Hauling Hay (Pastel)

It’s hay season again and time to gather what my brother and I cut yesterday with a sickle. I’m grateful that my brother could help me, as my lame knee makes it painful to bend in the swooping motions needed for efficient cutting. Today I’m all alone on this slightly marshy piece of land. I use my cane to walk over to a patch of dray hay and stab the cane into the soft ground. Then I use the pitchfork to sift and gather the hay together until I have a large enough load. Hobbling over to reach my cane, the load now feels more secure on my shoulder as I slowly make my way over to the small, mounded stack. It’s tough work for an old man, but I love being outdoors. Besides, it’s the only way of life I know.

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Hyderabad City Tour - Nizam's Museum, Salarjung Museum, Chow Mohalla

Boarding a green bus that looked like a caterpillar (along with antennas), we began our city tour. As usual, I was the only non-Indian. One of the first places we visited was Nizam’s Museum, a sprawling 19th century Neo-Classical complex of buildings once the main residence of the 6th Nizam (ruler). The exterior of the buildings were in need of restoration. Herded to the far end of the main building, we then went inside where we saw the Nizam’s gigantic wooden wardrobe – a 73 square meter (786 sq feet) room with two levels of closets and a mechanical elevator. In addition to the large wardrobe collection, silver objects (many of buildings and maps given to the Nizam for the silver jubilee), china, and photos were displayed.

We also toured the Salarjung Museum, which contained an eclectic collection of over 40,000 objects once belonging to Hyderabad’s Prime Minister (1899-1949). Some of the items were quite beautiful (and likely expensive), while other items bordered on being kitsch. In a large open room, people sat in rows of seats, waiting for a clock to chime the hour and display its animation. I particularly liked some of the marble sculptures (European), Indian bronze sculptures, and miniature paintings such as those I saw in Udaipur. Once again we were not given enough time to truly see and appreciate the massive collection.

Moving onward, we visited the Chow Mohalla Palace. Designed in a mixture of Mogul and European style, the palace was built in several phases between 1750 and 1869. A beautiful garden surrounds the complex. In one section, a large pool reflects the classical style yellow building. Fountains spout in other areas. The Durbar Hall was particularly beautiful, with its huge glass chandeliers imported from Belgium, tall ceiling, white marble floors, columns, and walls also containing white and golden marble, topped with decorative flourishes. The Chow Mohalla Palace gives people an idea of the opulence once enjoyed by the Nizams.

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Hyderabad - Arrival

This is the first of several postings pertaining to my short trip to Hyderabad and on to Agra.

After a pleasant overnight train, I arrived in Andhra Pradesh's capital city of  a bit ahead of schedule. While waiting for a doctor friend (whom I met while traveling in Vizag) to arrive, I took in the scenes before me. Probably around 70°F (21°C), many of the locals were dressed for winter. Many had on the striped caps I so enjoyed seeing in Chennai. Others had on stocking caps. Earmuffs were also very common. Babies were snuggled in fleece sleepers. Some women had on winter jackets over their saris. As in any public place, autorickshaw drivers flooded the area, descending upon people as they stepped out of the train or past the exit. Taking an uncrowded local bus (which was much nicer than most I’ve ridden in Chennai), we arrived at the grounds of the public eye hospital my friend worked at. I was to stay in the guesthouse there. After washing up, we headed out to get some south Indian breakfast, accompanied by a doctor from Orissa who was there for training. We signed up for a local tour of Hyderabad, which would take the latter part of the morning and to the evening.

Hyderabad’s nearly equal proportion of Muslim and Hindu residents was immediately apparent – so very different than Chennai. Mosques, far from being rarities tucked in a few places as in Chennai, dominated the skyline. A large number of women wore burquas and hijabs. Saris were also present, but not nearly as prevalent. White caps of Muslims were perhaps even more noticed than the forehead markings of Hindus. Signs were often marked in Telegu (local language of Andhra Pradesh), Arabic, Hindu, and English. In Chennai, one would typically see Tamil and English.

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Violin Player, Subotica (Watercolor)

I have been a street performer since I was a little boy, accompanied by my father on the accordion. Now that I am an old man and on a meager pension, I once again find myself needing to play my violin on the street, hoping for some dinars so I can buy enough hleb, cheese and sausage for a meal. My favorite spot to play is next to the café on the pedestrian street. Whether it’s locals or visitors who come see this picturesque town with Hungarian-style Art Nouveau architecture, people here just seem to have more time to sit down and savor the moment. I like playing the slow, melodic songs that my father taught me, but the crowds seem to prefer the fast-moving Hungarian tunes better. Well, at least that’s what their coins tell me.

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Gypsy Dancer (Color Pencil)

Serbians love to dance. We Roma like to dance as well. While their dances tend to be more constrained, circular dances, our Roma dances are wild by comparison. I love swishing my colorful skirt back and forth, then working up into a twirl so strong that my skirt hem rises nearly to my waist. At such moments I am lost to the world, immersed in a feeling of eternal bliss. Dancing makes me forget all the hardships and discriminations we as Roma face on a daily basis. In addition to our brass bands and this dancing, we have our own language and culture, which we staunchly seek to preserve. Recently I was asked to perform as part of the Serbian dance group Kolo. Some members of my Roma community under the Gazelle Bridge didn’t want me to join, but I see it as an opportunity to show those Serbs and others that our dance and culture is just as beautiful. Perhaps then when Serbs see our cardboard homes with plastic tarp roofs, they will see beyond our economic poverty and look at us as a real, vibrant people.

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Elderly Farmer, Aranđelovac (Watercolor)

It’s been a long spring, made lonely by the passing of my beloved wife this past January. If only I had had enough money to buy her the needed medicine for her pneumonia, she probably would be here with me now. She made the best kaymak, which I loved to place on freshly baked bread. Now I am alone on this farm with my animals, a few chickens, three pigs, and two cows. My daughter tries to visit me when she can, but I usually have to be satisfied with her phone calls. She always brings some food I can warm up in the oven and remarks at how thin I’ve gotten since Mamma died. Indeed, as I look down at my hands, made wide from years of hard physical work, I see how thin the skin has become. I will need to gather strength in order to harvest the hay.
Today I had some visitors. Why God had blessed me with visitors today, I’m not quite sure. After showing them my barn and summer kitchen, we entered my house. I felt so ashamed that I didn’t even have some rakiya to offer these guests to drink. They just repeated that they wanted to hear about my farm and me. I showed them photos of my wedding, a picture of me as a young boy, and my parents as well. After I explained that the certificate on the wall was for my service as a chetnik fighter in WWII, they insisted that I stand next to it and be photographed. Before they left, one of the American visitors gave me a strange blue cap and insisted that I try it on. It was much too big and not nearly as comfortable as my trusty old shajkaca. Once again, tears streamed down my eyes. I wished I had something to give these kind visitors. Now they too are gone, exploring more of rural Serbia. I hope my daughter calls tonight, for I can’t wait to tell her about my American guests.

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Sifting the Olives (Color Pencil)

Our whole family helps out with the olive harvest. While the older boys manage the nets, it is up to the women to separate the olives from the leaves, place the sorted olives in large baskets, and haul them to our donkey-pulled cart. To make the tedious work of sorting go by more quickly, we sing songs. Soon we have enough olives to fill a woven basket. I grab one handle and my older sister grabs the other one. Even as adults, this task is heavy and difficult. My daughters are getting very good at sifting through these valuable fruits, their deft fingers and keen eyes a huge asset.

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Pulling the Olive Net (Color Pencil)

It is now April and we are at the end of our harvesting season. I have been shaking the olives from these trees in the same manner as my forefathers did. It is so rewarding to see these black pearls fall into the net, weighing it down so much that several men in my family must help pull the net. Our ancient trees have once again yielded much, thanks to the blessings of Allah.

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Around the Corner, Kairouan (Watercolor)

I have spent all my life within the walls of this most holy of cities, Kairouan. Muslims from all over Tunisia come to my city to worship Allah in our magnificent Grand Mosque. I am an imam at a smaller mosque and seek to train our young boys in the ways of Allah and Mohammed his Prophet. Even here in Kairouan, despite the Call to Prayer heard in every quarter (neighborhood), some of the younger generations are choosing to adopt materialistic, Western ways and move away from the wisdom contained in the Koran. It doesn’t help that there are so many tourists fanning throughout our city, flaunting their fancy cameras and revealing a great deal of skin and hair. Inch’allah, the boys under my care will heed my words. Ah, the Call to Prayer beckons me. It is time to head over to the mosque.

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Tea Time (Watercolor)

The Medina of Tunis is my favorite part of the city. Here I can wander through the narrow maze-like streets, shop for a new chechia from the same store in the souk that my father patronized for this traditional woolen cap, and go to Friday prayers at the Grand Mosque. No trip to the medina is complete without stopping by a small café to enjoy some sweet mint tea with pine nuts. After several glasses of tea for all of us men, we then bring out the shisha pipe, inhaling the apple-flavored tobacco as we puff and blow to make the bubbles appear. After a round or two of cards, I have one more glass of tea and then head home.

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Dogon Bandana Woman (Oil)

Life has changed much here in my Dogon village in the last two decades. Now, paved roads enable tourists in their large vehicles to reach many parts of our area. While I know that these toubobs bring in much needed money to our poor villages, I also see how it has changed our own people, particularly the young generation. Women used to pride themselves on the large strings of cowry shells or trade beads handed down from their ancestors that they wore. Now I’ve even seen some wearing dresses made from Senegalese cloth. As for me, I’m sticking with my homespun indigo-dyed cotton.

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Merry CHRISTmas from Melissa

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Beaded Dogon Woman (Oil)

I love this time of year! It’s cooler, the harvest is in, and there are plenty of opportunities for celebration. For our women’s dance today, I decided to wear all the jewelry I have – the European beads brought down through the Sahara Trade Route, bronze ones made here in Mali, and a strand of shiny plastic ones my husband bought when he went to the capital. All the women of our village gathered together, moving around in a circle as we sang call & responses, blew plastic whistles, and trilled our tongues. Indeed, the period after the rainy season is my favorite time of year. There is much joy, song, and laughter!

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Melissa's photos of Agra

This past week I visited Agra, home to India's most famous landmark - the Taj Mahal. On my Flickr page you will find some photos of the Taj Mahal, Sikandra, the Agra Fort, Jami Masjid, artisans, and the people of Agra. Writings about my trip are still to come...
http://www.flickr.com/photos/melissaenderle/sets/72157623028832542/

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Sigi Nogo (Pastel)

Early in the morning before the sun gets too intense, I go with my mamma to the Niger River to get some water for cooking and cleaning. I can now balance a bucket on my head, but it’s not nearly as big as mamma’s. I also help mamma go shopping in the Badalabougou West marché and pound millet for our evening meal. I need to get better at all the chores mamma does, as soon she will have another baby. Then I will have to carry my little brother Amadou on my back, just like mamma does now. Sometimes I get a little sad when I see my older brother Boubacar go with his friends to play football in the empty lot while I have to stay and work.

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Fulani Cattle Herders by the Niger River (Color Pencil)

This year I got to go with my dad and uncles to cross our cattle to the other side of the Niger River. Those cows sure complain when they are forced to go in the water, but it’s never all that deep so they really don’t have to learn to swim. The calves don’t do so well in the water, so we put them in our pirogue and then poll our way across the river until we reach the other side. Then the cows start munching on the grasses there. It’s an exciting time for boys of Diafarabé, as their cattle are judged to see whose are the fattest and healthiest. I hope my cousin wins this year!

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Preparing the Wedding Feast (Watercolor)

Weddings in Mali are a big affair, an opportunity for neighbors, friends, and large extended families to gather and celebrate. It’s a fun time, but a lot of work. I was in charge of the cooking detail. My sisters had already helped me pound the millet, so now I carefully prepared this staple food in a large calabash. Listening to the female griot singing praises about the bride’s family momentarily took my mind away from cooking, but I was eager to join the dancing. As soon as I finished cooking, I changed into my wax print boubou, made shiny through pounding of wax.

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Applying the Kolam Powder (Pastel)

Every morning I sweep the area in front of my house and then wet the area, preparing it for the kolam that invites blessings into the home. Today is a festival day, so I am making my design extra large and am using colored powder instead of just plain white rice flour. Even though I have done it many times, I love to see how the design grows and emerges, as if it has a life of its own. Sometimes I plan a design on a piece of paper, but usually it just comes from my head, a repository for the many designs I’ve created or seen. My fingers are now practiced enough that I can carefully control the powder, varying the pressure to achieve thin and thick, curvy and straight lines. It’s especially exciting when I see the colors transform the white outline into a brilliant design.

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Before the Dance (Pastel)

My brother, his friends, my sister, and I perform our Rajasthani dance for tourists. Sometimes it gets a bit tiring performing for audiences who know little about our culture and what the songs really mean, but I need the income to support my young family as well as my aging mother-in-law. The first several songs of this performance are instrumental and vocal only. On occasion I sing as well. But it’s not until the dance numbers that I am truly happy and can showcase my talents. Then I am the highlight of the show.

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Fog-Enshrouded Hill, Munnar (Pastel)

Like most days in the hill station, a thick layer of fog rolled through Munnar. It seemed to slither over the contours of the tea hills, diverging as it encountered a tree. A hint of a warm sunrise tried to make its way into a predominantly cool palette. A feeling of peace enveloped the whole landscape.

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