Tag Archives: mystery

A rooftop encounter of the enlightening kind

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It turns out ‘The Stowaway’ probably isn’t a stowaway after all. I wasn’t stalking him, but I just happened to end up on the same monastery roof…

Captain’s Log – Cunard Ship Queen Anne – this is now the 22nd day of our voyage…

Our visit to the old capital of Guatemala was to be a ‘non Farmer tour’ trip this time, which took the edge off the stress about getting back to the boat in time – we just had to find our way back to the coach.

It was however called “Antigua on your own” – so the local guide stayed on the bus! We’d heard about the beautiful cobbled streets, but even in trainers they were a little treacherous with huge holes and dips at every turn. On one street the cobbles were even being dug up by a band of workmen, causing further chaos.

The morning heat had begun to ramp up, even at 5,000 feet and at 9am in the morning, so we dodged the guides with their numbered paddle signs and headed for the famous Arch of Santa Catalina. Apparently, it was built to allow the reclusive nuns to cross from the convent to the school without being seen. Through the archway we spotted people on the roof of what looked like a cathedral – that would be a cool place to see the city, we thought.

Ten minutes later we were climbing the steps to the roof of La Merced Church and Monastery, which gave us spectacular views of the city set against a backdrop of the three volcanoes which frame the town. The dark grey mountains were capped with white clouds, that could be mistaken for smoke, but we understood that only one was currently active.

People were posing for shots on the roof with the twin peaks of two volcanoes behind them. One was a man with a rather sunburnt nose, who I recognised immediately. He was looking for someone to take his photo, now was my chance! I stepped in and smiled, taking the camera ( which is one of the oldest digital ones I’ve seen) and getting him into position in front of both the rooftop wall and the volcanoes. I asked if he was enjoying his visit and if he was going right round the world… it was a yes to both these questions, but he was more concerned that the photo was right so we tried again… I wanted to ask his name so that I could google it to satisfy my curiosity, but I chickened out. He trailed off happily to another corner of the roof and we headed up to the next level.

“That was the stowaway,” hissed my travel buddy.

“I know! That’s why I offered to take the photo – to find out more… only it didn’t feel natural to ask his name..”

She nodded and shrugged.

I’d failed! But we both agreed, he couldn’t be a stowaway, he was just a little unusual, but seemed to be having a ball. Maybe we’d never know more… but the cruise isn’t over quite yet.

One mystery sort of ‘parked’, we wandered through the grid of rather weather beaten buildings, where churches and hotels combined ancient ruins with their current accommodation. We managed to find the loveliest rooftop cafe selling coffee and delicious banana and chocolate loaf, which set us up for the journey back down to the port.

As we made our way back, we peeped through doorways and passages to catch glimpses of beautiful plant filled courtyards with fountains and pools, like a mini oasis from the dusty cobbled streets. And the most surprising of these was, wait for it, Starbucks!

The guide had told us we must all call in, and he was right, because it was like no Starbucks I’ve ever been in before. There were huge brightly coloured murals on the walls, and old ceramic tiles on the floor, which blended with the dark wood panels of the counter.

Then just past the counter an archway led into an inner courtyard where comfy wicker chairs and low tables were interspersed with trailing plants and trees and I’m sure there was a trickling fountain somewhere. The only thing to let you know it was Starbucks were the white and green carton mugs and the staff aprons! What I want to know is, why aren’t all Starbucks like that?

Once we’d located coach number 23, which we both thought was white, but turned out to be green (nil points for observation), we were relieved that the heavy traffic wasn’t our problem, because we knew the ship would wait for one of their own coaches.

In the end, there were just a few minutes to spare when we got back on board… next stop Mexico.

The three ‘wise’ women?

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Who’d have thought three women in saris would have caused such a stir on Christmas Eve….

As if there wasn’t enough excitement this year with all the family together in our new Devon home, some special Indian gifts were handed out on Christmas Eve. Our daughter, who had just returned from four months volunteering in Northern India, was hopping from one foot to the other keen to hand out her long planned presents.
“Let’s do the Indian presents now, before we eat?” She suggested.
Her brothers frowned… “It’s not Christmas yet…”
But she wouldn’t be put off and there was dressing up involved.

A few minutes later three ornately embroidered saris were laid out beneath the Christmas tree,  gold thread glistening under the fairy lights, amidst ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and ‘thank you – how beautiful’. The next step was for three of us to dress up in them, which involved a lot of careful folding and draping and fixing a few well placed safety pins. Some time later we paraded down the stairs in our finery and enjoyed a delicious meal together.

We usually attend midnight mass on Christmas Eve and this year we were planning to join the little parish church in the village. However, due to clergy staffing problems, the 11.30pm service had become a 9pm event and suddenly we were in a rush.
“We can’t go in saris!” Someone exclaimed as others pulled on coats and boots and set down half full glasses of wine.
“Why not?” said the driver – who does a lot of dressing up in uniforms for his day job.

And that was how it happened. Scooping up our colourful skirts, we piled into the minibus still slightly unsure about the wisdom of our attire on a dark December night in deepest Devon. On arrival outside the church we managed to negotiate the stone steps towards the lantern lit pathway to the church. Another family all wearing bobble hats arrived at the entrance at the same time and looked slightly surprised to see us in our finery.
“We’re Indians!” I said in explanation, which confused people even more and made everyone giggle (or was it just the wine?).

As we traipsed into the candlelit church and filed into pews, there were plenty of smiles and whispers of admiration.
“I didn’t know it was fancy dress…” Someone behind us mumbled.
Even the vicar announced she was looking forward to finding out about the mysterious costumes after the service and then spent the rest of the time dropping her books, announcing the wrong carols and searching for her sermon notes in a very thick bookmarked folder.

At the end of the service there just wasn’t time to explain to everyone why we’d worn saris, although our in-house chaplain had already announced we were ‘the Three Wise Women from the East’, which left people even more confused.

By Christmas morning the saris had long been folded away and we headed down to the beach clasping bottles of fiz and smoked salmon sandwiches to join in the traditional ‘Christmas at the Beach’ celebrations with the locals. As we met more of our neighbours in a huddle beside a ruined tower, sheltering from the wind, one lady said how much she had enjoyed the Christmas Eve service.
“But what was very strange,” she said, confidentially, “some people came dressed in saris. They looked lovely, but I don’t know what it was all about.”
It certainly was a mystery. And a much-discussed event for the village.
I chuckled into my glass, as someone sidled up and said, “It was you in the saris wasn’t it?”

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Some garbled explanation was begun, but minutes later another kind of costume became the focus of attention as some of our children and their friends stripped down to bikinis and boardies and ran into the freezing grey water. There were shouts and cheers from the Champaign swigging onlookers. There’s nothing like a Christmas Day dip in the sea!

Now, the big question for 2018 is, what shall we wear to church on Christmas Eve?