Saala Covid! Did a Pinjara Tor today. Visited the parlour & had a complete makeover. And does it feel good? You tell me – after 75 days of staying locked indoor.
The only way forward. Not being foolhardy of course but going by rules, taking care. The bastard likes a good fight. Give it to him. Once again………It feels good.
The salon itself was thoroughly & elaborately sanitized. By the hour, many times over. An elegant space. Unlike a hospital, it looked & felt beautiful. The hair stylist was delighted to have me return, as was I, surrounded by friendly, young, cheerful faces.
To look presentable is to be battle prepared – always. It’s half the battle won. So, on to tomorrow & tomorrow. And tomorrow.
We are in it together. For a long haul to boot. No mistake. So stay home, stay safe. Live to tell the tale. Today’s young will have something for their little ones. Spinning yarns. Of how a virus in far away Wuhan travelled from a bat to a human lung.
Like the many WhatsApp jokes – No Ming Ling. Who the hell is Social Distance Singh?- contagion literature of value too will emerge. Song, story & cinema, in an outpouring of creativity.
One thing’s certain. No one is coming through unscathed.
I am home bound & confined to a dull unused-to-routine that needs must be adhered to.
No way to live. But this is serious man. Seriously!
Household chores are interspersed with yoga – meditation. Also music & books to relieve & enliven.
Doing utensils by the sink I peer out at a clear blue sky. My window to the world outside. Something’s changed. Something’s changing.
On the 12th day of lockdown an unfamiliar cry rends the air. Like wheeling back in time to small town India, a vegetable vendor passes by. Delivering fresh veggies at the door step. At a fair price, what’s more.
We’ll get by, I think. No work. No pay but the poor are slowly finding ways. An auto rick pulls up another time. Passengers no more, the guy has decided to sell. Innovation? Tell me some more.
It’s been peacefully still & quiet. The cacophony you hear is birds. Loud & shrill. Dear, noisy, quarrelsome little creatures.
A sudden roar shatters the sky. Airport’s shut I thought. It’s a lone flight transporting someone somewhere. Stranded travellers perhaps.
A myriad feelings flit through the day. Of gratitude. And guilt. More of the latter. Keeping migrants in mind, specifically. Did they have to leave the way they did? To the imagined safety of faraway homes that just might be unwelcoming. Something would have worked out here. If only they had stayed.
There is a beggar at the gate. The first in years. Three children in tow, he actually rang the bell. What should I pass him through the bars? What should I say?
The train halted in the middle of the night. To my surprise it was Madurai. Not my destination. I got off nevertheless. On a whim, just like that & spent the next 48 hours frequenting ‘Meenakshi Amman’, overwhelmed by the architecture, beauty & ambience. Her memory undimmed all these years.
In Madurai once again, the city looked unchanged. On the face of it at least. More traffic & crowds but tight security. The queue at entry points long & serpentine, reaching the Sanctum Sanctorum takes anything from 2 – 3 hours. This on a normal day. A measure of the change in four decades. As beautiful & resplendent as ever, there were no to & fro trips this time. Just a ‘quick’ darshan of the Fish Eyed One, then off to Rameshwaram.
Driving by the clean & open countryside was a welcome change. Soothing palms, fronds & paddy fields that kept increasing closer to the sea. Rameshwaram too had changed – but slightly. It was larger, dustier and smelt old – as always. An ancient town, the Ramanathaswamy temple is at its heart. Another marvel of architecture, it would have been wonderful to capture the perfect symmetry & alignment of the sculptured pillars but photography is not allowed. Just as it is not in Meenakshi.
The town is said to have 62 water bodies/tanks/wells or teerthams as they are called. 22 within the temple complex itself – water being an essential of ritual.
Less than 5 kms away is another smaller temple, purported to have the footprints of Lord Ram. 25 steps up the ‘Rama Padam’ plus another 20 to the terrace & you have a perfect birds eye view of the town – the Ramanathaswamy towering in the distance.
I asked a wandering sadhu about the footprints. I thought them too small. He laughed, calling it artistic imagination. License. But seriously …… Coming from a sadhu? “If this is how He is remembered so be it. ‘Ram ka naam‘ kept alive, whatever the way. It hardly matters”
25 kms away lies Dhanushkodi, a fishing village that the Tsunami all but wiped out. Marked by a pillar with an Ashoka emblem, it is Lands End. Beyond the Gulf of Mannar lies Sri Lanka, 8 kms as the crow flies. And connecting the two is what used to be Adams Bridge. Today’s Ram Setu, visible from land & air. A narrow sandbar, Dhanushkodi has sea on either side, the waters of the Indian Ocean & Bay of Bengal mingling here. There is an old church that survived the tsunami, a post office & a police post. The one hour trip costs Rs 1500 by taxi & Rs 60 by bus – buses available every half hour. The parking is about 500 metres short, one has to walk up to Lands End.
It was lovely at last to find a clean, un-littered beach & stray cattle that did not feed on plastic. I actually saw a cow searching for edibles inside a polythene bag. And junking it thereafter. The result of properly feeding animals I suppose – a common practice in these parts.
Ex President Kalams’ house-turned-memorial is a prominent landmark. Rameshwaram remember, is where he was born & brought up. The common mans’ perception of him therefore, telling & revealing. Said without any pride but great regret & repeated over & over again was the lament that the President had done no one, including himself any favours. “He did nothing for his family. Could have given them good jobs at least…….”
Locate Karaikudi (district Thanjavur) on a Tamil Nadu map. It is the area around it. 72 villages, Karaikkudi & Puddukottai being the large towns.
First impressions count. Driving in, the countryside is lush green & prosperous. This being the rice bowl that produces lentils too. It is the aesthetics however which catch the eye. Most homes have brick tiled roofs & hand made ceramics – pottery of exquisite shape & design are still in use.
Karaikudi’s antique market at Muneeswaran Kovil has 17 shops stocked with a variety of interesting bric-a-brac. Cultural & household items of everyday use from down the ages. One needn’t buy anything. One is not expected to either. Just scour around, happily enjoying it all.
The region is known for its cotton handlooms as much as its cuisine. The ‘Kaandaangi’ sari especially. A checked weave in earthy colours, the border & pallu with traditional design.
More than anything else it is the food – the spicy/tangy, lip smacking cuisine popular all over India. I had the most delectable chicken kurma – ragi roti combo. It was out of the world. Also because the chicken was not a broiler.
Most people visit to see heritage architecture. A mercantile & trading community, the Chettiars earned large sums & built themselves stately mansions, furnished with the best from around the world. Unlike palaces elsewhere built with public funds, these were built with their own hard earned money.
Kanadukathan, a picturesque village on the outskirts of Karaikkudi, has ‘Annamall’ a Chettinad palace that you can admire from the outside. There are others one can enter paying a small fee. ‘Aayiram Jannal Veedu,’ the house with a thousand windows. Or ‘Periya Veedu’ on a one acre plot. It has a hundred rooms.
Village Athangudi had several. Also a factory making hand made tiles with local material – cement, sand & glass.
Built on several acres, nobody today lives in these mansions. They are empty palaces showcasing opulence of a rare kind: Belgian glass chandeliers, Carara marble, ivory & teak from Burma, Japanese & Portuguese tiles.
Not only are the Chettiars ultra rich, they are also great philanthropists. It was therefore heart breaking to find a wretchedly poor family where a twelve year old has had to drop out of school in order to look after a bed ridden mother. Her 15 year old sister – the sole bread earner.
I came seeking ‘Our Lady of Good Health’ blessings, curious about the Basilica too.
A pilgrim town of repute, Velankanni has 5 other churches, a temple & a dargah. It is 162 kms, a 3.30 hour drive from Pondicherry. Down the coast, past several historic towns – Cuddalore, Parangipettai, Chidambaram, Poompuhar, Tranquebar –
The place itself is dusty & unremarkable. The beach lovely but – you guessed it – littered. The same old story. The dust & heat kept one indoors throughout the day. Lucky therefore to have found a nice place to stay. The big plus being the leisure of food, rest, sleep & time to enjoy & finish a good read – Taran Khan’s travelogue on Afghanistan.
One ventured out in the cool of the evening but there still was no place to go. Wandering around I chanced upon a village, a panchayat block rather, with thatched huts, clean, paved roads & a river running by. Making for a pretty picture & one-to-one interaction. Language no bar, for in the end, people are people. I was invited into their homes with shy smiles & ‘vanakams’
Velankanni is nicely located for a quick dash across to Tanjore & Trichy. Enroute, Vadalur lake had water to the brim & was host to a variety of migratory birds. Tanjore is an absolute must. The grand & impressive Brihadeeswara fort temple is early 11 century, Chola. It has little Nandis atop ramparts and murals on the outer corridors.
I thought the 7 tiered bell tower, topped with a clock, impressive too. This, at the Tanjore palace.
Trichy, next door, also has its ‘must sees’. There is the famous church of course. As well as the Rock Fort Ganesha temple. And the Kaveri – with its old & British era culverts – flowing quietly by.
I did not quite know what to make of Velankanni & the church signifying it. To put into words all that it conveys. Feelings of hope, faith & love. There certainly is an aura about the pearl like Basilica with beautiful stained glass & blue Crosses, visible from every part of town. It is the paraphernalia surrounding it that surprises & enthralls. Visited by people of all faiths, from all over it is a veritable conundrum of custom, belief & ritual. A church going westerner would be utterly flabbergasted.
One walks through milling crowds, past shops selling candles & flowers & everything else. Barbers also, for a sacrificial mundan/tonsure, should you want one. A deadly inter-religious mix that leaves one bewildered.
I visited around Pongal, a Harvest festival common to all. There were crowds in their festive best & a cauldron of Pongal cooking at the doorstep. Decorative Kolams adorned the churchyard where Prasadam was being distributed. Traditional breaking of coconuts, vermilion tilaks & a provision for special Darshan too. What looked like absolute chaos could well be a case of Hindu ethos over shadowing Christian belief or as I’d prefer to think – Indian secularism at its living best.
Strangest of all was the sight of a man blowing out candles the faithful had lit. Un-heeding to our protests & pleas. Making space for more candles perhaps. But that is hardly the way.
On everyone’s bucket list, Pondicherry retains a colonial flavour. ‘White Town’ in particular. Despite being cheek by jowl with a sprawling metropolis that is everything Indian, ‘White Town’ stands out, like a slice of France. Therein lies its quaintness.
It is a few Sq Kms of heritage with streets parallel to the promenade & the sea. It has wide tree lined boulevards, French colonial architecture, cafes, bars & boutiques. French street names too, honouring a historic Franco-India connect. Most of its residents have dual citizenship & income from homes converted to ‘home stays’.
A quick & easy getaway, Auroville is at a distance of 16 kms. With about 40,000 people & 40 villages in the larger bio regional area, it was conceived as a utopia. An experiment in international living, health initiatives & eco systems that has succeeded in greening & reviving a traditionally parched & arid land.
Pondicherry Tourism must reconsider Arikamedu & Ranga Pillai mansion on its list of ‘sights’. A 30 minute drive, Arikamedu is a Roman era archeological site with nothing on offer. Exhibits & finds all housed in the local museum, the only structure left standing is a ruin – 17 century French.
Ranga Pillay mansion is difficult to locate. Opposite the vegetable market, locals appear never to have heard of it. A 300 year home, 8 rooms on the ground floor have Tamil features while the top 8 are architecturally French. The present occupants are 10th generation descendants of Mr Ranga Pillay, official translator to Governor Dupleix. A man of wealth & renown, a widely traveled linguist, he is said to have kept an open house. Even today entry is free & visitors welcome. A heritage home that has stone floors & Burma teak interiors, it has quite obviously seen better days. Of interest now to students of architecture alone.
Closed to vehicular traffic between 4 pm – 8 am, the Promenade is the heart, soul & lung of Pondicherry. A 2-3 km stretch, it is a bustling place with Governor Dupleix standing guard at one end & the Mahatma the other. In between lie upmarket hotels, cafes, restaurants & a WW1 memorial that commemorates Bastille & Armistice Day. A live band performs every Saturday evening. Bringing weekend cheer & nobody in a hurry to rush back home. The morning has crowds of another kind – sunrise gazers, joggers, fishing trawlers & honeymooners, photo shooting in the most hilarious of poses.
Pondicherry to me will always be its raucous crows. Those cheeky rascals finding a perch on your head to swoop down for a peck below.
That and the waves crashing endlessly against the shore.
It had rained the night before. The morning crisp & cool with a day long drizzle that was more than welcome. (The sun harsh in these parts, even in winter.)
It is a two hour drive from Mahabalipuram. Via Chengalpattu – the countryside fresh, clean & beautiful.
An ancient town, Kanchi is known for its thousand temples, Ekambareswarar holding pride of place. Also called Shiv Kanchi, the 1500 year old temple is built around a 3000 year old mango tree under which Shiva – Parvati got married. So goes the legend. Green & tender, with several little shoots & off shoots it is obviously a case of expert grafting.
On 25 acres, the sandstone & granite structure is a stunning piece of architecture. It has the tallest gopuram (gateway/60 metres) & fascinating ‘mandapams’. The pillared corridors house 1008 lingams. With garlands & ‘tilaks’ each neatly in a row. It would be interesting to do a physical count. Not that there is any dispute or doubt.
There are temples. And temples. Each unique on its own – in South India especially. Not a temple goer, it is the architecture, more than ritual, that attracts. To find a quiet corner, to sit down & absorb. Then get up & get going, feeling completely re-energised & recharged. That’s what temple going is about.
The town is famous for Kanjeevarams. Saris every bride dreams of. It’s thriving silk weaving industry incorporates temple designs in silken weaves. The mango & tree not forgotten. Paisley motifs in subtle designs woven along the border or on the ‘pallu’. The weavers humble tribute to his antecedents – town, temple & tradition. He believes himself to be a descendant of the celestial weaver Sage Markanda who weaved silk & cotton garments for the Gods. What he earns is another matter, a question largely unanswered.
Kanchi by itself does not impress. The town has vestiges of old homes, few & far between but attractive still. Of brick, stone & wood these are low built & have tiled, sloping roofs. Keeping in mind the tropical climate which can be described as being hot – hotter – hottest. Wood being a poor conductor it’s use here most striking. Which leaves one shuddering at the modern day monstrosities. Heritage forgotten. Tradition out for a toss.
One man alone knows its worth & has endeavoured to preserve something before all is lost. A cardiologist from Apollo, Chennai. No one lives in ‘Kanchi Kadai’ but it has a caretaker welcoming anyone who cares. For a fee of course. Rs 10 only.
Mahabalipuram was swarming with kindred souls. The indefatigable old & ageing from around the world, fleeing the winter chill to spend time where their pensions could afford. Some here for 3-6 months. Living carefree. Eating, drinking, sleeping. Doing their own thing. Connecting with strangers in the many cafes about town. Several, returning year after year. Some married to locals – fishermen mostly – financially empowering & settling them in vocations of their choice.
Germans – erudite ones – outnumbered all. A 75+ lady who took pride in her ability to speak the worlds oldest language. A 70 something Croatian, a wanderer who spoke 9 international languages but insisted upon conversing only in Hindi. Frequent visitors all.
The streets are full of trendy tailors, art studios (one boasting a herb garden) & multi cuisine restaurants. There is the ubiquitous ‘German Bakery,’ that is to be found everywhere. Also ‘Nautilus’ for authentic French, ‘The Sea Rock’ – sea food on the beach, ‘Mamalla Heritage’ – local vegetarian & ‘Ice & Spice’ for everything nice.
Not being a morning person, getting up early wasn’t easy but it had to be done. At least once. This being the East coast. The sun rising on the horizon, its first rays over the Bay of Bengal, touching the pinnacles of the Shore temples & giving the sky a luminous glow. It had to be seen – experienced.
It did not disappoint. What did was the crowded, strewn & littered beach. What kind of thinking makes people do this? The same, repeated everywhere down the coast. From Cuddalore to Poompuhar & Velankanni. Sandy beaches buried in litter.
Despite the downside Mahabalipuram exuded charm. It was the season around Pongal when the outdoor dance festival is on. Within the temple complex each evening – Folk, Kuchipudi & Bharatnatyam ( entry free). The ticket to the Heritage Site is otherwise Rs 40 – valid for the day. A 6 Sq Km area it has 2 exquisite Shore temples ( 8th century, sandstone, Pallavas) and Rock sculptures (bas relief).
Researching Tamil Nadu, ‘Quora’ was an important source for sundry tit bits of information. What rattled most was the kind of questions it posed. Yes, there is pride in everything Tamil. Rightly so. But nothing to suggest a desire to break away, as ‘Quora’ would like us to think. More intriguing I thought was the Cine Star – Politician connect. Also, why Tamil politicians wear dark glasses – 24×7?
Coromondal. The word opens a thousand and one vistas, conjuring images of unheard places where the ‘firangi’ first landed. In search of fame & fortune – it wasn’t only the British, French, Portuguese or Dutch as one believed but the Danes & Swedes as well. There actually was a Danish & a Swedish East India Company. But, winner takes it all. The British stayed.
The silver beaches of Mahabalipuram, Auroville,Pondicherry. Velankanni, a place of undying hope & faith. Chettinadutoo – Not strictly Coromondal but close enough, as was Tanjore, Trichy, Madurai & Rameshwaram. Each with a narrative of its own. And since it was the Delhi winter one was evading there could be no half measures. A full month’s sojourn, no less.
I took the ECR (East Coast Road) that runs from Chennai to Kanyakumari, doing the Mahabalipuram stretch in 90 minutes. The distance is 57 kms but exiting Chennai takes a while. A fairly decent highway, it would have been more scenic if it was closer to the coast. Except for a mile or so near Pondicherry, it is almost 10-15 kms in the interior. Without exciting ocean views either.
Pondicherry to Velankanni – 162 kms/3.30 hrs – made interesting by stoppages, at fortunately still surviving relics of history: The ruins of Fort St David Cuddalore, Parangipettai (Portuguese) & the well documented Danish fort – museum at Tranquebar.
An otherwise nondescript town, Chidambaram, that boasts the one & only Nataraja temple, definitely merited a halt. It was luckily along the way & I was able to get there before it closed for ‘darshan’ (between 12 noon & 4.30pm).
Slightly off track, Poompuhar is the coastal town – short of Nagapattinam – that lends its name to the many Tamil Nadu State Emporiums across the country. Famous for its sculptures, arts & crafts it is also known as Kaveripattam – the spot where the Kaveri enters the sea. There is a lighthouse, museum, temple & a shamefully littered beach.
An easy ride overall, the ECR transports from dull to scenic, rural to urban, ugly urban often taking over to become a traffic crawl.
Forays into the interior, Kanchi – Tanjore – Trichy – Karaikudi – Madurai, not only helped break tedium but provided invaluable insights. It was mid January, around Pongal. After eight prolonged years of drought the countryside was once again green & alive. The general landscape – low, dark, distant hills with palm trees dotting fields of sugarcane & paddy. The fields stretched in shades of brown – yellow – green, village ponds & water bodies nestling migratory birds. Markets too were plentiful – sugarcane, turmeric, rice, bananas etc
It got tawny & dry further south. Nothing to write home about, can’t imagine what the Karaikudi – Madurai stretch would be like in summer. Madurai to Rameshwaram eases out once again. Nearer the sea especially where it is all palms, fronds, backwaters, paddy & sea.
There was poverty too. A harsh reality. Mud huts & thatched roofs which I thought a thing of the past. The only difference being a motorbike at the door. Or a dish antenna on the roof.
The long skirt – half sari, special to this region is not to be seen any more. It has all but disappeared from Kerala & Karnataka. In Tamil Nadu also most appear to have switched to ‘Punjabi,’ the traditional visible in old photographs inside antique shops only. The other surprise was the near absence of ‘filter’ coffee in outlets along the highway. Hope it is not on the way out too. That would be a tragedy. Food, thankfully remains the one constant. The ‘Adyars’ & ‘Saravanas’, great levelers, serving affordable, authentic meals in an egalitarian setting.
Tamil Nadu has its own version of the national 3 language policy where Hindi is ‘not’ taught at all. Before anyone begins to howl, kindly remember the formula in the original & you will know who back tracked first. If it’s any consolation, the anti Hindi wall is somewhat breached, with words such as – ‘accha, na, haan, thik hai, kyon’ in common circulation.
A roller coaster that was far from easy, the one big takeaway was the joy of knowing it was (in many ways) a perfect ‘solo’. Meaning that I made friends & found companions along the way. Fellow travelers I could hang out with when I pleased. Who left me to my own devices otherwise. Respect for time & space being, as always, a true base for relationships.
Some pertinent questions at the end. Based on general observation. No offence meant. Even if I sound like a rank outsider.
Helsinki was the first port of call. Also the last. I would be in & out thrice. This the first leg 48 hours only. Three pm already, time was therefore of the essence.
Despite a baggage allowance of 23 & carry on of 8, both bags accompanied me inside. The total weight – less than 8 kg. A feat I am immensely proud of & willing to expand upon – one to one. Marvel at it meanwhile & wonder. Consider time saved also.
Out of the terminal, I am soon heading towards town & getting there in less than 30 minutes.
(The Finnair shuttle operates every half hour from outside Terminal 2 – platform 51, Euro 6.90 cash/card – dropping one off at Helsinki Central Station, a distance of 19 kms. On the return it plies from platform 30, Elliel Square, Central station).
With free Wifi onboard, quick “Landed. All well” calls were made. Could anything be simpler, more gratifying?
The other option is Bus 615 or train – Line I or P. All go to Central Station – the hub of Helsinki life.
The hotel was a 10 minute walk. Bags deposited, I am off to the Esplanadi & Market Square to catch a ferry to Suomenlinna. Everything is within walking distance. Helsinki, with wide open green spaces is made for walking.
Suomenlinna island can only be accessed by ferry- 15 minutes. It has an 18th century fortress & is a UNESCO heritage site. A place to spend quiet time, picnic or wander. I went across (euro 2.80) then quickly grabbed a coffee. That’s another thing. People are constantly grabbing either a coffee, beer or ice cream.
The summer solstice has emptied the city with shops either closed or closing but the island has crowds of holidaymakers & the mood is festive. Young boys & girls sport floral tiaras. They will go berry picking, as is the local custom. Mid summer night, remember?
I have been up for what seems like forever without any sign of fatigue or tiredness. A feeling of exhilaration only. Such being the magic of the midnight sun.
The next day is officially the longest & begins with a leisurely stroll to Kamppi, past the art work depicting 3 naked men at Stockmans, coffee – cake at Regatta, down to the White church, turning towards the harbour & the statue of Havis Amanda where Christina, the guide will meet.
Havis Amanda is symbolic of Helsinki rising from the sea. Sculptured by Ville Vallgren an early 20th century French artist, lady councillors had taken umbrage at her depiction in the nude but quite sensibly decided to let it be. So here was the beautiful Amanda sharing space with four lusty sea lions.
These ‘free’ walking tours – is anything in life ever free? – conducted by locals are a wonderful introduction to the city. An orientation & peep into the life & culture of the place.
Twenty two year old Christina is a student of law with an interest in art, history & culture. She walks us through, discoursing on the neo classical buildings – archtecture. The palace, green dome cathedral, university, senate square etc etc.
I had hoped to squeeze in Seurasaari, the island that has historic Finnish houses but it is not to be. While Turku is a must.
Finland’s oldest & third largest city, Turku was the capital until 1812. It has the pigduck (Posankka) as mascot & the finest Finnish street food: Hesburghers, Karelian pastries & ‘makkara’ – grilled pork sausages.
The Inter city express linking it to Helsinki (euro 34 return) takes less than 2 hours. (Keep in mind the fact that the last train out is at 9.30 pm. Turku after that is a ghost track).
A straight road leads to the river front – less than 15 minutes – where all the major sights are located. A 1.5 km stretch along the Aura with cathedral & castle (13th century) at either end. It is a beautiful traffic free avenue – cycles & segway permitted. Children play along grassy banks while old couples walk hand in hand.
The town has both character & charm & is full of cafes, ice cream corners, quaint art décor, bookshops, Romeo & Juliette balconies & decorative doors. At Ratikka the market square you may get lucky & glimpse the only remaining tram carriage.
Helsinki to Rovaniemi, Lapland is 45 minutes by air. There is an airport shuttle after every Finnair flight (euro 7/kms 9). It dropped me right outside my hotel.
Surrounded by 4 bridges/at the confluence of two rivers, Rovaniemi is a small compact town with everything within easy reach. Europe’s oldest inhabitants, the Sami are purported to live here, though I didn’t see signs of any. They are perhaps so fully integrated as to be indistinguishable from the rest. The town at first gives the impression of the wild west. With names like Hemingway’s Bar, Navy Rum, Roy’s Club etc. its streets & squares were cold, windswept & deserted. It’s the summer solstice again. I enjoyed walking around though & watched a young boy segway in circles, wondering if I should try the reindeer meat – ball dish at all.
Elena, is to pick me up at 11.30 for a midnight sun picnic on Santavaara hill. It was to be a small group but turned out to be just us, Elena & me. Nice of ‘Viator’ to have gone ahead & not cancelled it altogether. The longest day was not yet over & this was especially close to my heart.
Elena was terrific company. We drove some 10 kms out of town, into forests of Birch & Pine with a short 900 metre hike up the hill. Everything above, beneath & around was white & still. In the distance ran a white streak – the river, soundless too. Man & beast have lived & interacted in such close proximity down the ages that the animal at least is shy & wary. He keeps a safe distance.
We carried wood & flint – lit a fire while Elena took out an array of German sausages. Chatting about our lives – woman to woman – dinner was barbeque, salad & coffee. (scent free Birch cones, unlike Pine are ideal for bbq. So I learnt)
We waited past midnight but the sun refused to emerge from behind the clouds. A perfect white night still. One I am unlikely to ever forget.
That Lapland was home to Santa was known. Not so the humongous industry around him. There is a Santa village & a Santa Express – 10 kms/euro 7 -connecting it to town. He has an official address, an office, work hours & Elves to do his bidding. Also a post office handling mail from around the world – over 20 million at the last count. There were parcels, gifts, X’mas decorations & a reindeer sledge that could be hired for a fee. Also a long long queue to meet him. I fall in line too, if only for the fun of it.
Dressed in traditional attire SC is rosy cheeked & chubby & has a twinkle in the eye. “From India of course,” says he. “ are you from Hyderabad? See what I havehere” (pointing to the Ganesha upon the shelf.) “We are never too old to live our dreams…….I believe in fairy tales & happy endings.”
I could not /did not take a photograph. An elf had done that already along with a video clip. Would I like a copy? Would I? Not if its euro 40 and 60. Hey Santa, that is a rip off. Dreams die first.
Instead, I walked up to latitude 66*32* N – distinctly marked on the ground – and had a picture taken (euro 4.50). Certificate in hand, to prove that I had indeed crossed the Arctic Circle.
White nights aside Finland is a winter wonderland. Home to the sauna. Design capital of the world. Have a look around ……
The people? Introvert, friendly. Also romantic, in an unstated tender kind of way. The happiest in the world, according to a 2019 survey. The secret, minimalism once again. It’s ‘no frills,’ with a deeply ingrained respect of silence & space. Conquered & ruled by outsiders for much of its history, the yearning for peace is paramount. To the extent that it ceded Karelia to the Russians. Anything for peace.