The tricks were the stock-in-trade of the circus magician, sleights of hand and extravagant gestures that had us all cheering and clapping. As they followed one after the other, the crowd was transformed. For those brief moments, adults forgot about their troubles, about the cars crawling past, the honking horns, and remembered their childhood. Children were reminded of the power of suggestion. But the biggest transformation, bigger even than the rabbit that was turned into a pigeon, was of the magician himself. For as long as his performance lasted, Bafa was wreathed in a majestic light. He stood taller. He smiled. The cares of his failing life were forgotten. There on the Alexandria waterfront, the greatest trick of all was the reinvention of the trickster.
Then the loudspeakers on the front of the fishermen’s mosque crackled into life and, as the faithful were called to prayer, the crowd began to slip away. Bafa knew what this meant, that his moment had passed, and made one last extravagant gesture, taking a low bow while there were still people to applaud. He smiled at me. And I smiled back, my job done.
The Magic Garden of Nek Chand
PAUL COX
Born in Holland, Paul Cox migrated to Australia in the mid-1960s as a trained photographer and went on to become one of the country’s most prolific, individualistic and internationally acclaimed filmmakers. Over a 35-year filmmaking career, the signature traits of Cox’s work are a deep humanism, a poignant and realistic focus on relationships, eclecticism, and a profound affinity with the arts. An international film festival favorite whose retrospectives include New York’s prestigious Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts, Cox is one of the true independent filmmakers in contemporary cinema.
My friend Ulli Beier returned one day from a trip to India and showed me photographs he’d taken in a garden in Chandigarh. This was not an ordinary garden. It was called the ‘Rock Garden’ and Ulli’s slides showed a glimpse into a world of magic and beauty that one encounters in strange dreams and strange hallucinations. Endless rows of queens and kings, horsemen, wild animals and other creatures known and unknown standing on hills, in ponds, hiding in exotic temples, alleyways and archways.
The person responsible for creating this Rock Garden was an amazing artist called Nek Chand. I remember having a wild dream that night and something or someone told me, ‘Go there immediately, make a film, make a record, and preserve this miracle.’ The message had an urgency that surprised me.
Ulli told me that Nek Chand’s creation had been under siege several times. Nek Chand had claimed government land and a politician had tried to call in the bulldozers to reclaim the land. Fortunately this had been fought by local supporters and friends, but the garden remained under threat. I felt urgently compelled to record it for posterity!
But filmmaking is not like any of the other arts. It requires money, people, rights, scripts. And where do you find the money and the people to invest in something as mysterious and exotic as a so-called ‘rock garden?’ There wasn’t much time and we both had other commitments.
We decided to just do it! I was still teaching at the time and asked a fellow teacher, Bryan Gracey, to carry the lights. I had an old camera and managed to find enough rolls of Kodak film for our task ahead.
We bought three cheap tickets to New Delhi and within a fortnight we were on our way. In Delhi there were no trains to take us to Chandigarh. There were some political problems in the Punjab. We found a taxi driver who promised he would get us there ‘in no time.’
The approximately 150-kilometer trip took us two days! Apart from the car losing several parts on the bumpy roads, there were other problems I won’t go into. We stayed overnight at a very cheap inn and as we were munching away at our fried rice, a rat appeared and casually found a place in the window behind Ulli’s back.
Ulli was a wonderful storyteller and barely flinched when I told him that a rat was staring at his left ear and was trying to put his front legs on his shoulder. Then three other large rats appeared and started to fight on the floor of the small restaurant. They were really large and even the local people were standing on tables and chairs to avoid getting involved!
The next day we found our rock garden. It had been a bit of an ordeal to get there, but the first sight of the garden and meeting its creator made us forget everything. When we arrived, there was an old sadhu sitting on a hill. He was wearing the same colors as the statues that surrounded him. Then he sang an old devotional song from the very heart of India and we became too mesmerized to move. The singing of that old man has always traveled with me.
Nek Chand, a humble man, had been working as a road inspector near Chandigarh when he had a vivid dream of a vast kingdom on the very site of which he was in charge. For the next eight years he labored to convert this wasteland into the magic kingdom of his dream. Working day and night after normal working hours, he gathered and transported on his bicycle stones, rocks and urban waste. He retrieved old cycles and unusable parts from cycle shops. He burned old bicycle tyres to give him light at night. He collected used factory drums and broken crockery from restaurants and cafés. He collected buckets full of broken bangles thrown away after festivals. Out of all this garbage, broken articles of daily use, pebbles and stones, he built his kingdom.
Beginning with the king’s throne, the original dream expanded. The garden grew and grew, quietly, never requiring the purchase of materials, subsidy, or advice. Art for art’s sake, for no reward, no recognition during the long years in solitude.
The garden remained a secret until it was discovered eight years after its conception by government employees spraying against malaria on the outskirts of the city. The discovery so moved officials that they began to help Nek Chand. Some politicians complained about a government employee using public land, but this narrow-mindedness was soon ignored. The Rock Garden was formally inaugurated in 1976 and since then people from all over the world have visited this strange, almost living work of art, a wonderland of rare artistic merit created entirely from waste material. The director of the Musée d’Art Moderne in Paris wrote in Nek Chand’s visitor book, ‘God has a competitor – his name is Nek Chand.’
No visitor entering this magic garden remains unmoved. Children gaze enthralled; adults are mesmerized. This is the work of a single obsessive human being, an artist of great instinctive integrity. I’ve watched people visiting Disneyland, and I’ve sat for days high on the wall of Nek Chand’s kingdom, watching its visitors. No doubt Disneyland is enchanting, but the people leave it spiritually empty-handed. Here in Nek Chand’s garden they are enriched to such a degree that they leave quietly, holding hands, smiling. They’ve shared something of magic and beauty that will nourish their dreams for many years to come.
Ulli Beier died recently. He was also a man of magic. What a great privilege it was to have known him and to have traveled with him. From him I learned to look at the world openly and humbly without making a face. He taught and inspired thousands of students around the world, from Nigeria to New Guinea, Germany to Australia. Our little film The Kingdom of Nek Chand is now dedicated to his memory and to all those who inspire, treasure and honor the creative force within all of us.
The Wonders of Whitby
NEIL LABUTE
Neil LaBute is a writer and director for film, theater and television. His projects include In the Company of Men, Bash, The Shape of Things, Your Friends & Neighbors, The Distance from Here, Filthy Talk for Troubled Times, Nurse Betty, Fat Pig, The Break of Noon, Possession, Wrecks, Autobahn, This is How it Goes, The Wicker Man, The Mercy Seat, In a Dark Dark House, Lakeview Terrace, Death at a Funeral, In a Forest, Dark and Deep, and Some Girl(s). He is also the author of the short story collection Seconds of Pleasure.
If you happen to find yourself on the northern coast of England making a motion picture (as I did a few years ago), then be sure to put the town of Whitby at the top of your list of ‘places I need to visit on the northern coast of England while I make a motion picture.’ Or you might want to visit one day for no apparent r
eason, which I would happily suggest to virtually anyone who enjoys England, the outdoors or any place remotely beautiful.
I was lucky enough to spend a few days in Yorkshire while working on an adaptation of AS Byatt’s Possession. A good portion of the novel is set in this lovely northern community and we were lucky enough to film various scenes on or near the actual locations suggested in her book.
Whitby is a rugged and handsome community, perched on the mouth of the River Esk as it reaches the North Sea. It is a place of extreme juxtapositions and it is an amazing place to ‘people watch’ as the locals, tourists and goths mix freely in the streets. The sheer number and variety of ‘types’ you see walking down the narrow avenues of Whitby is reward enough for stopping there, but there is much more to enjoy for the day visitor or someone who plans to spend a few days in the region.
One of the best places to start is high above the town – 199 steps, to be exact, up a beautifully weathered stone staircase – at the ruins of Whitby Abbey, which was the inspiration for parts of the classic novel Dracula. In fact, Bram Stoker stayed in Whitby while writing his most famous work and his attention to local detail is apparent in the pages of his story. The Abbey is now visited by flocks of tourists but it is the huge influx of ‘goths’ (a wide net that includes vampire enthusiasts, people who are drawn to the clothes and trappings of a ‘gothic’ lifestyle and many others) who have turned this area into a local mecca for the macabre. Whitby itself has embraced the black-garbed visitors and now has twice-yearly festivals, ‘Goth Weekends,’ that are major tourist attractions and rank high on the calendars of gothic-themed events around the world.
Just below the ruins of the Abbey itself is one of my favorite sites in all of Whitby. There is a little parish church just near the top of the stairs on the east cliff of the town where a stunning graveyard sits. The headstones number among the most singular and haunting I have ever seen (and I do love looking at headstones). The faces of these stone monuments have all been nearly worn away by the rough sea air and the salt has created a jumble of lost words and memories. They really do have to be seen to be believed; I found them a moving and unforgettable tribute to people long since passed away.
Whitby is certainly known for many other treasures as well as its rich Victorian heritage in literature – many fossils have been found in the nearby cliffs, and jet (a kind of hard black mineraloid created by decaying wood) has been a standard form of minor gemstone since the reign of Queen Victoria. Even the Roman invaders mined the rich-looking material from the local area, but jet was made most famous by the Queen herself and it began to be used fashionably as an accessory in mourning dress. It is something that can be easily carved and shaped with detail so its use in jewelry grew greatly during the nineteenth century. Some beautiful examples are still in evidence in various shops in the old town of Whitby.
Wonderful ammonite fossils – or ‘snake stones’ – have also been unearthed in the steep valley and seaside cliffs surrounding the town. These are sold as religious souvenirs in various shops and gift stalls throughout Whitby, adding to the rich atmosphere and heritage of this delightful town. Nothing is more precious, though, than a simple walk down the alleys and twisting streets of Whitby itself. Each of the buildings in town seems to house a vast history, all the way down to the edge of the water where the twin piers lead you out into the great North Sea. The whole town feels like an adventure that one wants to take when they’re young but will remember for a lifetime no matter when in life they do it.
A stop at the Magpie Café for amazing fish and chips is well worth your time, but you’ll be getting your cod or halibut with the skin on one side, which is not my favorite way for it to be served. I’m a child of the ‘fish sticks and Tater Tots’ generation and I like my fish prepared like the good folks at Long John Silver’s do it, with no portion of the actual fish in sight. The only time I’ve ever had fish and chips without the skin on in England was in the nearby northern town of Scarborough and frankly, it’s worth the drive. Delicious chips (‘French fries’ to most Americans) are easy to come by, but a piece of batter-dipped fish without that dark skin on it is worth the travel (and there’s also a lovely theater-in-the-round, the Stephen Joseph, in Scarborough that used to be run by the great English director and playwright Alan Ayckbourn).
Outside of town is a wonderful little train station and further up into the valley is the rugged countryside that leads back to the Yorkshire moors, which is where Ms Byatt imagined a fanciful meeting of her Victorian poets and present-day literary sleuths (at a beautiful small waterfall called Thomason Foss). Whitby is a terrific place to spend an afternoon or a weekend, and the thrills and delights are not just fictional ones, I promise you. Whitby is full of life and food and people whom you will remember long after you are safely back home and the coast of England is but a happy, distant memory.
I love London, but I adore Whitby. It is now what I dream of when I dream of England.
A Day in Istanbul
RICK STEVES
Rick Steves has spent a hundred days every year since 1973 exploring Europe. Rick produces a public television series, Rick Steves’ Europe, a public radio show, Travel with Rick Steves, and a podcast, Rick Steves’ Audio Europe; writes a bestselling series of guidebooks and a nationally syndicated newspaper column; organizes guided tours that take thousands of travelers to Europe annually; and offers an information-packed website, www.ricksteves.com. With the help of his hardworking staff of seventy at Europe Through the Back Door – in Edmonds, Washington, just north of Seattle – Rick’s mission is to make European travel fun, affordable, and culturally broadening for Americans.
Standing in a commotion of commuters in a churning ferry terminal, I looked into the camera and said, ‘Istanbul is one of the world’s great cities, period. For thousands of years, this point, where East meets West, has been the crossroads of civilizations. Few places on earth have seen more history than this sprawling metropolis on the Bosphorus.’
But I wasn’t happy with the shot. The site just wasn’t right. Mentally scanning all possible angles, it hit me – we needed what filmmakers call a ‘high-wide,’ a wide-angle, almost aerial shot. I wanted to show the freighter-filled Bosphorus and its Golden Horn inlet, the teeming Galata Bridge, lumbering commuter ferries churning up the port, and a huge mosque in the foreground. It was a lot to ask for.
We went to the spot I envisioned (above what the locals call the New Mosque, near the famous Spice Market) and surveyed the zone. A restaurant had a shaded roof terrace; we went there, and the view was fabulous, except there was no direct sunshine to light my face. With the bright vista in the background, that wouldn’t work.
Next door, a toy company had offices with a small rooftop terrace in the sun. It was perfect. We explained our need, and they welcomed our crew onto their roof, brought us tea, and – grabbing a calm moment between gusts of wind – I delivered my lines.
Istanbul is rich in images and stories to tell. For this six-day shoot, we had enough material for two shows, but I decided I’d rather do a ‘dense’ Istanbul in half an hour, so some scenes had to be cut.
Simon Griffith, my producer-director, and I had to drop a sequence about merchants in the Grand Bazaar pitching their wares with goofy, sentimental and clever sales lines. Wandering through the market, I had an almost masochistic yearning to be hit with their desperate come-ons: ‘Can I sell you something you don’t need?’ ‘Love is blind but never mind.’ ‘Don’t I know you?’ ‘Special price today … just for you, my friend.’
I really wanted to capture that flirtatious montage on video. But with a big camera, the merchants clammed up. While some were simply shy, others seemed to have been burned recently by TV reporters doing negative stories. One guy said, ‘You just want to make us look bad.’ I said, ‘No, I want to make you look good. Are you bad?’ He said, ‘We are bad, yes. But we don’t want to look bad.’
Thankfully, my favorite market artisan did his time-honored craft can
didly … despite our camera. In the far end of the bazaar, the goldsmith was hard at work – melting scraps and sweepings into a little brick of solid gold. In three minutes, the gold went from loose shavings to molten metal poured into a mold, cooled in a bucket of water, polished with newspaper, and into my hands. Being the first to hold that brand-new, four-pound brick of gold in that funky, ramshackle, hot hole-in-the-wall was fun … and great TV.
During the shoot, I tuned into the people around us. At first, there were cruise-ship passengers filling the Hippodrome square and the main street in the Grand Bazaar. When a perfect storm of cruise ships pulls into port, the tourist zones of the city are inundated with groups obediently following the numbered ping-pong paddles of their local guides. But then, by simply stepping into the thriving market streets beyond the tourist zone, the tourists were gone, replaced by a festival of telegenic local faces.
I’d always wanted to film Istanbul’s fishing boat captains cooking up their catch right on their bobbing decks. They serve it in hunks of bread wrapped in newspaper. (This Istanbul fast food is a sentimental memory from my teenage visit here.) So I took the crew down to the waterfront. With the boats rocking wildly, we bought our sandwiches.
As I sat down to eat mine, a bird strafed me. It was as if yellow mustard (the expensive kind with grains in it) had just squirted out of the sky. A streak landed on my sleeve and another on the thigh of my pants. I heard a third squirt land in the vicinity of my sandwich. When I surveyed my fried mackerel, it was still the same color – rustic yellow – camouflaging whatever may have landed there.
Lights, Camera...Travel! Page 10
