All posts by betty.belanus@gmail.com

Summing up Summer

#hiltonheadisland, beach, memories, museums, summer, travel, vacations, , , ,

Wow, here it is the end of summer already.  How did that happen?  After our Bengali visitors left, it seems the rest of the season just flew by.  And now its a soggy and humid Labor Day weekend.

So, that’s my excuse for not blogging more the end of the summer.  That, and the fact that my phone was in the shop for a week.  It is my primary camera now, for better or worse.  (And the dog ate my homework.)

There were some highlights – a bit of time on the Hilton Head beach despite most of the time helping my sister work out plans to transition our mom into assisted living.  A trip to California for Museum Camp at the Santa Cruz Museum of Art and History, and visit to the daughter in San Francisco.  A couple weekends at the cabin.  The lovely wedding of a good friend.  A bounty of green beans and tomatoes from the garden.  Some time around outdoor pools.

Here’s a few highly random photos highlighting those activities.

And so, fall looms on the horizon bringing (eventually) crisp weather and that “new school year” new beginnings vibe.  A sort of reset button for “normal life” after the time out of time of summer schedules and activities.

So, as summer 2018 fades into the sunset, no more excuses.

 

Sharing Art, Culture and an Apple

#myculturemystory, culture, memories, travel, West Bengal, ,

I promise not to write blogs about our Communities Connecting Heritage cultural exchange project forever.  But, I had one last one to share here.  And, the only other thing that has been happening to me lately involves my mother and assisted living… which I’m not ready to write about yet at all.

During our three-week cultural exchange hosting five Bengali friends here in DC, we made many personal cultural connections.  On the afternoon of July 11, I took Mamoni Chitrakar, a traditional patachitra scroll painter, to the Smithsonian American Art Museum and Portrait Gallery, wanting to share their exhibitions of American folk art with her, as well as the portraits of the presidents.

Before viewing a dizzying array of art, including the works crammed into close quarters at the Luce Center to maximize our time, we fortified ourselves at the cafe in the magnificent Kogod Courtyard between the two museums.  We shared a sandwich (relatively easy to cut in half with a plastic knife) and a rock-hard Red Delicious apple.  Anyone who has ever tried to cut one of those beauties with a plastic knife knows the drill.

Our attempts at halving this large fruit specimen were at first frustrating, but then we both began to giggle.  Since our mutual knowledge of each other’s language is minimal (she is doing much better at English than I am doing at Bengali, though) we didn’t have words, we only had facial expressions and our laughter at our futile attempts, the butchery that ensued, and the juice all over the table before we were successful.  It was all that we needed.

Mamoni is back home now, but I think of her every day, and my fondest memory was her laughter and her smile.  I admire her bravery in leaving her family and coming to a strange country for three whole weeks, her eagerness to share her culture, and her willingness to try anything – even cutting an apple with a plastic knife.

I was thinking of writing a poem about the experience – still might – but for now, I leave you with this thought.  Share an experience with someone from a culture other than yours.   Whether its a chat on the train, some other chance encounter like a taxi ride, or an actual planned cultural exchange.  Don’t worry about language, just have fun with it.  Giggling is not required but helps.  You won’t regret it, though it might be a bit uncomfortable or messy.  Just do it.  Like the bodily nourishment of that shared apple, sharing culture feeds the soul.

 

 

Remains of the Days

#myculturemystory, culture, memories, West Bengal,

I’m recouping from an intense few weeks of the Smithsonian Folklife Festival and the three-week in-person visit of our Communities Connecting Heritage “Learning Together” team from the state of West Bengal, India.  So many logistics, so much running around, and so little time to process the whole double experience!

The Festival was fun for me, since I had visited one of the featured countries – Armenia – and I had gotten to meet many of the folks who became researchers and presenters.  (To get a sense of what I learned – and didn’t learn – there, check out my work blog on “Armenian Sneakers“!)  The program was a lovely space in which to let the warm and talented Armenian artisans ply their skills.  I enjoyed spending time there very much, munching on lavash (flat bread being baked in a clay oven on the premises), trying my hand at some crafts (I failed miserably at “walnut embroidery”), and experiencing the recreation of a traditional Armenian wedding, and just chatting with folks.

I didn’t have a lot of time to enjoy the Festival as a whole, though, since I led the team of responsible hosts for the CCH visit.   (Really our Coordinator and summer interns did a great deal of the heavy lifting, planning and execution as well.  It was a true team effort.)  Our aim was to introduce the group to the culture of Washington, DC and environs while allowing them to share their own amazing culture with a wide audience, and I think we succeeded for the most part.

So much planning, so many details, and then suddenly it’s all over.  The agenda runs to the final page, we get them on a plane, and they are off.  So much to think about and process.  So much good stuff to write about!  For now, a few photos and many more on our Facebook page (link above) if you’re interested.  And more reflections to come both here and on our work site in the future.

 

India in New Jersey – An Excursion in and Around Edison

Down Home on the Farm

culture, tourism, travel, , , ,

Having spent my formative years living in rural Vermont, though I don’t think about it much since I now live in the close-in ‘burbs, I do feel at home on a farm.  Even when it’s a historic farm like Landis Valley Village and Farm Museum, which I visited last week during a conference in Harrisburg, PA.

I am happy walking a country road and communing with cattle and crops.  I especially grooved on the presentation of the heritage seed program they have at Landis Valley.  Hundreds of heirloom tomato seeds!  My favorite was one called the Mortgage Lifter.  Gotta get me some of those next year.

I also learned a lot in the farm equipment part of the tour.  Like many, I assumed the Conestoga Wagon was the conveyance that the “pioneers” took across the mountains.  Not so, it was actually the 18-wheeler of its day!

At the end of the visit, clutching the chamomile plant I purchased which I hope will thrive in my side yard herb patch (which shares space with lots of weeds and where the mint has run wild), I was content to have gotten a farm fix.

Peacock Pandemic

#myculturemystory, culture, memories, peacocks, travel, West Bengal, ,

It all started with the Emotional Support Peacock.

The news of its owner trying to wrangle her bird onto a United flight broke the same day our Communities Connecting Heritage program group left for Kolkata, India.  In our giddy state of excitement about the trip, we all giggled heartily about the ridiculousness of the idea.

When we got to India, we immediately began seeing images of peacocks – everywhere, including a huge photo of one near the baggage claim of the Kolkata airport.  Were peacocks following us?  Or were we just hyper sensitive to them in the near-out-of-body-experience of having flown halfway across the world on very little sleep?  

Well, it turns out, the peacock is the National Bird of India.  It also figures prominently in Hindu mythology.   As we traveled around West Bengal, I started taking photos of all the peacock images we saw.

 

My favorite was a saucy peacock depicted in a small scroll painting which I purchased in Naya Village, serving as the conveyance of one of the Hindu gods who is carrying an arrow.  (This is probably Kartikeya or Murugan, god of war, but depending on which story you want to go with, there could be some other contenders.)   

Our colleague Ananya in Kolkata recently sent us some English translations of baul songs, which we had been asking about.  As I read through the first one, I found – you guessed it – reference to peacocks.  Here is the excerpt:

“What color is your cottage/on the shore of this bogus world?/The frame of your home is made of bones/and the roof is thatched with skin./But the pair of peacocks/on the landing-pier/hardly know that/they will end one day.”

I’m not sure exactly what that means, though I know it has something to do with the bauls believing that god lives within us.  But it is beautiful poetry, especially the peacock part.

The very next song started with this phrase – I kid you not –

“If you wish to board an airplane/you must travel light/to be safe from the danger of a crash.”

Perhaps the United Airlines personnel who banned the Emotional Support Peacock from that flight had been listening to the bauls, as should we all.

Spring By the Sea

#hiltonheadisland, beach, poetry, ,

I have always loved the ocean, which I am sure I have mentioned before.  My mother retired to Hilton Head Island many years ago, within easy walking distance of one of the white, sandy expanses of beach on Hilton Head Island, SC.  She’s 92 and hasn’t walked there since her knees gave out.  I try to make it for sunrise but usually end up sleeping too late.

When I visited this time, I walked down on a cool April afternoon.  A few brave souls were in the water, but mostly there was just a scattering of people.  The sun was bright but the wind did not carry any warmth.  I was inspired to write a poem, while huddled against a wooden box that holds beach rental items, with fine white sand sifting into my sandals.  Here goes:

Gray brown waves/Riled by breeze/Sizzling the sand

Wayfarers in neon green, purple, blue/Constricting nature into backdrop

Weathered wooden chairs/With no warmth/Awaiting summer occupants

Solitary seagull/Feathers ruffling/Scavenging scraps

Tiny seashells/Silent, testifying/To ocean depths

Soon, spring shall yield/To summer, hot, frenzied/Smelling of cocoanut

No longer fresh.

 

West Bengal Chronicles, Part Five (and Last): Search for the Church and Other Kolkata Final Adventures

#myculturemystory, culture, memories, travel, West Bengal, , , , ,

The last day of our grand adventure in West Bengal had come, and after some administrative business in the Contact Base offices, we set off by car to the teaming commercial center of the Bara Bazar to find a historic Armenian church.   The driver got us to the approximate location of Armenian Street, after the first set of location negotiations among people on the street.  He let us out to fine-tune the directions on foot.

The next set of location negotiations took us along the busy main drag, lined with merchandise (ranging from cosmetics to underwear to toys to plastic containers of all sizes and shapes) from the sides of cars and the backs of trucks.  The more well established sellers lined the narrow streets which we hurried down in search of Armenian Street, which seemed to be at the center of a maze of alleyways.  The variety of colors, sounds, smells and the level of activity was exhilarating, but we did not pause for purchasing since we were on a mission.

We nearly missed the doors leading into the churchyard, which was wedged between shops and announced by a small plaque.  Inside the double wooden doors stood the large church and burial ground.  We were not allowed to take photos, so check out these to see what we were rewarded with by sticking to our quest.

Having whet our appetite for sacred building searches, we set out to find a synagog that was reputed to be nearby.  This took yet another set of location negotiations, leading to a staircase off the main street that seemed highly unlikely to lead to any sort of holy edifice.  But, having faith, we climbed up and found not one but two synagogs, the second even more large and impressive than the first.  There are apparently not enough Jews in Kolkata to maintain the synagogues, and the larger of the two has just been beautifully restored to be used as a venue for concerts and other public events.

After a quick tour of the synagogues, we set out for our final touring destination, the sacred river of the Ganges.  It being Valentines Day, the park we walked through to get to the Princep Ghat (flight of stairs leading to the river) was full of young lovers, and we even witnessed a proposal.  The breeze was fresh, the vista of the wide river and imposing bridge was majestic, but alas, we only had a few short minutes to gaze and contemplate.

All too soon, we dashed for the car and headed back to our guest house to pack for our return home.  We took a quick side excursion to one of Kolkata’s most tantalizing sweet shops, so that we could bring home actual sweets as well as sweet memories from our two weeks in West Bengal.

 

 

West Bengal Chronicles, Part Four: Tepantar

West Bengal Chronicles, Part Three: Songs at Sunset

#myculturemystory, culture, memories, West Bengal, ,

As the sun descended, and the warm day gave way to a fresh-breezed evening, our small group folded ourselves down on cloth mats in a open-sided hut fashioned of bamboo.  We had come to share music with bauls from Joydev Kenduli.

We had met the two brothers taking the lead on the visit, Sudhu and Kangal Das, earlier in our trip when they participated in the Sur Jahan festival in Kolkata.  I had instantly liked them — because they are infinitely likable, resembling two colorfully dressed teddy bears who smile a lot and sing like angels.  So, here we were in their village, listening to spiritual songs accompanied by stringed instruments, drums, and bells.

The approach to this peaceful oasis had come through a wave of choking dust kicked up along the wide dry river bed by what seemed like a never-ending sea of trucks.  I recall thinking that this could not possibly be the home of the bauls, whose music is joyous and meditative.  But, here we were, a short distance from the town, overlooking that same river bed from a whole different perspective.

Notice I said “sharing music” because despite the fact that most of our US-based group were self-professed non-musicians, we had been asked to sing an American song.  I was, not so secretly, dreading this part of the evening, but I was the one who came up with the song that we should sing.  Woody Guthrie’s This Land is Your Land fit the mood somehow, evoking landscape and espousing freedom, although with typical Guthrie irony.  None of us could remember more than the first two of the seven verses, but we all joined in bravely and the bauls took over with the instrumentals once they caught the melody.

I wanted that evening to go on forever, despite the fact that I was hungry and I really had to go to the bathroom.  Bodily needs could wait while the music floated on the air and we sat, swaying to the hypnotic songs and strings.  But we finally had to unfold ourselves and walk by cell phone flashlight back toward the harsh glare of the main road.  But, writing this weeks later, I feel as though a tiny piece of that evening lodged comfortably in my heart and will hopefully remain there for good.