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Vertigo in Mission Dolores
Aug 24, 2008
On a September morning in San Francisco, I stood at the bus stop on Portola and Shaughnessy. A violin-driven Viva la vida by Coldplay came my way on the waist-band Walkman radio. I looked at the Sutro Tower, up in the clouds, knowing that the haunting rock melody emanated from its red antennae. Much of the city’s TV and radio signals were beamed from there.
Just then a bus swooshed in. It was route #36, to Guerrearo. Will it take me to Castro? I asked the pretty young Afro-American at the wheel. She went hmm, hmmm. I jumped in, took a seat. The attractive lady driver was working on a sandwich breakfast and tetra-packed OJ. As she maneuvered the vehicle, she further multi-tasked, on the wireless. When I got the chance I asked, ‘Please let me know when we reach Castro.’
I heard a re-run of Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958) was playing at the historic movie palace.
‘Shit’, she said prettily, eyes widening, ‘Geez! We passed it. When I pull up at the next stop, just walk up to it, ok?’
No problemo, I said to myself, readying for a bit of walk.
Dolores Street and Indians
I hopped off at Dolores Street. The area is probably one of the oldest parts of San Francisco.
A gorgeous stream once flowed here. By its bountiful banks lived the Bay area’s earliest inhabitants, the Ohlone Indians. These people migrated to the Bay area some 10,000 years ago. They harvested food, fished or hunted with catapults or bows spears. Says Tristan Hanson in the book, Ohlone Indians, ‘Whenever they had to kill an animal, they would thank its deity for the food. In fact, there were certain animals that they would not kill for religious purposes.’
These gentle people lived in simple dome-shaped housing, fashioned by wooden frames and a covering by reed mats. It was architecture, a strategy, to keep off the cold winds and deter intruders.
That ancient delicate system however was no match for the early Europeans. The white men fell on the Indians and their homes in the 1700s with ease. It was by accident, though, that the Spanish under Don Gaspar de Portola happened on the innocent trusting people. The troupe in fact was looking for the naval base Monterey Bay
The soldiers, bearing strange names - Jose Joaquin Moraga or Juan De Anza, along with a party of priests, set about building presidios, garrison forts, and missions by the water – naming the area ‘Lake of Our Lady of Sorrows’, Arroyo de Nuestra Senora de los Dolores, after Virgin Mary. In time, the whole region was named after Saint Francis of Assisi. With that, San Francisco, as we know it today, came into being. On that landmark day, June 29, 1776, Mission Dolores conducted its first formal service in the new chapel.
Almost immediately the 10, 000 or so coastal Indians became history.
Of the many Spanish colonial imprints that abound in this part of California, this one on the historic Dolores Street is probably numero uno.
To get to this landmark, I passed Victorian houses, an island of palm trees, a beautiful park, a yoga centre, an impressive mission school with a red-tiled roof and white walls…and got wonderful, panoramic views of glistening downtown SF and the East Bay. The destination was up on a hill from where Sutro Tower could be seen.
Along the way to get directions I stopped a middle-aged redhead walking a Yorkshire terrier. The little fella immediately started wagging his tail. Taking this to mean that he was friendly, I reached out to pat his head. Mistake. The mutt snapped, bared teeth, went grrrr. Before he could take my hand or ankle, I scooted – in the direction the lady indicated.
Mission Dolores
A few minutes later I was at Mision San Francisco de Asis, better known as Mission Dolores. From across the street, it doesn’t look much. It’s a modest two-storey building with sloping roofs, a cross at the top, and an arched entrance. It looks like something plucked out of Mangalore or Goa. As I crossed the street to enter the building, I was half-expecting Konkan kitchen aromas - of vindaloo and spicy fish curry and steaming rice to greet me. Instead, at the entrance gift shop, wafting in the air was the gentle fragrance of incense and candles and old wood.
From the gift shop, after a donation of $3, I crossed over to the famed but small chapel and sanctuary, a tiny courtyard, a museum and display, before venturing out into the cemetery and garden, before making an exit.
The Mission building was completed in 1791. Much of that period structure was there to see. The building is just 114 ft long and has rough adobe brick walls that are 4 ft thick. Redwood logs support the roof. They are lashed together with rawhide. The chapel’s ceiling though redone has original Ohlone vegetable dyed designs. The gold coloured main altar and the two side altars were crafted by Mexicans. Access to the choir loft is now closed. The present spiral staircase leads to the three bells of the Mission.
It was at hot, mid-day that I reached the cemetery. Coincidentally, it occurred to me, that the recurring graveyard scene in Vertigo – where retired detective James Stewart, with acrophobia, shadows the mysterious Kim Novak, was shot here.
The sun sharply bore down on the well-maintained garden, carefully restored to reflect the glory of the 1791 period - complete with a statue of Father Junipero Serra, founder of the mission. Roses, courtesy the Golden Gate Rose Society, and examples of Ohlone ethno-botanic specimen including plants and artifacts, beautify the cemetery. Some of the markers, intriguingly, belong to the Irish. To be buried here meant they worshipped in the church, which begs the question: What were the Irish doing here in the first place? Even as I pondered on that, a magnificent tombstone caught my attention. It was that of the beautiful Kateri Tekakwitha, Lilly of the Mohawks, a ‘Christian Indian’ who was abducted and married to a ‘secular’ Mohawk chief. For some reason, that brought to mind the ‘icy and remote’ Madeleine/Kim Novak.
Wiping the perspiration off my neck, I went searching the graves amid the ‘historical, traditional and native, shrubs, flowers and plants’, wondering where exactly the cinematic blonde sat and placed the flowers. The ‘fake’ Carlotta Valdes headstone has long been removed. Exhausted and dizzy, I stepped out of the gift shop’s exit door, into the blazing afternoon sun. Like James Stewart it hit me. There’s no point looking for women who don’t exist!
With that I set out to catch ‘Vertigo’ and relive some of the incidents of the morning.Similarly Different
Aug 23, 2008
Nostalgia for the simple life and uncomplicated everyday options seized my middle-aged mind when, abroad, I ran out of toothpaste, and dashed to the supermarket. The plan of action - zip in, pick toothpaste, race back to make it to the meeting on time, got unstuck from the word Go.
At the retail outlet, I arrived at the Oral Care section. There, stretching as far as the eye could see were toothpastes - Total Fresh Stripe, Janina Whitening, Advanced Whitening, Fresh Energy Gel, Herbal Family Protection, more Active Gel this time Red Hot… The ridiculously large selection boggled the mind. All I wanted was simple toothpaste that I routinely buy, something with a minty flavour. I moved from left aisle to right aisle looking for it. No go.
Moving to another aisle, I was dazzled by more toothpaste options - Baking Soda & Peroxide Whitening with Tartar Control, Herbal White, 2-in-1 Germicheck... The bounty of the marketplace was clearly impressive even if it made my head spin. Some twenty minutes on, mesmerized by it all and bowled over by the giddy progress the toothpaste industry had made, I remembered my morning meeting. ‘Where the heck is mint?’ I muttered under breath. An elderly sardarni probably heard me, for she said, ‘Beta, there.’ Thanking her, I raced to the ‘mint’ shelf. Almost immediately the heart started pounding faster. In front was a forest of White Daily Fluoride Mint, Classic Strong Mint, Ginger Mint, Cool Mint Freshness, Jasmin Mint, Ayurvedic Fresh Mint, Herbal Mint … Deluged by a mint, I found myself going ‘Which mint? Which mint?!’
That was months ago. Back home, shopping again for toothpaste I found to my horror, that phoren craziness had taken over my friendly neighbourhood kirana. Hordes of toothpaste brands, fruity flavours included, adorned the shelves. A choice that should be easy and simple had become tricky and complex.
Later looking around and thinking about it, I found that choices were abounding in our daily lives like never before. Milk at the booth look similar but they come in different coloured satches. Flick television channels, programs come on that are eerily and monotonously similar. At the clothing store, most jeans look similar. In the grocery story, all imported apples look the same. Is this bewildering array of choices draining our brains and restricting us rather than freeing us? Over to you Jaaved Jaffrey, tell us, what’s different?
Some like it Hot
Aug 15, 2008
In the land of my ancestors, tough old women smoked cheroots in reverse. They had the burning end inside the mouth. When they had something to say, with a simple flick of tongue, they’d bring out the amber end.
At meal times, they and their men didn’t pussyfoot around with food either. They’d fall heartily on the spread that was markedly spicy, flaming red and seriously, kick-ass hot. The famed Guntur chillies were central to every dish. Even at the end of the meal, curd-rice was taken with red-hot pickle or raw green chillies.
The chillies were easily the mother of the hottest chilli peppers. Dynamite stuff. "A sure-fire prescription for disaster," said doctor-father, watching the fireworks and gastronomic devilry of his elders from a safe distance, while carefully working around a specially made bland meal.
Aged relatives matter-of-factly discussed Andhra cuisine, "Everyone in the family ate like that," they said. "It kept everyone healthy. People lived well beyond 80." Such tales joyfully filled long, rainy evenings when electricity was on the blink. As kids in the 60s, we hung on to each word as the family kathas unfolded amidst much excitement.
A robust 86-year-old avva who could read without glasses said that her great grandfather joined the East India Company’s army. So wherever the officers pitched their tent the family went - but always with a good supply of Guntur chillies.
Some fought in the Carnatic wars. Excitedly, we kids would ask, "Did they fight in WWII?" That childish indiscretion was met with a chuckle. "That war was only yesterday" one old thing said between fits of laughter and coughing. Then notes on dates would be exchanged like pungent tobacco powder and paan.
Finally, a matriculate said, "Our forefathers come from a royal martial lineage. What the white man called Tilangas." Tilangas? Some 50 years after I first heard that word, it rang a bell. Then a scary thought occurred. Was it possible, just possible, that some distant relatives were in the garrison around Red Fort? How did they manage to get fresh Guntur chilli?
As anyone in the family will tell you, without that daily fiery fix, men tended to get impatient, ballistic. So did the ancient relatives chuck away their uniforms and go wild in Bahadurshah Zafar’s court? One can only imagine the worst. Dalrymple’s ‘The Last Mughal’ and Ghalib’s notes are silent on this point.
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