winchester and Doncaster) had been occupied by the Romans, though Chester itself was originally named Dewa (or Deva), after the spirit of the river Dee. Chester was ideally situated—on a high promontory, overlooking a fine harbour and a navigable river—for the conquest-minded; today the river is one of the most pleasant places in Chester, the perfect spot for a Sunday afternoon rendezvous.

When I reach the boat pier, the local deaf choir is performing on the banks of the river, the eyes of the participants moving in time to the swaying hands of the conductor. Couples and families are walking about with their ice-cream cones as we touristy-types noisily queue up for the boat ride. I spot several familiar faces, co-cheerers from the watch parade. In some ways, this scene is as colourful as the parade itself: buskers playing their guitars, street artists offering to sketch you or trying to sell their works of art, boisterous merrymakers waving their hands from the passing boats.

On the large boat, the discomfort of the hard wooden seats is soon forgotten as the countryside unfurls, and we pass picturesque little houses, each of which has a boat and tiny landing pier, and each of which I desperately want to own. The ride itself is a bit like being inside a poem; I mean, do you really ever expect to see daffodils fluttering and dancing in the breeze?

Perhaps, to emphasize those literary connections, the city hosts the Chester Mystery Plays this summer (28 June-19 July). Performed once in five years on the streets of Chester, the plays are dramatizations of biblical stories that portray the role of God in man’s life and are not—as I imagined—suspense dramas of The Mousetrap school. These plays, which date back to the 10th century, were banned by the English church in the 16th century, to be revived only in 1951 for the Festival of Britain, a feel-good event organized for the war-battered populace.

But for all that, it is the Midsummer Watch Parade that is the key attraction of Chester (21-22 June this year). And, not surprisingly, the local government takes it very seriously, going by the ads that have been up on their website (www.chester.gov.uk/tourism_and_leisure-1/festivals_and_events/midsummer_watch.aspx) for a few months now. “Wanted… Angels, devils, fiery goblins, green men…to take part in Chester’s spectacular Midsummer Watch Parade.”

If you have it in you to be a green man, or a goblin, you know where to apply.

TRIP PLANNER

How to get there:

You will need a UK visa to go to Chester. The British high commission in India issues tourist visas (known as visit visas) within three working days for Rs5,500.
Fly from any large metro in India to London on British Airways or Jet Airways. Round trip economy fares range between Rs32,000 and Rs38,000. From London Euston, Chester is roughly three hours by train or road. Alternatively, fly into Manchester or Liverpool and take a cab to Chester, barely 40 minutes away.

Where to stay:

It is best to visit Chester as a day trip from London or stop over en route to Wales. Stay at the Broxton Hall, close to Chester as well as the Snowdonia National Park in North Wales. Broxton Hall is a Tudor property, spread over 5 acres. Rates start from £75 (around Rs6,220) for single rooms with breakfast, going up to £140 for suites. Alternatively, the Chester Grosvenor is located in the middle of town and has excellent reviews.

What to do:

In Chester, take the 1920s vintage open-top bus tour that comes with a driver and guide, fully-costumed in Victorian wardrobe. Or, walk around over the ancient walls encircling the town, stretching for just over 3km. There are city wall walks available for those interested in covering them completely; I just climbed up and walked on the walls, getting down to explore wherever the fancy took me.

The Chester Cathedral, which attracts more than a million visitors every year, is also a must-visit. Records show a church on that spot since the early 10th century (AD 907), though this cathedral with its stunning stained-glass windows was built sometime around 1092. Also worth visiting, is the Chester amphitheatre (capable of seating 7,000 spectators in its time), regarded as Britain’s finest and still the base for the Roman Changing of the Guard festival, which takes place once a month.

Everything about the town is quaint. Chester is, I am told, the only place where the world’s first—and perhaps, only—husband and wife Town Crier partnership still operates. David and Julie Mitchell carry out midday proclamations through summer (May to August) at the High Cross, where this tradition has been alive since the Middle Ages.

Chester also hosts an annual literature festival in October, highlighted by a book-swap: bring a book and take back another!

***
More photos from Chester and the parade here on flickr…