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Traveling Tales

Travel articles and information

Margaret Deefholts

Remembrance of Things Past: Route 66

by Margaret Deefholts

La Posada hotel in Winslow, ArizonaFor the last few days, I have been following a trail blazed by Northern Arizona’s pioneers and settlers, and as my journey draws to a close, I hit a road that is more than just a small diversion into Arizona’s past. It is a portion of America’s fabled Route 66.

“The Route” has woven through America’s consciousness in books, in film and in song: it was the road traveled by hobos, hitch-hikers and drifters during the Dust Bowl years of the Great Depression and Beat Generation writer Jack Kerouac celebrated it in his best known work, On The Road.

Steinbeck called it “the mother road” in Grapes of Wrath, and folk musician, Woody Guthrie immortalized it in his ditty, Highway 66 Blues. Today’s slick Interstate highways although efficient, lack the nostalgia evoked by this legendary 2448 mile long “Main Street of America”.

Small wonder that, even living half a world away in India, Route 66 was the stuff of my teenage imagination, and now here it is…an unpretentious little stretch of road flanked by motels, strip malls and gas stations, as it runs through the downtown area of Winslow. But to me it is special.

La Posada courtyardIt’s dusk, and I pull off onto the shoulder of the road, and capture a shot of the Route with the San Francisco Peaks of Flagstaff glimmering palely on the distant western horizon, and warble, “Get your kicks on Roohoot Sixty-Six…” as I get back behind the driving wheel.

A little later that evening, I am tempted to hum the lyrics of Johnny Mercer’s hit, “The Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe” a-la Judy Garland in the movie, The Harvey Girls. In the film, Judy was one of a select band of specially trained waitress, in one of the Harvey Houses, a chain established by Frank Harvey back in the 1930s. The Harvey Girls served hot meals to passengers at stations all along the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe route, and became icons of pop culture of those times.

La Posada, to my delight, is a relic of that bygone era. It is a historic Harvey House, originally designed by Mary Elizabeth Jane Coulter as a flamboyant Spanish hacienda–the kind that might well have been the residence of a Hispanic nobleman or a timber baron.

Today its main entrance is off Route 66, but its original front door once faced ATSF railroad station, affording disembarking passengers a view of a sprawling colonial style building, with arched arcades, flowering bushes and shady lawns.

La Posada opened just after the stock market crash of 1929, and endured for 27 years. But dwindling rail traffic led to its inevitable closure in 1959. The years rolled on and eventually the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad announced plans to move out and demolish the building in 1994.

Jaqueline Kennedy: Stop Action Reaction” by Tina Mion.Enter Allan Affeldt, an art connoisseur and business entrepreneur who was determined to preserve La Posada as a tribute to the men and women whose dreams and toil shaped its history, its architecture and its memories. He acquired the property in 1997 with the intention of restoring it to its former magnificence.

As I make my way to my room, I notice that the doors along the corridor, carry the names of celebrities who have stayed at La Posada–Amelia Earhart, Howard Hughes and Shirley Temple, to mention a few. As for me?

I’m about to bed down with the ghost of a crusty U.S. Senator. I’m in Barry Goldwater’s suite, and a very fine room it is too, with its antique furniture and colourful Mexican wall hangings. I luxuriate in the Jacuzzi, after which I snuggle under the covers in Barry’s king-sized bed.

La Posada is more than a hotel. It is also a fine arts museum and I spend several hours exploring Affeldt’s superb collection of objets d’art—antique furniture, stained glass panels, gilt lamps, rare wood carvings, an exquisite New Mexican tin-work Madonna, and a gallery of unusually arresting paintings.

These consist of a series of portraits of former presidents and their consorts, and my curiosity is piqued by an odd little whimsy: each picture includes a different playing card, inserted into its composition.

Bill Clinton’s card is the seven of diamonds, and he appears as a rabbit being pulled out of a hat—a wry commentary on his magical ability to extricate himself from dubious situations! Hilary’s card rests in a fishbowl and she, too, is a seven of diamonds.

Jacqueline Kennedy wears the pink outfit she wore on that fateful day in Dallas, and holds in her gloved hand, the King of Hearts, i.e. Jack Kennedy, his card splintered by a speeding bullet.

The irises of Nancy Reagan’s eyes consist of tiny pictures of her husband, and it is romantically titled “Eyes Only For You”. Lyndon Johnson carries the four of spades on his Stetson hat, and Ulysses Grant flaunts the seven of clubs.

The artist is Affeldt’s wife, Tina Mion, and she smiles when I ask her about the portraits. It turns out that they are the result of a scheme whereby several artists decided to create a painting a week for a year.

So…fifty-two weeks, fifty-two playing cards in a deck, fifty-two First Ladies or Presidents, voila—fifty-two potential paintings in the series, “Ladies First” and “Presidential Portraits.”

As the evening shadows grow long across the lawns of La Posada on my last evening in Arizona, I sit on a wooden rocker on their verandah, Margarita in hand, and listen to the long whistle of a freight train as it clatters past.

There is no more nostalgic sound than this, and it evokes a lost world of leisurely travel, of prim young Harvey Girls with their black dresses and white aprons, of Model T-Fords, of John Wayne and Clark Gable.

And perhaps even a crusty old Senator.

About the author:

Margaret Deefholts is a Canadian author, and much travelled freelance travel writer/photgrapher. Visit her website at www.margaretdeefholts.com

Photos by Margaret Deefholts:
1: A close up view of the La Posada Hotel.
2: A small visitor strolls along the arched walkway.
3: Jaqueline Kennedy, one of the many paintings lining the walls. Note: “Jaqueline Kennedy: Stop Action Reaction” by Tina Mion. “Ladies First” collection-all artwork copyright of Tina Mion.
4: “Standin’ on the Corner” monument on a Winslow, Arizona street corner is homage to the Eagles’ song “Take it Easy.”

Getting There:

Air Canada, United Airlines and America West operate daily direct flights between Vancouver and Phoenix. Alaska Airlines/ Horizon Air offer daily flights via Seattle or Portland. Schedules and fare information is available on airline websites.

Arizona Outback Adventures, a company that prides itself on providing private and/or customized trips through Arizona, is based in Scottsdale. View their website at: www.aoa-adventures.com Or phone (toll free): 1-866-455-1601; e-mail: info@aoa-adventures.com

Best Time To Visit:
April to September
Northern and Central Arizona has temperate summers, and chilly winters with snow at higher elevations. Average maximum temperatures from April to September range from the high 70s to the low 80s which makes for comfortable sightseeing. Rainfall is minimal.

Places of Interest:
Even if you don’t choose to stay there, La Posada is well worth visiting for its collection of unusual objets d’art and paintings. If you are willing to pay a premium for dining in Spanish grandee style, the Turquoise Room offers a varied selection of items on its menu.

Contact information is as follows.
La Posada
303 E. Second Street (Route 66)
Winslow, AZ 86047
Ph: (928) 289-4366
e-mail: info@laposada.org info@laposada.org
Website: www.laposada.org
Contact: Allan Affeldt

Bedding Down With The Bedouins

by Margaret Deefholts

He has piercing grey eyes, a strong hawk-nosed profile and a trim beard.

Dressed in dishdashah robes, and wearing a traditional chequered head scarf, (shumag), banded in place with a coiled ogal, he sits astride an Arab stallion, looking for all the world like a bit-actor in Hollywood’s Lawrence of Arabia.

The mountain that is T.E. Lawrence’s inspiration for the title of his Seven Pillars of Wisdom serves as a perfect backdrop.

safari to wadi rum jordanI’m at the Wadi Rum Visitors’ Centre in Jordan, and the horseman, oblivious to my goggling, is chatting to our bus driver.

A small group of us are about to board three jeeps each driven by Bedouins, (the only ones qualified to navigate the trackless desert), and take off in a convoy through the Wadi Rum which Lawrence once described as “vast, echoing and God-like”.

I’d imagined the desert as a swell of sand dunes stretching endlessly to a distant horizon, but the Wadi Rum is a wilderness of a different sort.

Stunted bushes pock-mark the sandy soil, and gigantic monolithic crags rear up against the sky, their surfaces worn by time and weather into fantastical shapes. Some appear crumbly as insect-bored wood; others are wind-sculpted into clenched fists, or crenellated bastions.

The colours shift from dun to ochre, and in the distance, the rocks fade to a pale grey. The sun brazens down from a metallic sky, and the sand shimmers in the heat haze.

Following the advice of our guide, Ibrahim, the group disperses, each of us seeking to experience this immense wilderness in solitude. I toil up a slope, my feet sinking into the sand, and when I get to the top my fellow travellers are black specks crawling across the tan landscape.

There is nothing but the lonely grandeur of the desert—its breath the wind that whines in my ears, and brushes warm against my skin. Sand flies dart around me, and a little way off, the bleached skull of some small animal lies half buried in the sand.

The interlude ends all too soon, and the convoy takes off again on a roller-coaster ride over the humped dunes.

Burdah rock bridgeAt our next stop we tumble out of the jeeps to squint against the sun at the oft-photographed Burdah rock bridge arching 35 metres above us. My companions waste little time clambering up the steep, rocky pathway to walk along the bridge while waving and posing jubilantly for my camera.

Our final stop in the Wadi Rum is at dusk, when the cool evening wind spins the sand into miniature dust-devils.

As the sun sinks to the horizon, the sandstone rocks around us are softened into pale mauve, and the desert is transformed into an enchanted fantasy world. The light is bronze, and the distant ranges become navy blue silhouettes against the enormous blood-orange orb now fast sliding out of sight. To my right a wild camel and its baby stand motionless against a rising full moon.

Bedouin camp tents in the Wadi Rum, JordanBy the time we arrive at our Bedouin camp where we are to spend the night, the sky is a thicket of stars.

Brown canvas tents are arranged in a V with a heavy cloth curtain at each room’s entrance. My candle-lit room, with its double bed is partitioned from my neighbours’ tents by large hanging rugs. At the far side of the camp a row of flush toilets and shower stalls are an unexpected luxury.

Our Bedouin hosts welcome us with glasses of sweet tea followed later by dinner served under the desert sky. We nibble on hummus, baba ghanouj, khubez (roti) as appetizers and a main course Bedouin speciality, Mansaf —tender lamb seasoned with herbs and yoghurt.

A tin-foil moon rises high above our encampment, and we circle a leaping bonfire, dancing to the rhythm of a tabla (drum) and lute. When the flames sink into ashes, some of us, like our Bedouin hosts, sleep on bedding set out on benches in the open.

I wake early, a pale dawn gleaming through my tent curtain. In the breakfast buffet tent, a drop-dead handsome Bedouin pours me a cup of strong coffee. “Did you sleep well?” he asks, flashing a gently flirtatious, dimpled smile. I nod, wishing, not for the first time, that I was forty years younger…

But then, of course, I may never have left!

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About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Margaret Deefholts, an author and freelance travel writer who lives in Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver B.C. Learn more about Margaret at her website www.margaretdeefholts-journeys.com

About the photos:
1: Exploring the vast Wadi Rum desert. Margaret Deefholts photo.
2: Burdah rock bridge. Margaret Deefholts photo.
3: Bedouin camp tents in the Wadi Rum. Margaret Deefholts photo.

For further information visit www.seejordan.org/

India: Kaziranga’s Wild Kingdom

by Margaret Deefholts

From where I sit perched on my elephant howdah, the Kaziranga National Park is a stretch of wild grassland fringed by marshland and thick jungle. The mahout nudges me gently and points.

One-horned rhino in Kaziranga National ParkFifty feet away, small ears flicking, and horns pertly upturned like inverted commas, two one-horned rhinos stand face to face as if in conversation. One of them turns its head and peers short-sightedly at us through little piggy eyes.

I freeze and so does our elephant. Rhinos are notoriously unpredictable and have been known to charge with amazing speed despite their tank-like size.

But perhaps camera-toting tourists have become a ho-hum sight these days, or the wind has changed direction. Either way, the rhinos lose interest in us and lumber off in the direction of a muddy watercourse.

Located in Assam, in the north-east corner of India, the 430-acre Kaziranga Park is a rare success story in the annals of animal conservation.

Other than the Chitwan Reserve in Nepal, Kaziranga (declared a national park in 1974) is the only place in the world where one-horned rhinos (Rhinoceros Unicornis) are still in existence.

Although they remain an endangered species, they were on the verge of extinction thirty years ago having dwindled down to less than 200 animals in both India and Nepal.

Today, the rhino population in Kaziranga hovers around the 1700 mark. Even so the battle against poachers is far from over. Rhino horn—actually a spike of hardened hair—is reputedly an aphrodisiac and, as a powder it sells for about $40,000 per kilo.

The dawn is misty until an enormous, blood-orange sun emerges suddenly over the horizon. A swamp deer with curving antlers leaps across a field and for an instant is silhouetted against the sun like a black cardboard cut-out.

Kaziranga National Park elephantThe breeze carries the tang of marshland, and as we emerge from a thicket of twelve-feet high spiny grass, we catch sight of a herd of wild elephants about a hundred yards away wallowing in the mud. A mother playfully squirts her baby with a stream of water. Engrossed in their morning toilet, they ignore us.

Not so a family of wild buffalo. They have a calf in their midst and the male lowers his head and tosses his horns. Our elephant hastily backs away.

An estimated 53 tigers also prowl through Kaziranga, but are tough to spot as they blend in with the tall, tawny grassland. The mahout shakes his head when I ask him about the possibility of a sighting. “Not here,” he says emphatically. “The jungle grows very quiet when a tiger is around.”

The morning is anything but silent: a cloud of chittering mynah-birds swerve and scatter overhead and the whoop of a langour monkey floats across to us from beyond a fringe of trees.

Later that day Palesh, a young man with an encyclopaedic knowledge of Kaziranga’s bird population, takes me on an open-roof jeep along rutted jungle paths. “Stop! Stop!” he commands the driver at intervals, and points out the flash of a small blue kingfisher, a pompous-looking spotted owlet and shoals of partridge.

An egret rides on the back of a rhino, and nesting lesser adjutant storks regard us with hauteur. Kaziranga boasts approximately 480 species of birds, some of which are migratory, and in a ninety-minute drive we spot at least 40 varieties—crow pheasant, red-breasted parakeets, a racquet-tailed drongo and a Pallas fishing eagle, to name just a few.

Back at the Wild Grass Resort I sit in the garden by the swimming pool. As dusk falls crickets shrill in the hibiscus bushes and an Indian Koel bird sends its plaintive cry across the lawns—a harbinger of summer.

The sunset sky is streaked orange and purple. Tomorrow I will be back amid the seething crowds of Mumbai—but will carry with me memories of emerald parrots, petal-eared rhinos and the eerie yowl of jackals under the full moon.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Margaret Deefholts, an author and freelance travel writer who lives in Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver B.C. Learn more about Margaret at her website www.margaretdeefholts-journeys.com

Photos by Margaret Deefholts:
1: Curious one-horned rhino
2: Welcome Salute by Tusker
3: Wild Grass Resort

Best time to Visit: Between November and April. Closed during the monsoon – June to September. The winter months from November to February are cool and require light woollens. March and April are steamy.

Getting There: Gawahati, the nearest city to Kaziranga has air connections from all the major Indian cities, after which it is a 5 ½ hour road trip to get to the game sanctuary. Although State transport buses ply from Gawahati, the most convenient way to get there is by private tourist taxi. Most operators offer reasonably priced services.

Accommodation: Wild Grass Resort offers safari tours and luxury accommodation. For more information visit www.nivalink.com/wildgrass/index.html

For More Information: www.kaziranga-national-park.com/hotels-resorts-kaziranga.shtml

Walking The South China Sea

by Margaret Deefholts

Ocean walkers waiting on pontoonI’m standing at the edge of a pontoon, gazing down at the greedy waters of the South China Sea off the shores of Sabah, Borneo, and I’m scared witless. In fact, “witless” is what I must have been to sign on for this escapade in the first place, seeing as I’m terrified of water and can’t swim a stroke.

“Don’t worry,” says my guide Eric as he steers me onto a steel ladder, “You’ll be fine.” I have a sinking feeling, both literally and figuratively speaking, as I prepare to descend to a depth of ten metres to the floor of the ocean, but it’s too late to change my mind now.

Earlier on at the Sea Trek Centre on Pulau Sapi Island in the Tunku Abdul Rahman Marine Park, I’d been intrigued at the idea of strolling along the seabed despite being a non-swimmer.

The instructions on the fifteen-minute introductory video clip seemed simple enough, and I was reassured by the fact that three expert guides would be down there to come to the rescue if I signalled for help.

Also, I rather liked the idea of being video-taped underwater by the Sea Trek Centre cameraman, and showing off how intrepid I was to friends and family when I got home to Canada.

However, now that the moment of truth is upon me, my knees feel like rubber, and I cling white-knuckled to the ladder railings. I grope with my foot for the next rung, wondering whether my legs are long enough, and a hand grasps my ankle and gently guides me down.

The author under waterThe waters lap chest high, and one of the pontoon crew lowers a glass helmet over my head. Its rubber pads sit heavily on my shoulders, and an umbilical-like hose which is attached to an air pump on deck, lets me breathe normally.

As I dip below the surface of the water, fingers still desperately clutching the ladder, I’m engulfed in a murky green world, waves rippling and surging around me. A shadowy figure by my side, guides me down, down… He taps my arm and gestures, ‘slow, slow’.

I stare into the opaque waters, trying to remember instructions. “Hold your head straight, and try not to look down!” My feet touch the bottom of the ocean, and my companion, prises my fingers off the ladder.

I stand with my feet apart, (as demonstrated in the instruction video), but have lost all sense of direction. Panic! A second later, a hand at my elbow leads me to a rope, and gestures at me to hold it, and move sideways, crablike.

Moving slowly gripping the rope, my feet scrabbling over the rock-strewn ocean floor, I am suddenly buoyant – exultantly light and fearless, surrounded by spiky orange and speckled blue coral and undulating seaweed.

Brightly coloured fish flit past my glass visor, nibble on my fingers and elude my grasp when I reach out to touch them. They are magical creatures these butterflies of the sea, as they dart purple, yellow, scarlet, maroon and blue. Some are large oval iridescent baubles of green and gold; others are flecks of silver paper. They shoal about me, beautiful in their careless prodigality.

I exchange delighted smiles with my neighbour who peers at me through her fishbowl helmet and points to a clown anemone fish that “kisses” her outstretched fingers and then shoots away in a shiver of bright orange and black.

Women walking on ocean floorFurther along a host of rainbow-hued parrotfish shimmer past, followed a little later by a narrow brown leaf-like creature, which lazily floats out of the murky waters, regards us without curiosity and glides off into the distance.

It is, as I find out later, an epaulette shark, which I might not have regarded with such equanimity had I known it then.

Time seems to be as fluid and slow as the waters that lap around me and as our 30-minute adventure draws to a close my underwater guide gestures towards the ladder that will take me back to the clamour of my world above the sea.

As I emerge, gravity anchors my feet to the ladder, and I have to work hard at heaving myself out of the water, eventually flopping like a beached whale onto the pontoon deck!

Eric beams, as we clamber on board the boat that will tender us back to Pulau Sapi. “What did you think of that? Wasn’t it amazing?” he says.

The answering burst of cheers, and clapping all but drowns out the growl of the launch’s outboard motor.

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About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Margaret Deefholts, an author and freelance travel writer who lives in Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver B.C. Learn more about Margaret at her website www.margaretdeefholts-journeys.com

Photos by Borneo Seawalking Sdn Bhds:
1: Walkers on the pontoon, waiting their turn. Borneo Seawalking Sdn Bhd.
2: Sea life surrounds author Margaret Deefholts. Borneo Seawalking Sdn Bhd.
3: Glamour girls on the ocean floor. Borneo Seawalking Sdn Bhd.

Getting There:
Sapi Island in the Tunku Abdul Rahman Park is a 40 minute boat ride from Kota Kinabalu, the capital city of Sabah, Borneo.

Contact Information: Tourism Malaysia Sabah Phone at 1-6088-212121 or e-mail info@sabahtourism.com

For more information on sea walking go to Borneo Seawalking Sdn.Bhd’s website: www.borneoseawalking.com

 

Hunting Heads in Borneo

by Margaret Deefholts

I ban Serubah LonghouseThe human skull looking down balefully at me through a wicker framework suspended from the rafters of the Serubah Longhouse in Sarawak is unsettling, but according to our guide, Bong, it embodies a benevolent spirit who protects the community who live here. “They are hospitable towards visitors,” Bong adds, catching my apprehensive upward glance. “So don’t worry!”

The tuai rumah, (headman) of the Iban longhouse also smiles reassuringly, while a young woman graciously welcomes us with glasses of tuak—a home-brewed rice wine. The milky liquid is sour-sweet with an acrid, but not unpleasant edge to it, and I savour the sensation of warmth as it travels down my throat.

human heads hang from ceilingThe practice of decapitating enemies has long vanished in tribal Borneo in the wake of widespread Christianity. Nonetheless ancient taboos, rituals and a regard for the spirit world remain ingrained in the minds and hearts of the Iban, the Kadazan and other Dyak tribes who live in the jungles of Sabah and Sarawak.

“When a warrior brought home the head of his enemy,” says Bong, “it was skinned and smoke-dried over a fire, and then displayed on a pole while everyone celebrated the victory with feasting and dancing.

Because the spirit of the departed was believed to remain within the skull for seven days, the shaman would then perform special rituals of appeasement to make sure that the skull’s previous inhabitant had no vengeful hang-ups, and would instead act as a guardian of the longhouse by warding off demons and other evil influences.”

In keeping with this idea, wicker baskets surrounding the skulls above us have a collection of small offerings to make the spirits happy, and I notice that these include a few cigarette butts. Nicotine addiction evidently still persists in the afterlife. I drain my glass of fiery tuak as I raise a toast to the shrunken heads, which have now actually begun to look quite friendly.

Borneo man dancingThe headman introduces us to his predecessor, Budit anak Libau now in his mid-to-late 80s and retired from his office as tuan rumah. Budit’s skin is like aged brown leather, and his gaunt upper torso is thickly embroidered with tattoos.

They tell a grisly tale, for the old man, despite his gentle smile and frail appearance today, was a formidable head-hunter in his youth; the tattooed emblems decorating his throat, chest, arms and back are his badges of bravery; the skulls on display at the entrance just above our heads include some of his trophies.

The Serubah Longhouse at Nanga Sampa lies deep in the jungles of Sarawak and to get here, we’d travelled for over an hour from the swanky Hilton-owned Batang Ai Longhouse Resort into a different world.

Our dug-out canoes, which looked as frail as peanut shells, bobbed and tossed their way along the rushing waters of the Lemanak River. Dense tropical vegetation, trailing vines and outcrops of roots squeezed the flow into narrow channels, and frilly whirlpools of white water had me grabbing the sides of the canoe until Bong cautioned, “Better not do that…the crocs around here love ladies fingers!”

As I stand now at the entrance of the Longhouse, the ruai or communal gallery seems to stretch a long, long way to the far end. The slatted wooden floor is perched on stilts and the area below, glimpsed between the planks, boasts a clutch of hens and a vociferously crowing cockerel.

The 25 rooms leading off the hallway are family units which accommodate anywhere from between 4 to 14 members and while families prepare meals in the privacy of their own rooms and manage their own farmland plots independent of one another, they all get together here on the ruai hallway to socialize, attend council meetings, and celebrate festivals.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to live alongside about 250 relatives (and some of their friends) on a daily basis, but in this closely knit tribal society, the longhouse functions like a village under one roof and affords security and a comforting sense of unity.

As we walk along the vast hallway, women smile or nod as they carry out their daily chores, a granny flashes us a toothless grin, mothers rock their babies in little bamboo cradles and a small boy, absorbed in whittling a stick, ignores us as he frowns in concentration.

We sit cross-legged on the floor, while watching the Ngajat, a traditional Iban dance of welcome. The ancient ex-headman, Budit, re-appears this time wearing a slit loincloth, several bead necklaces and a feathered headdress that all but sweeps the ceiling.

Moving majestically, arms waving in flowing movements, he advances, retreats, stamps his feet and utters a series of shrill cries (which sound more warlike than welcoming) while brandishing a spear and an octagonal wooden ceremonial shield.

A couple of young women wearing coronets as delicate as spun sugar, beaded necklaces trimmed with red pom-poms and aprons of silver coins, take centre stage. They smile and beckon us to join them. We circle the floor in a gleeful performance that owes more to tuak inspired confidence than talent.

The time has come to say farewell and we present the tuai rumah with boxes of candies and cookies in appreciation of their Iban hospitality. The kids hop up and down in excited anticipation while the women lay out equal portions for each family on the hallway mats.

No doubt the bony, hollow-eyed amicably grinning “guardians” at the entrance to the hallway received their fair share as well.




About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Margaret Deefholts, an author and freelance travel writer
who lives in Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver B.C.

Photos by Margaret Deefholts:
1: Overview of the I ban Serubah Longhouse.
2: Skull Trophies at the Iban Serubah Longhouse.
3: Tattooed Budit performs the Ngajat dance of welcome.

NOTE: Malaysia celebrated its 50th anniversary of Independence on August 31st and 2007 has been designated as “Visit Malaysia Year.” Party celebrations and splashy festivities will continue to keep the excitement at fever pitch across the country over the next twelve months to August 2008. There’s no better time to drop by for a visit! Go to http://travel.tourism.gov.my/ to explore their calendar of events.


Half-Day Visit to Borneo Traditional Living Mari Mari Cultural Village

 

If you go:

Getting There:

EVA Airlines flies from Vancouver to Kuala Lumpur (via Taipei) – contact your travel agent for flight details and costs, or click on www.evaair.com/html/b2c/english/ for on-line reservations. Malaysian Airlines has frequent flights between Kuala Lumpur and Kutching the capital of Sarawak in Borneo.

A daily shuttle service runs between the Hilton Hotel in Kutching and the luxurious and scenic Hilton Batang Ai Jungle Resort, a journey by road and boat that takes approximately 3.5 hours. Set in landscaped tropical gardens overlooking the Batang Ai Lake, and designed to resemble a tribal longhouse, the Lodge offers well appointed, air-conditioned rooms with a rustic ambience. Click Hilton Batang Ai to visit their home page.

Borneo Adventure Tours Sdn Bhd is a reputable and long established organization which runs overnight trips to the Serubah Longhouse at Nanga Sumpa. The also cater to small groups and individual bookings. For more information on their longhouse tours and other special interest trips go to:
www.borneoadventure.com/public/home/default.asp

Contact information:
Borneo Adventure Tours Sdn Bhd
55 Main Bazaar
93000 Kuching, Sarawak
Malaysia
Tel: +6082-245175
Fax: +6082-422626 / 234212
Email: info@borneoadventure.com

Now, Isn’t That A Party: The Royal BC Museum celebrates B.C.’s 150th Birthday

by Margaret Deefholts

The crowd at the entrance hall grabs my attention. Some faces are familiar, others not. One or two look me directly in the eye, but many gaze into the distance over my head. Clustered on the dais are glamorous gals, gutsy grannies, solemn dignitaries, artists, writers, hockey stars, movie idols and politicians.

I’m at the Royal B.C. Museum in Victoria, gazing at a huge three-dimensional diorama aptly titled The Party. The folks in attendance are not merely the rich and famous, but also ordinary people—many of whom have lived extraordinary lives.

They have one thing in common: they are all British Columbians and whether they wear Victorian gowns, or the robes of our Salish people, it is their energy, their visions, and their dreams that have shaped our Province and its rich and varied history.

Like the best of party hosts, they invite us to come on in and enjoy the Museum’s exhibit, Free Spirit: Stories of You, Me and B.C., a show specially designed to celebrate the Province’s 150th Birthday.

Some, but certainly not all the folks in The Party collage are solemn: Mr. Peanut rubs shoulders with Grace McCarthy—remember Vincent Trasov’s cheeky dig at political pretensions when he ran for Mayor of Vancouver in 1974, rigged out as Mr. Peanut? Not to be outdone by other larger than life personalities in attendance, Lake Okanagan’s very own Ogopogo—towers above the rest.

tartan in museum showcaseThe glass showcases circling The Party, reveal some surprising facts. How many of us can recognize our B.C. tartan, or have actually worn the rather hit-me-in-the-eye jacket on display? You’ll never guess who sported this back in the early ‘70s. And do you know that the rare white Kermode bear is our provincial mammal?

An entire section of the museum’s Free Spirit exhibit features that most sociable of all human activities—the joy of eating and drinking together. At a long banquet table, in the ‘50s kitchen area, glass domed “memory boxes” showcase food and customs from all over the world.

Peering at a traditional Chinese wedding feast, a woman excitedly recalls her own marriage ceremony in Hong Kong, and further down the table, a dark eyed little girl with beribboned braids grins at a familiar sight – a “thali” table setting which many East Indian families still use today.

Whether served up ceremoniously in Japan, or sipped from Royal Albert porcelain, or drunk as East Indian “masala chai”, tea remains the universal choice of beverage the world over, and at a shop counter displaying a host of canned and packaged (fake) food several people watch intently as a pot of (real) green tea is brewed and offered around for us to try.

The exhibition showcases about 400 artifacts, many of which have never been previously seen by the public. Some are quaint, others odd. But whatever they are—paintings, carvings, photographs or objects—all of them tell a story.

Like the heart warming tale of “Theodore”—possibly the oldest teddy bear in B.C.—gifted to Eleanor Goddard in 1908 when she was bed-bound with tuberculosis. Eleanor recovered and lived to celebrate her 100th birthday at the Empress Hotel in 2002 with Theodore by her side. She then gave her beloved teddy to the Museum for safe keeping.

In another section, a perm machine looks more like an instrument of medieval torture rather than an aid to beauty, evoking disbelieving chuckles from viewers. And how about the wine glasses that once belonged to Francis Rattenbury, the architect who designed Victoria’s Empress Hotel? He came to a violent end (guess why) and some say his ghost still haunts the Museum.

How many of you remember the old drive-in movie theatres? There are only three left in the Province today – plus the replica at the Free Spirit exhibition. The Mighty 90 movie projector rattles away, and the flickering image accompanied by commentator’s voice-over narrative is pure ‘40s. In one of the reels, an old Ford convertible takes the audience on a journey through the Similkameen Valley and West Kootnays—and just wait till you see the size of the Zucca melons they harvested back then!

musician at royal bc museum partyI meet up with a roving musician singing ballads about fame, fortune, love and loss and spend a while listening to actors on stage recounting tales of courage and misadventure: stories about people like you and me.

Because that’s what Free Spirit is really all about—it’s about you and me and all of us in B.C., so everyone is invited to contribute stories to the Museum’s “People’s History” exhibit.

You can read some of them even now at the imaginatively designed RBCM virtual gallery on the Internet. Click on www.freespiritbc.ca/ and you’ll find it hard to tear yourself away.

Yet, for all that, nothing beats actually being there. It’s worth it just to hear a little girl exclaim excitedly, “Mom, look, look…there’s Gran and Grandpa’s picture up on the wall!”

And then you, too, have to stop and look. For oh…what stories they have to tell!





About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Margaret Deefholts, an author and freelance travel writer who lives in Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver B.C. Learn more about Margaret at her website www.margaretdeefholts-journeys.com

Photos by Margaret Deefholts:

1: Mr Peanut, Grace McCarthy, David Suzuki and friends at The Party.
2: Blonde Kermode bear (BC’s Provincial mammal), the Flag That Never Was, and a BC Tartan Jacket are among many memorabilia displays.
3: At practice before going live on the Free Spirit show.

For more information:

Free Spirit: Stories of You, Me and B.C. runs till January 11th 2009. As part of the CP Spirit of 150 Rail Tour in June, a special car with a selection of the exhibit’s artifacts will visit 43 communities from Cranbrook to Vancouver along a southern route through the Province. In addition a smaller version of Free Spirit will be exhibited in ten B.C. communities in the fall.

You are invited to share your story as part of the exhibition’s People’s History project. Click on www.freespiritbc.ca/peopleshistory/storySubmit1.aspx and then follow a series of simple directions and voila! your story could be part of their on-line exhibition.

For those who aren’t computer savvy—you’re invited to mail in your memoirs along with copies of old photographs to add depth to your tales. After the show is over next year, the essays, photos and video footage will be kept in the Museum’s archives, as part of our Province’s history: a wonderful heritage for your kids, grandkids and future generations to enjoy.

The Lure of the Iguana

The Villa of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, linked to “The Night of the Iguana,” Casa Kimberley, is a fascinating Puerto Vallarta attraction

by Margaret Deefholts

The place is haunted, its walls filled with old memories and lost dreams. Those days of wine and roses when a torrid love affair between one of the world’s most beautiful women, and a charismatic Welshman set the town on fire.

The setting is Puerto Vallarta; the couple are, as you’ve probably guessed, Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, both of whom were married to other partners at the time.

An infatuated Burton bought “Casa Kimberley”—a nine-bedroom villa in Gringo Gulch— for $57,000 as a gift to Liz for her 32nd Birthday, and 42 years ago, this is where they lived, loved, battled and boozed.

And caroused with the likes of Peter O’Toole, Roddy McDowell, Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn (also romantic fugitives from the glare of publicity) and John Huston, director of The Night of the Iguana.

The Night of the Iguana, and the sizzling Burton-Taylor affair, brought ravening paparazzi from all over the world, and changed Puerto Vallarta forever from a quiet town of a few thousand residents to a tourist destination that today draws well over three million visitors a year.

I am fascinated by the seeming immediacy of Casa Kimberley’s past. It’s as though I’ve dropped into a home where the owners have merely stepped out for a few moments. A collection of 1964 magazines and a well-thumbed book lies on a coffee table, and the carelessly flung, slightly flattened cushions on the nearby settee speak of frequent use.

Elizabeth Taylor's clothes in Casa KimberleyTaylor’s clothes still hang on pegs in a room adjoining the kitchen. And everywhere there are photographs—a random moment caught on camera, as Burton solicitously lights Liz’s cigarette, another of the two of them gazing at one another, silhouetted in a balcony doorway overlooking the town—he cradling a drink, she seductively barefooted, and wearing the briefest of briefs.

A pink and white bridge, romantically called, “Lover’s Arch” links Casa Kimberley to Burton’s villa across the cobbled street.

Given their spectacular fights, it is sometimes referred to more appropriately as the “Bridge of Reconciliation” as, having retreated into separate suites to lick their wounds in privacy, this was their pretty little kiss-and-make-up spot.

The relationship—Burton’s alcoholism and Taylor’s chronic hypochondria—eventually wore them both out. After their divorce Elizabeth never returned to Casa Kimberley, and when she sold the property in 1990, she abandoned everything—photographs of her children, personal letters, books, and cosmetics—even a half-finished crossword puzzle!

Richard Burton's bar in Casa KimberleyBurton, however, did return to Puerto Vallarta, this time with his third wife, Susan Hunt. Their villa, Casa Bursus, (a combination of their names) bought by Burton as a Valentine’s Day gift to his bride, is just a short walk around the corner from Casa Kimberley. Today it is part of Hacienda San Angel, an exquisite colonial style boutique villa.

Caught up in nostalgia for the glamour of old Hollywood, I knock on the ornate hand-carved entrance doors of the Hacienda. But alas, Burton’s shadow doesn’t lie across its bright, sunlit plaza.

It is, however, as sumptuous as any modern-day movie star could wish for. The owner, Janice Chatterton (who bought the property from Hunt) has a discerning eye for interior décor, and is a collector of antique furniture, fine art and beautifully crafted Mexican folk-art curios. The place is larger than it seems at first sight: three villas (including Casa Bursus) and nine lavish—and wonderfully romantic—suites.

Night of the Iguana features Burton as a drunken defrocked minister who drives a tour bus of unsuspecting spinsters on a mad ride to a seedy hotel set in the Mexican jungle.

Other characters are a young nymphet (Sue Lyons), a voluptuous widow (Ava Gardner) and a genteel woman artist (Deborah Kerr). The movie is steamy, raw, intense—not unlike Mexico’s fevered jungles.

It was filmed in Mismaloya—a short drive out of Puerto Vallarta—but the beachfront today bears no resemblance to the movie’s setting. Back in the sixties Mismaloya was primitive: no proper road access, phones or reliable plumbing and electricity. Today, this is the site of Barceló La Jolla de Mismaloya, a five star hotel.

I chat over a sumptuous Mexican lunch to Carl Guzman, the owner of the upscale Le Kliff restaurant in Mismaloya. He talks about those heady days of Hollywood magic. “My grandparents used to entertain Huston and the cast lavishly at our family hacienda,” he says. “What a thrill for us little kids! Imagine being fussed over by Liz Taylor!”

As I discover that evening, Burton and Taylor weren’t the only ones captivated by the spell of Puerto Vallarta.

It bewitched director John Huston as well, and for the rest of his life he was to return over and over again to his retreat in Las Caletas—a beachfront property of 1.5 acres, which he leased from the Chacala Indians. It fronts Banderas Bay, backs onto thick jungle, and is accessible only by boat.

Vallarta Adventures, an efficiently run tour company, have taken over the lease, and their Rhythms of the Night dinner and concert presentation takes visitors on a 140-passenger catamaran to Las Caletas.

As it did in Huston’s time, the breeze still sighs through the palm fronds, and the evening light is gentle.

A lavish buffet—traditional Mexican cuisine complimented with salads—is set out in a grove along the waterfront. Guests dine to the lively sounds of tympani and maracas played by strolling musicians. After dinner, we move to a large open-air amphitheatre set within dense tropical foliage.

Dusk falls and torches by the side of the stage, blaze into life. Mesmeric drum rhythms accompany dancers as they enact mythical tales of courtship, love, terror, cruelty and death. Their costumes are spectacular, their fire-juggling, flamboyant. Their performances unforgettable.

Huston may not have been too happy about this commercial invasion of his once secluded paradise. But the cheering crowd and I have no complaints.

 

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About the author:

Margaret Deefholts is a Canadian author, and much travelled freelance travel writer/photgrapher. Visit her website at www.margaretdeefholts.com

Photos by Margaret Deefholts:
1: Exterior view of Casa Kimberly.
2: Liz’s clothes still hang on pegs as she left them so many years ago.
3: Richanrd Burton’s domain – his bar.

If You Go:

For more information:
http://www.visitmexico.com or http://www.visitmexico.com/wb/Visitmexico/Visi_Puerto_Vallarta
In Vancouver: Mexico Tourism Board: (604) 669-2845

Casa Kimberley’s guided tours, and bed and breakfast facilities:
http://www.casakimberley.com/
e-mail: casakimberley@yahoo.com

Hacienda San Angel: A superb luxury boutique hotel.
http://www.haciendasanangel.com
e-mail: Janice@haciendasanangel.com

Vallarta Adventures (Rhythms of the Night and several other expeditions)
http://www.vallarta-adventures.com/rhythms/index.html
e-mail: danilo@dolphin-adventure.com

Le Kliff (Mismaloya)—An authentic Mexican dining experience in a romantic setting
http://www.vallartaonline.com/restaurants/lekliff/
To book: reserva@lekliff.com or phone (322) 2240975/2280666

The Heart of Halifax

by Margaret Deefholts

halifax harbourNova Scotia smells of the Atlantic Ocean—there’s a tangy freshness to the air that is different from the pine-scented summer breezes off the Pacific coast. Even though I know that the open sea is quite a long way off, the feeling persists as I stroll the boardwalk overlooking the harbour in Halifax.

I’m heading over to what I’ve been told is the place to be on a Saturday morning: the Farmers’ Market at the historic Alexander Keith’s Brewery—reputedly the oldest farmers’ market in North America.

As I descend a flight of steps into the 19th century brick building, the central courtyard is seething with activity.

I squeeze past a little girl riding on her dad’s shoulders, and stand aside for an elderly matron striding purposefully towards the fruit and vegetable stalls. A young couple stroll hand in hand, she pausing to try out a beaded hand-crafted necklace, he stopping to take in a display of fresh fish.

Conversation rises and falls across the courtyard, while over to one side, a string quartet plays Vivaldi—the violin singing the melody of Summer from The Four Seasons perhaps a shade wistfully as this season now draws to a close.

halifax farmers marketThe market is a warren of rooms, passages, nooks and crannies. Stalls display Nova Scotian crafts—miniature watercolours of Halifax, stained glass candleholders glowing with Maritime emblems and designs, appliquéd aprons and eye catching pottery.

I pause now and then to put my MasterCard to work, and chat with the friendliest of merchants. “From British Columbia eh?” they exclaim. “It rains a lot there, I hear.” Or “Vancouver! Ah…that’s a beautiful city!”

Out on the street again, I make my way along the waterfront to the Maritime Museum, walking past street musicians, and kids playing in an adjacent park. The waters of the harbour glitter in the sunlight and a mild breeze ruffles the Canadian flag on the masthead of a passing sailboat.

The Atlantic has been the life-blood of Nova Scotians over the centuries and, like the ebb and flow of its tides, it has brought both prosperity and adversity to its sons and daughters. There is nothing more fitting to Halifax’s lifestyle, culture and history than the exhibits in the Maritime Museum.

Berthed alongside the Museum is the “Acadia” a retired hydrographical survey vessel built in 1913, and a white-haired gentleman with two young boys in tow is examining with keen interest the various instruments on deck. The old man then leads the youngsters to another vessel on the quay.

hmcs sackvilleThis is the HMCS “Sackville”, Canada’s last surviving vessel from a fleet of 269 gallant little corvettes that saw action in the Battle of the Atlantic during World War II. The boys nod attentively as their grandfather points out some of the ship’s special characteristics.

More than just a round up of facts, this is also an affirmation of his life as a naval officer and his years at sea—a legacy he is now passing on to his grandsons.

Halifax has had its share of tragedy, and the Maritime Museum pays tribute to the memory of people who lost their lives in the worst explosion of the 20th century (other than the atomic blast that flattened Hiroshima and Nagasaki) which took place in the harbour in December 1917.

The French freighter, Mont Blanc, loaded with 200 tons of TNT and other explosives, collided with the Norwegian vessel, Imo and caught fire. Citizens, fascinated at the sight, stood agog on the foreshore or their balconies, not knowing that this would be their last conscious spectacle as the city blew up, engulfing them in a thunderous roar of flames.

Shaped by their sea-faring life-style, Maritimers are as rugged as their coastline. Fierce winter storms, knife-edged winds and cruel seas demand tremendous reserves of courage in the face of disasters that can strike without warning or mercy.

Canada’s eastern seaboard is littered with shipwrecks engulfed by the greedy waters of the Atlantic. None is more dramatic than the sinking of the Titanic.

Two Canadian vessels, the Minia and the Mackay Bennett, retrieved 209 bodies and brought them to Halifax where, whether identified or not, they were taken to three churches.

Shocked parishioners attended memorial services, unwilling to let these unknown souls be buried alone and without ceremony. The victims were then moved to their final resting places in three Halifax cemeteries.

The disaster of the Titanic happened almost a century ago, but emotions of loss and grief aren’t altered by the passage of time, or by divisions of race or creed. It is a universal mourning that we all know and understand.

Later, as part of a city tour of Halifax, I visit the Fairview Lawn Cemetery. The headstones of the Titanic plot cast long afternoon shadows across the grassy knoll.

I am deeply moved by a small tablet which reads: “Erected to the memory of an unknown child whose remains were recovered after the disaster to the Titanic.” A miniature Raggedy Ann doll, a spray of wildflowers and a small teddy bear lie in front of the headstone—touching evidence of the sadness that continues to pervade the minds and hearts of Haligonians even to this day.

The coroner’s records subsequently revealed that the “unknown” child was actually a 2-year old toddler, Gösta Leonard who, with his Swedish mother, Alma Pålsson and three older siblings, boarded the ill-fated ship in Southampton.

The tablet is now a symbolic memorial to all those Unknown Children who perished in the waters off our Atlantic seaboard almost a century ago.




About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes author and freelance travel writer Margaret Deefholts who lives in Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver B.C.

If You Go:

Ambassatours (Gray Line) offer an entertaining and informative 3-hour tour of Halifax which includes a visit to the imposing Citadel and a walk through the city’s Victorian Public Gardens in the wake of a skirling bagpiper. Follow the links from their website at http://www.ambassatours.com/INDEX/tabid/729/Default.aspx

For more information and upcoming events at the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic go to http://museum.gov.ns.ca/mma/events/events.html

The “Titanic: The Artifact Exhibition” is on display at the Royal B.C. Museum in Victoria until October 14th 2007. It provides visitors with fascinating insights into the stories and lives of people (some of whom were British Columbians) who perished, or survived the disaster. For more details visit: http://www.royalbcmuseum.bc.ca/titanic/default.aspx

About the photos:
1: Street view of Halifax Harbour.
2: A little girl enjoys the Halifax Saturday Market.
3: HMCS “Sackville” berthed near the Maritime Museum of The Atlantic.

The Titanic: Forever Lost, Forever Remembered!

by Margaret Deefholts

When tense I’m inclined to clench my teeth, and right now I’m grinding my molars big time. The reason? I’m travelling on MIR I, a submersible that is searching through the debris of the sunken wreck of the Titanic.

Should the razor sharp edges of the ship’s rusty skeleton pierce the MIR I’s steel shell, it would be game over. At a depth of 12,500 feet the pressure of water shooting through the puncture could slice through the human body as if it was butter.

Garlands of barnacle-covered cables drift by the window, we skim past a ghostly orange hull, and float above the ribbed railings of the foredeck.

I’m safely seated in the IMAX theatre of the Royal B.C. Museum in Victoria, with no danger of being sent to a watery grave, but the movie Titanica is eerily realistic, and the underwater images loom up close.

The lens probes the debris around the hulk of the Titanic, picking out a set of china plates embossed with the White Star shipping company’s emblem. A fish goggles at the camera as it flits by a large leather trunk. Half buried in the sand is a cluster of corked wine and champagne bottles. The labels have melted away but their contents are intact.

The film intersperses the undersea exploration with old photographs of the Titanic and its passengers.

It also features a vignette of one of the survivors, Eva Hart. Now an old lady, she sits in her English garden and shares her memories as a seven-year-old on board the Titanic along with her parents, their beloved dog and her favourite teddy bear. Told with restraint and gentle irony, her story brings a lump to the throat.

Without wanting to give too much away, the Titanica is a powerful and deeply moving film and is worth seeing before visiting the exhibit galleries.

titanic artifactsThe artifacts recovered from the debris on the ocean floor range from perfume vials (visitors can sniff the scent) to one of the 3 million (possibly defective) rivets that held together the steel plates of the hull.

A massive reproduction of the rust-encrusted hull dominates the entire wall of one room, while several exhibits, in true Royal Museum style, are interactive—replicas of toys that the children on board once played with, Edwardian-era ship-board games and specially designed life-jackets. All of which visitors are invited to touch, don or handle.

The sheer size of the Titanic lived up to its name. It was, at the time, the largest moving object built by man—nearly four city blocks long and eleven stories high.

Each of the first four compartments of the hull was watertight, so that if the ship had hit the iceberg head on, it probably would have survived. In a frantic last minute effort to avoid the towering wall of ice, the first officer ordered the ship to be swung “hard a-starboard.”

The iceberg ripped through the fifth and sixth non-watertight compartments of the hull, and from then on it was only two hours and forty minutes before the doomed Titanic sank to the depths of the Atlantic Ocean with an estimated 1,500 people still on board. As a Titanica commentator remarks, “The ‘unsinkable’ had become the ‘unthinkable’.”

A combination of unusual circumstances and human error contributed to the tragedy. The decision to scrap the usual Sunday morning safety drill, and the lack of sufficient lifeboats might have been dismissed as trivial details. The Titanic was, after all, “practically unsinkable”.

The newly invented Marconi wireless radio system had technical problems and although several warnings about icebergs floating further south than usual went out to the Titanic, only one was delivered to the Captain on the bridge.

It was a still, but very dark night, and visibility was poor. As bitter fate would have it, the binoculars, which should have been available in the crow’s nest lookout, had gone missing.

Finally, even after the alarm was sounded, many passengers didn’t believe that the Titanic was actually going down, so only 19 people boarded the first lifeboat although it could have accommodated 65.

RMS Titanic Inc. is authorized to recover the artifacts of the Titanic on display at the Royal B.C. Museum, while John Zaller, of Premier Exhibitions (the parent company of RMS Titanic) heads up the design team of this unique and ambitious exhibition.

titanic propellers“There’s the excitement of constructing each of the artifact galleries, the ship’s grandeur, and the incredible drama of those final hours,” says Zaller, “but it’s the stories behind these one-of-a-kind irreplaceable objects that truly fire the imagination.”

As I move through the galleries, those stories unfold. This is the human face of the Titanic disaster—in narrative, memoir and photographs.

And as personified by actors dressed in period costumes, all of whom, like ghosts from the doomed ship, share with visitors the thoughts, the hopes and dreams of those long lost passengers and crew.

Through their descriptions and recollections I, too, am awed at the size and beauty of the ship, and am caught up in the excitement of boarding her. I’m also witness to the terror and grief of women and children who, in taking the lifeboats, embraced fathers, brothers, husbands, and lovers in what would be for many of them, a final farewell.

It is those men, women and children of the Titanic that continue to haunt us, their voices echoing down the corridors of time.

The Royal B.C. Museum’s exhibition opens April 14th exactly 95 years after the Titanic plummeted to the ocean floor. It recognizes the fragility of mankind’s overweening ambition, and is a moving tribute to the memory of those who perished as a result of it.




About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Margaret Deefholts, Canadian author and freelance travel writer who lives near Vancouver on Canada’s West Coast.

About the photos:
1: These dishes on the ocean floor were probably in a crate which rotted away leaving this display. Photo: Courtesy RMS Titanic Inc.
2: A first class luxury suite like this one would have cost $4,350 or $85,000 today. Margaret Deefholts photo.
3: This historic photograph demonstrates the size of the Titanic. Photo: Courtesy RMS Titanic Inc.

If you go:

For more information on ticket prices, IMAX show timings etc., go to www.royalbcmuseum.bc.ca/titanic/default.aspx

Several hotels are offering Titanic themed packages, culinary delights and tours.
For more information go to:

  • Abigail’s Hotel at www.abigailshotel.com/specials.html
  • Hotel Grand Pacific at www.hotelgrandpacific.com/index.html Click on their ‘promotions and packages’ link
  • The Fairmont Empress at www.fairmont.com/Empress/
  • The Irish Times Pub at www.irishtimespub.ca /
  • Magnolia Hotel & Spa at www.magnoliahotel.com/packages.html
  • Spinnakers Gastro Brew Pub & Guesthouses at www.spinnakers.com/specials/default.aspx#1

 

History’s Ghosts in Old Lucknow

by Margaret Deefholts

India’s history holds many ghosts. It is a land of old loves, ancient hatreds, tarnished dreams and fleeting glory. I am in Lucknow in North India, and I am drawn into a story of extraordinary courage in the face of insurmountable odds.

Lucknow was ruled for centuries by the Muslim Nawabs of Oudh. The last ruler was ousted by the British in 1856, ostensibly because he was a dissolute wastrel. While there was some truth to this, Wajid Ali Shah was also a cultured nobleman and generous patron of the arts.

The Province of Oudh was, however, of strategic importance to the British and it was in their interests to secure domination over it by whatever means they could employ.

It was a step that they would regret.

The annexation of Oudh was just one of the factors which ignited the tinder-box of rebellion in 1857, and brought about the Great Mutiny now referred to as The First War of Independence, by Indian nationalists.

In May 1857, insurrection had broken out in other parts of the country, and Sir Henry Lawrence, the gallant Chief Commissioner in Lucknow, prudently moved British and Anglo-Indian civilians (my great-grandmother among them) into the 60-acre walled defences of the British Residency.

Today, 150 years later, I sit under a tamarind tree, on a bench bordering the lawns of the old Residency, listening to the drone of bees, and the harsh cawing of crows. Dust devils whirl briefly in the warm afternoon breeze, and the air carries the scent of marigold flowers.

If I’d been here in 1857, these sounds would have been drowned by the bursting of shells, the acrid smell of gunpowder, and the almost continuous bombardment of cannon. The surroundings would have been shrouded in the grey dust of crumbling masonry.

Within the buildings around me today, was a defensive army of about 850 British officers and soldiers, backed by about 700 loyal native sepoys, plus a handful of civilian volunteers and several hundred non-combatants, including elderly citizens, women and children, most of whom were crammed into an underground warren of rooms known as the “Tykhana.”

As I walk into the Tykhana today, it is as if the shadows around me are alive with ghosts of women soothing the fevers of dying children, tending to soldiers’ bloody and torn limbs while around them the whine of bullets and the heavy crash of cannonballs, continue to slam against the walls of their brick shelter.

The searing heat of June that year, gave way to torrential monsoon rains in July; malaria, typhoid and cholera took their toll.

Emerging into the sunlight, I am glad to be free of the weight of so much sorrow yet there are other reminders scattered throughout the Residency. The splendid ballroom, converted into a hospital, bears the scars of shellfire.

A few residences still stand, their mildew-covered walls like rotted teeth lying open to the sky. The cemetery headstones tell their own tragic tales of bereavement.

It would be 141 days of fierce bombardment, before Sir Colin Campbell and his Highland battalion backed by other army detachments, came to the rescue. Only 800 soldiers and non-combatants, along with about 550 ragged and painfully emaciated women and children survived the ordeal.

As the conflagration of the uprising blazed across the Indo-Gangetic plain, the carnage on both sides left scars of bitter mistrust. As a result, the British government took over the reins of administration from the East India Company, and in 1858, India became Britain’s “fairest jewel in the Crown.”

Baillie Gate to the Residency in Lucknow IndiaApart from the ruins of the Residency, Lucknow is filled with crumbling, yet once splendid Islamic mosques, tombs and mansions such as the romantically named “Dilkhusha Palace (Heart’s Delight).

I dismount from my rickshaw near the Rumi Darwaza, a magnificent gateway to the old city, to explore a building built in 1784. The Bara Imambara (once the residence of an Imam, or religious leader) is a marvel of architecture: its 15-metre high vaulted central hall stretches for 50 metres (the longest in the world) without any intermediary supporting pillars.

The upper floor consists of labyrinthine passages – the “Bhul-bhuliaya” – and visitors are challenged to find their way out of the maze. Few succeed and guides are poised to come to the rescue.

The labyrinth’s acoustic engineering is such that a whisper against one wall can be clearly heard even beyond several turns and twists of the corridors. Always suspicious of conspiracies, this is how the rulers of Lucknow guarded against disloyalty on the part of the keepers of the Imambara.

Lucknow is, of course, is much more than its historical monuments. The modern commercial area of Hazrat Gunj is the hub of air-conditioned shops, restaurants and concrete office buildings.

lucknow street hawker's stallBy contrast, the narrow lanes of Aminabad bazaar in old Lucknow seethe with colour and movement. Popular film music blares out from small food kiosks, sidewalk sellers offer marigold garlands, and fruit and vegetable stalls are piled high with produce.

Cows amble through the crowds, unhindered by shoppers, and vice-versa. At a small clothing store, I buy a strawberry pink cotton kurta (tunic) adorned with “chikkan” work – a type of shadow embroidery unique to Lucknow – for less than the cost of half a bag of groceries in Canada!

At a restaurant overlooking the old city, I dine on Lucknow’s legendary Moghlai cuisine. Domes and minarets dominate the skyline and, bathed in the glow of twilight, they evoke a dreamy “Arabian Nights” landscape.

The old city had, and still has, a distinctive ambience born of centuries-old traditions of courtly etiquette and stately manners. Urdu literature and Islamic art, fine apparel, exquisite jewellery and adornments, continue to be part of a genteel lifestyle among the descendents of Nawabi families, many of whom still live in rambling, if now rather shabby mansions.

Like their ancient city, they too are relics of another, more gracious world.




About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Margaret Deefholts, Canadian author and freelance travel writer who lives near Vancouver on Canada’s West Coast.

Photos by Margaret Deefholts:
1: A view of the entrance and pathway from the terrace of the Bara Imambara.
2: The Baillie Gate to the Residency which took some of the heaviest fire from the rebels during the siege of Lucknow.
3: A street hawker’s stall near the entrance to the Residency.

IF YOU GO:

Getting There:
Lucknow has daily flights to and from most major Indian cities such as Delhi, Kolkata, Mumbai, Jaipur, Goa and Hyderabad. The air conditioned Shatabdi Express train runs between Lucknow and Delhi (6 hours), and other express trains fan out towards Allahabad, Varanasi, Mumbai, Kolkata etc. Long distance buses ply to most major destinations.

Where to Stay:
Hotels run the gamut from budget to top end, but none of them offer 5 star accommodation.
Carleton Hotel (once a palace) has large rooms, and an air of decaying elegance. Hotel Clarks Avadh is a modern hotel with luxury fittings, a restaurant, coffee shop and bar.

Best Time to Visit:
Between October and March. The winter evenings can be chilly with night temperatures dipping to near freezing levels. The summer temperatures routinely soar to 40oC.

Restaurants and Shopping:
Modern Lucknow city is noisy, dusty and crowded. However, Hazrat Gunj (the main drag), and its adjoining lanes, is an upscale shopping area with western-style malls, clothing and souvenir shops.

This is also the location of a number of restaurants serving fine Lucknow cuisine: sizzling kebabs, linen thin Rumali (handkerchief) rotis, aromatic pilaffs, and kulfi ice-cream—all fit for a Nawab’s discerning palate! Forego ice cubes in pop, and drink only chilled bottled water. Spicy Indian chai and creamy Indian-style coffee are popular (and safe) after-dinner beverages.

Government emporiums offer quality handicrafts, but their prices are non-negotiable. Ram Advani’s bookstore, also on Hazrat Gunj has an eclectic selection of Indian literature ranging from novels and non-fiction paperbacks, to illustrated coffee table books.

The bird sellers’ district in old Lucknow’s Chowk market is interesting to browse through. Pidgeon keeping and cockfighting have been popular in Lucknow from the time of the Nawabs.

Other:
Liquor in India is relatively inexpensive, but certain days of the week are designated as “dry” and the liquor stores are closed. Hotel bars and restaurants will, however, serve their clientele without any fuss. Indian dark rum (“Old Monk” or “Hercules XXX”) is excellent—fruity and richly textured; Indian whisky and gin is passable, but standards vary from brand to brand. “Kingfisher” beer is served chilled and on a hot day, or as an accompaniment to a fiery curry, it goes down very smoothly.

Most comprehensive guidebook: “Lonely Planet—India”. Don’t leave home without it!

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