Going Neck And Neck

This Race Is Sure To End In A Tie

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Yes, they're my ties. Yes, I have a fondness for striped ties. No, I don't only wear striped ties - I have others as well. Yes, I wear a tie and suit to work.

And yes, a lot of my ties are chosen by Mrs Authorblog and the Authorbloglets.

Even when I was in boarding school at St Joseph's College, North Point, Darjeeling, we had to wear striped ties seven days a week. We had no problem with that, as the weather in the Himalayan town, famous for its schools and it tea gardens, was always cold.

Down on the plains, in the sweltering Indian summer, it would have been an uncomfortable imposition to wear a tie to school every day. But up in Darjeeling, nestled among the mountains, it was never a problem.


On normal class days, we wore dark grey suits with our striped house ties. Each house was named after one of the Jesuits from the school's early days and I was in Fallon house, with a proud eagle as its symbol and with a house tie that was resplendent in dark blue, light blue and burgundy.

On Saturdays we wore the North Point school tie with our dark blue blazers and light grey slacks and on Sundays we wore the same tie with our dark blue suits.

And what colour was the school tie? Light blue stripes on a dark blue background - so it's easy to see why I still have striped ties in my wardrobe. And yes, I still have a North Point tie.


Visit TNChick's Photo Hunt. Today's theme: "Striped''.

K Is For Kaleidoscope

Photography Isn't All About Black And White

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

I was very little when I used a kaleidoscope for myself. I was instantly enthralled. Not just by the vivid colours, but also by the patterns that emerged and changed with each turn of a hand.

It gave me a deep and abiding appreciation for hues and for symmetry – all so crucial for a photographer of any level of experience.

When I was 13, I embarked on a great voyage of understanding photography that was to have very far-reaching consequences. I was in my first year in the Upper Division (senior school) at St Joseph’s College, North Point, Darjeeling.

Each student could elect to join two activity groups, in addition to all the sport we played right round the year. It’s interesting, in retrospect, to look back on my choices – my first preference was the photography group and my second was the horticulture group.


My interest in flowers, sparked by growing up in a huge home with a rambling, colourful garden, is still an abiding passion that I have passed on to the Authorbloglets. And my interest in photography, kick-started by the joy of using that early box Brownie, has taken me to many amazing places around the world.

For someone who had barely entered my teens, they were pretty significant choices.

So that year, I learned the intricacies of using a darkroom. I learnt how to mix chemicals in the correct proportions and where to place the trays. I learnt the value of safety in a confined space. I learnt how to work in the soft glow of the red light in that room. I learnt how to develop films.

I learnt how to use one of those beautiful, angled, sliding enlargers. I learnt how to print images. I learnt how to cut the emulsion-coated paper. I learnt how to ensure that contrast was always maintained in the prints we produced. And I learnt how to use the fixer tray so that the black areas on each print didn’t turn brown.

It was a world that I approached with great enthusiasm. At the time, I didn’t realise (and not surprisingly, given my tender age) that the world of photography would hold several keys in my life.


Back then, of course, it was all black-and-white photography in the realm of spool film. As I grew up, I realised that colour photography, even though it was so much more expensive in those days, was just as intriguing.

Yes, I appreciate that the classical masters of black-and-white photography defined an era to be cherished. But equally crucial is the appreciation that technology has changed so rapidly, especially in the last five years, that the world of colour is what defines our surroundings.

My darkroom experience in the many-sided art that is true photography is precisely the reason I do not edit images or use filters with my camera - the challenge is to produce an acceptable image of decent quality without any of the electronic equivalents of the darkroom era.

So it's just me and a camera in the outdoors - and it does not get more fulfilling than that.

Those early years taught me many facets of the art, but I know this – no one can tell you the correct approach to photography. You have to define your own path. You assimilate. You learn.

You appreciate all the advice that the experts give you, face-to-face, in books and on websites. But the true definition of art is in establishing the boundaries for yourself.


For the home of ABC Wednesday, go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.

Branch Manager

Everyone Needs A Social Climber (Sometimes)

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

When I was a kid, my parents' garden at 3 Dumayne Avenue in Calcutta (now Kolkata) was full of flowers. There was an amazing variety and the aroma and sea of colours suffused every corner of the huge property we were lucky to live on.

But for some reason I don't think we ever grew orchids, although I remember being aware of the plants. I also seem to recollect seeing them grown in pots at the annual flower show at the Horticultural Gardens.

When I was eleven years old, we travelled to Bangkok and Singapore and I remember the airline staff giving my mother a beautiful pink-and-purple orchid which she proudly pinned to her dress.


At boarding school in St Joseph's College, North Point, Darjeeling, in the foothills of the Himalayas, I was once a member of an authorised group of schoolboys who were given once-a-year permission to trek to nearby Lebong, set up camp overnight and spent about 24 hours examining local flora.

We also had special permission to carefully and responsibly (and what important caveats they were, both then and now) take certain plant specimens back to the school greenhouse.

I was thirteen when our group spotted a splendid orchid high up a tree. Among our number we had basic tree-climbers (me), talented tree-climbers (about ten) and supremely gifted rock-climbers (about three) but not one of us could get to the branch that held the orchid.


After about half an hour a "kancha" (a Nepali word for "little boy") came whistling down the hillside. We looked at each other just like cartoon characters do when they are endowed with sudden inspiration.

Our leader had a quick word with the lad, who would not have been more than about eight years old. He nodded, eager to prove his skill. And when our leader added the inducement of a handful of boiled sweets, the kancha could not have approached his task with more zeal.

In less time than it would take you to read this post, he had climbed the tree, grabbed the orchid, come down safely, accepted his reward and gone whistling on his merry way.


Visit Luiz Santilli Jr for the home of Today's Flowers.

Rainbow Connection

Who's Been Painting The Sky?

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Can there be beauty in a threatening grey sky? Yes, as this series of photographs - taken about ten days ago - will show. I was out in the back yard, trying to divine whether the gloomy sky was a portent of the rain we need so desperately. Behind me, however, the sun in the mid-evening western sky was so bright that it was reflecting off the roof tiles of a neighbouring house. I took a couple of shots of the unusual light shining on the tiles and then a few minutes later a rainbow appeared in the east, so I took the shot again, this time including a segment of the rainbow.

So I had dark grey clouds in front of me in the eastern sky, yet behind me the sun was bright. Did we get a drop of rain? Nope. But I was about to go back indoors when I noticed a second rainbow had appeared, so I managed to get two or three shots before it started to fade.


When I was a kid, I remember being open-mouthed in amazement as my mother explained to me that rainbows are actually doughnut-shaped, but because we generally view them from the earth, all we see is a semi-circular arc.

I remember asking my mother how she knew this. Remember, this was long before the internet, long before Google. But my mum was my Google, because she knew everything there was to know and everything that was important to know and she could explain it to me in three languages, English, Latin and French. So she wasn't fussed about being asked such an irreverent question by an inky little schoolboy. And that's when she told me that as a student, she had once seen a full rainbow from a mountain town in India.

"Will I ever see one?" I asked.

"If you're lucky," she told me.

Later, when I completed primary school, I went to high school at St Joseph's College, North Point, in the Himalayan town of Darjeeling. Our school looked out onto an uninterrupted view of Mount Kanchanjunga, the world's third-highest peak, and during my wonderful years there I saw many majestic sights that drove home the message of Nature's power and beauty. But I never saw a full rainbow.

Then I became a sportswriter shortly after I graduated from university and I travelled constantly, flying to one amazing city after another. But finally, in 1982, I saw a full rainbow for the first and only time in my life. I flew to Kathmandu, Nepal, to get an exclusive interview with the just-retired Bjorn Borg (you can read the story of that helter-skelter trip at Interview with Bjorn Borg) and as the Boeing 737 took off from the airfield of the Himalayan kingdom, I looked out from my habitual window seat and I was blessed with a view of an entire rainbow that I will never forget.

Then in October 1987, my wife took a photograph of me at Niagara Falls. Being the meticulous person that she is, Mrs Authorblog motioned me to move until she was able to take the photograph so that it looked as though the rainbow over the Falls was actually coming out of my head. We often look at the shots from that holiday and I grin and say to the kids: "That was the day Mum found her pot of gold at the end of the rainbow."

But I think Mrs Authorblog has got them brainwashed. She just arches her eyebrows and replies, "Yeah, right," and the Authorbloglets echo her in chorus. One day they'll slip up and say "Yep".

A Is For Australia

Your Sons Have Different Nationalities, Ma'am?

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

One of the funniest examples of family-related geography took place when I was fourteen years old, in my second-last year of boarding school at St Joseph's College, Darjeeling – the school famously known by its compass orientation, North Point.

I should point out that there is a substantial age gap between my three older siblings and me – Keith, Michael and Brian got a head start of fifteen, twelve and ten years respectively. Because my brothers were in boarding school, I only saw them for three months each year. By the time I was six years old, each of them had left the family home, Keith and Brian to join the merchant navy and Michael to become a fighter pilot.

Keith then lived in England for a while before moving to Australia, where he eventually took on Australian citizenship. Shortly after I started Year Ten, Keith returned to India on holiday, travelling on an Australian passport.

As Brian just happened to be in Calcutta at the time, it was decided that he and our mother would travel to Darjeeling with Keith. But because Keith was now a ``foreigner’’, he had to get special permission to visit Darjeeling, and the necessary paperwork was completed without a hitch. Once they arrived in the beautiful Himalayan town where my school was situated, it was decided that they would spend a day or two extra – which in turn meant that Keith had to apply for an extension.

While I was in class one morning, Mum and Brian accompanied Keith to the official who would review his case. They explained they just wanted a couple of extra days because they were spending as much time as possible with me while I was at boarding school. Very efficiently, Keith was given permission and the necessary paperwork was completed.

As Mum, Brian and Keith got up to go, the official very politely stopped Mum. He wanted to know if he could possibly ask her a ``very personal’’ question. Mum, who was never flummoxed by unexpected roadblocks, told him to go right ahead.

Clearing his throat, the official cut to the chase. ``Madam,’’ he said, ``how is it you have one Australian son but your other sons are Indians?’’

School Buoy

D Is For Darjeeling, Where I Went To School

Mount Kanchenjunga, Darjeeling. Photograph copyright: JAMSHED MADAN

I'm following the Letter Of The Week theme set by Mrs Nesbitt, using the letter D for week four. I’m also in the market for a larger size of bowler hat after B, who writes I Gotta B, said I’m her ``second favourite Aussie after Keith Urban''. On the weekend, she picked up on a comment of mine and asked for more details on my boarding school background. I was very privileged to attend St Joseph’s College, Darjeeling, a school that occupies a very special place in my heart.

We pupils were there for nine months of the year, from late February to late November, hundreds of miles away from our families. But we lived in a totally secure environment, where the Belgian and Canadian Jesuits and the Indian lay teachers treated us with the utmost respect and where our personal safety was an unwritten guarantee. The staff were our surrogate parents and I reckon I speak for many North Pointers when I say those were golden years.

Our school motto was the Latin ``Sursum Corda'', meaning ``lift up your hearts''. Part of our school anthem was the line ``We’ll stand, boys, like men to each other’’ and even after all these years, I am still in close contact with many of my classmates, who are spread out across the world. You can read more about the school in my post No Bully Beef. And for other North Pointers out there, I was in Fallon House and my senior room was Room No. 221 in the corridor that overlooked Fraser Hall.

Interestingly enough, a couple of days ago I also had a comment from Canadian blogger Les Becker, who writes Drawing On A Great Experience. Les followed a link to the article My Role In The Diary of Anne Frank and pointed out that the sets for that school production were amazing. Yes, Les, I was lucky to do a lot of theatre and that was the most elaborate stage I ever acted on.

I wonder if my fellow North Pointer, the US-based Sandip Madan, who writes the thought-provoking blog Things Blight And Beautiful, would care to give us his views on the best boarding school in the world. Stay tuned.

Finally, as you'll see in the photograph below, the backdrop to the school was an amazing mountain range. Not just any range, either. That is Mount Kanchenjunga, the second-highest peak in the world. It was the first sight that greeted us every morning of our lives - and I don't think we inky schoolboys really understood just how privileged we were. I reckon we simply took that sight for granted.

Photograph copyright: North Point Alumni Association www.npalumni.org

No Bully Beef

No Quad Wrangles In This Quadrangle

The quad at North Point, Darjeeling. Photograph copyright: AIJAZ QAIDAR

A couple of days ago, I saw a very interesting post on bullying at One From The Cuckoo's Nest and I promised that I would respond with a follow-up.

There is one inescapable fact about bullies - they always pick on people whom they can dominate. When was the last time you saw a bully throwing his or her weight around with a person who was physically stronger than them?

I was fortunate enough to attend boarding school at St Joseph's College, North Point, Darjeeling - and not once in my years there did I ever see an example of bullying. But like most teenagers, I simply took certain things for granted: a) that my personal space would not be invaded; b) that the Canadian, Belgian and Indian Jesuit priests who ran the school would function as the surrogate parents of every schoolboy, from the six-year-olds to the seventeen-year-olds; c) that bullies were ogres you only read about in fiction and d) even though all of us boarders were many hundreds of miles away from our parents, the priests who were entrusted with our safety never, ever, compromised it.

It was a couple of years after I left school that the wisdom of the Jesuits suddenly struck me. I was eighteen years old and had returned to the school for a short holiday. While I was there, the student editor of the schoolboy magazine, `Among Ourselves', interviewed me. His final question was: ``What would you say is the best thing about North Point?''

And that was when it hit me. It was all crystal clear, so lucidly and so suddenly. Father Henry Depelchin, the Belgian founder, had set up the school in three separate areas - what we would call ``exclusion zones'' today. There was the Primary Division, for boys from Grade One to Grade Five. The Lower Division was for kids in Grade Six to Grade Eight. And the Upper Division was for lads from Grade Nine to Grade Eleven. Each of the three Divisions was a separate wing of the school, yet an integral part of it. The PD kids had their own refectory, study hall, playground and classrooms. Likewise the LD and UD. You did not mix with kids from other divisions unless they were brothers or cousins.

But it did not stop there. Kids in Grade Five were prefects, looking after the needs of the younger ones. When they got to Grade Six, they were the small fry in the Lower Division. In Grade Eight, they were seniors once more, entrusted with responsibilities beyond their years. In Grade Nine, they were again small fish in a big pond. Result? No ego problems, no sudden need to impose their will on others less powerful than them.

Thank you, Fr Depelchin and all the Jesuits and lay teachers who followed your example at North Point. We thank you, with equal measures of love and humility. And we pledge to spread your message. We humbly acknowledge our greatest debt to you. Today, we are men at peace with ourselves because of your vision.

Anne, Frankly

They're Cutting Down That Tree In Amsterdam

The chestnut tree opposite the Anne Frank house, now a museum.

They're going to cut down a chestnut tree in Amsterdam. Did they ask me? Do they know that I care? Do they know how much that tree has been a part of my life? Okay, so you're wondering what the connection is.

Let me explain. I received an email a few hours ago, with a link to a report by Geraldine Coughlan on BBC.com, saying that the old chestnut tree that comforted Anne Frank while she was in hiding during the Nazi occupation of The Netherlands is to be cut down.

The BBC report says: ``Amsterdam city council said the diseased tree behind the building in which the Jewish Frank family took refuge has been attacked by a fungus. But after protests by environmental groups and the Anne Frank Museum, a cutting of the tree will be replanted.''

Yes, I can understand that. Yes, I appreciate the fact that cuttings from the original tree are so significant and so entirely appropriate. But you now want to know why I feel such a strong connection to the Anne Frank hideout, right?
As a 14-year-old, I learnt that my school (St Joseph's College, North Point, Darjeeling) was to produce a play in collaboration with our sister school, Loreto Convent. The play was `The Diary of Anne Frank'. I still remember clearly the moment I found out that I was to play Peter van Daan, the boy who fell in love with Anne. The play turned out to be one of the widely-acknowledged benchmarks of school theatre. Three decades later, I am still in contact with the star of the show, who played Anne Frank and who now lives on the opposite end of the world.
That play was not my first time on stage, nor was it my last, but I can honestly tell you that the role was one of the most intense experience of my adolescent years and it touched my heart in ways that I'm sure found an echo in the hearts of the other teenage actors.
Portugal-based Terry Fletcher, a committed webmaster, sent me that email about the tree. He knew only too well how significant it would be to me. Terry and I have never met, but about a year ago, he kindly published a feature article I wrote, about my Anne Frank connection. If you would like to read it, and see the photographs of that school play, go to Anglo-Indian Portal.
That was back in 1971. Sixteen years later, in October 1987, as I prepared to become a father for the first time, I finally made my long-awaited pilgrimage to the real building in Amsterdam where the families had hidden.
My wife and I were in London, en route to Toronto. But this was a side trip we had to make, I because I simply had to see the place, and my wife because she knew how deeply the role of Peter van Daan had touched my soul. We caught a pre-dawn flight from Heathrow to Amsterdam, before returning the same afternoon to London. We weren't going as sightseers. We just had only one place to visit.
The Anne Frank house wasn't even open when we got there, because we were so early. We sat in our overcoats and scarves by the silent canal, the same ancient canal that had run past the red-brick buildings during the war. And when the doors finally opened, we were the first to walk in.
The silence, somehow, was absolutely appropriate. I felt as though I were walking into a place I knew so well. I was so grateful for the fact that there was no one else there. It's been twenty years since that cherished visit, but I can still remember the feeling as we walked in. For me, it was a place I felt I had known ever since the cast had first sat down to read the script of the play. In some mysterious way, it was a little part of Amsterdam that I had - and always have - carried around since I understood the message of fortitude and tolerance that characterised the writing of a little girl forced into hiding in this very same building.
When I walked to the little window, it was like visiting a shrine. Even before I walked over to peer out, I knew exactly what the view would be, because I had read so many descriptions of it before. Yes, there was the canal. There was the deserted street. And there was the tree, the sight of which had sustained Anne.
Little do the people of Amsterdam how that tree has sustained many others as well.

FOOTNOTE: I only just found out there is an Anne Frank memorial in Boise, Idaho. Perhaps my close friends Carol and Neil (and some of my other readers) have been there. Do you have an Anne Frank story? Tell me about it here by leaving a comment.