Indiana Jones, Tikal, and Me

By Alli Sinclair

At school, history was a bore. I mean, really, what's so interesting about studying dead people? But then a man with a battered hat, bullwhip, and a lopsided smile swaggered into my life. OK, it was onscreen, but still, Indiana Jones impacted the way I viewed the ancient world and literally, changed my life.

History became exciting. The people who lived in ancient civilizations had invented cool stuff. They made me realize we owe a lot to our ancestors for what we have today. And from the first moment I saw Indy swinging with his bullwhip across a chasm, I decided to go on my own crusade and discover ancient cultures.

One of the first that fascinated me was Tikal, one of the largest archaeological sites of the pre-Columbian Mayan civilization. Located in the lush Petén Basin in Guatemala, this UNESCO World Heritage Site is one of the most impressive, mysterious places on earth. Thick jungle surrounds the ruins and howler monkeys chatter overhead, accompanied by the lyrical songs of 410 species of birds.

Bound by rivers, the park containing Tikal provides protection for ocelots, peccaries, toucans, and jaguars, just to name some of the exotic wildlife that live in the shadows of the jungle. So far, only 3,000 sites have been uncovered, and there’s a further 10,000 waiting for archaeologists to unearth. It’s been 50 years since the first dig at Tikal, and given the expanse of the area, it could take many lifetimes to fully discover the history and secrets beneath the soil. The Mayans believed in reincarnation, and I wonder if archaeologists wish it were true, so they could continue with their discoveries.

In its heyday, Tikal was home to 90,000 people and covered close to 75 square miles (120 square kilometers).  Because of its geographical location, the Mayans needed to conserve water, and management of this precious resource was vital for the survival of their city. Surrounded by wetlands, the Mayans devised reservoir systems for water diversion and storage, taking advantage of the seasonal rainfall. Roads were paved with lime-based cement, and flint was readily available, providing the Mayans with a valuable stone to make spear points, arrowheads, and knives.

In 700 B.C., Tikal was a commercial, cultural and religious centre but by the mid-4th century, Tikal had morphed into a city of people who’d adopted brutal methods in warfare under the rule of King Jaguar Paw. It is still not known exactly what killed off the Mayans but the latest report in National Geographic suspects climate may have had a lot to do with their demise. Yet another reason why learning about history is so important – we have the opportunity to change our ways based on what our ancestors did, or didn’t, do.

The most striking features at Tikal are the steep-sided temples rising above the jungle. The plazas have been cleared of trees and vines, and the temples are partially restored. At times, great distances exist between sites, and one can stroll under the dense canopy, take refuge from the sun, and enjoy the rich, earthy scents of the low-lying vegetation. Even at peak tourist season, it’s possible to escape the throngs, step back in time, and imagine what life may have been like.

Translated from Itzá Maya, Tikal means “place of voices”, and it’s easy to understand why. Whispers from the past echo through the deserted corridors and around corners. The skin prickles, and hair stands on end with the feeling of not being entirely alone.

It’s a long, hot climb to the top of the temples but the view is worth every rasping breath. Temples tower above the dense forest, dotting the vista, and the great height of the monuments can cause giddiness. Star Wars buffs will note Temple IV was used for a scene of the Massassi Outpost on the fourth moon of Yavin. Even 1970s Hollywood saw the allure of such a magical place.

Tikal is shrouded in mystery and magic. It begs to be explored and the mind wanders, trying to create theories of how people lived and died. Maybe all the questions will never be answered. But what I do know is Tikal will always be a place I treasure, thanks to an intrepid fictional adventurer named Indiana Jones.

Great Travelers in History: Mary Kingsley

1862-1900

By Jenni Gate

The woman who follows the crowd will usually go no further than the crowd. The woman who walks alone is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been before.

Albert Einstein

Mary Henrietta Kingsley traveled paths few in history had ever explored in a time when women never traveled alone. Her journeys within West Africa expanded Europe’s knowledge of the region. Despite the inherent racism of colonialist England during the Victorian era, she became an advocate for the people of West Africa, often suffering ridicule as a result. Ignoring popular opinion and the expectations of society, Mary Kingsley paddled up little-known estuaries, walked through jungles, endured insects and reptiles, climbed mountains, and stoked fires on steamships. She met and befriended cannibals and missionaries alike, though it would be fair to say she preferred the former to the latter. She collected specimens of fish wherever she went, and took copious notes of her experiences. Her life was extraordinary but short.

Although she had no formal education, Mary Kingsley grew up in a house full of books about science and memoirs of explorers. Her father, a doctor and writer, traveled extensively throughout his own life. He contracted rheumatic fever on his last journey and returned home where his daughter cared for him until his death. She had nursed her mother for years. Coincidentally, both parents died within a few weeks of one another. Mary Kingsley, then age 30, decided to travel. She had a few academic connections through her brother, who was in law school at that time. Mary read what was known about Africa, asked her acquaintances for advice about traveling there and was roundly told not to go. She was repeatedly warned that it was too dangerous to go to West Africa.

Ignoring all advice, in 1893 she headed to Liverpool and boarded a ship for the Canary Islands, then pushed on to Sierra Leone. She arrived in West Africa with few possessions other than her high-necked shirts and floor-length skirts. Traveling the coastline by steamboat, she made her way past the oil rivers of Nigeria and on to Angola. 

Region traveled by Kingsley

It was the Victorian era, and women did not travel alone. Her shipmates assumed she was a missionary, and they were scandalized to find her still on board the ship after all the other missionaries disembarked at the Canary Islands. Even in Africa, local women continually asked where her husband was. She frequently went into dangerous areas alone, but most often journeyed with African men who helped her by cooking, translating, making camp, and finding pathways.

On her second journey to West Africa a year after the first, Kingsley traversed the rivers of the French Congo and climbed Mount Cameroon (the first English person to climb it). She met and befriended the Fan (or Fang as some sources name them) people, who were known to be cannibals. Exploring by steamboat and dugout canoe, paddling the swamps and streams of the Ogooué River in Gabon, she collected fish from the rivers and lakes to take back to the British Museum as specimens for study. She was thrilled to have this work taken seriously by the zoologist who helped sponsor the trip, Dr. Albert Gunther. At least three previously unknown species of fish were named after her.

Mary Kingsley documented travels on the rivers throughout West Africa. Her writing is evidence of a humorous and curious mind. In Travels in West Africa, she described the dangers of paddling through the tidewaters of African rivers in dugout canoes:

Now a crocodile drifting down in deep water, or lying asleep with its jaws open on a sand-bank in the sun, is a picturesque adornment to the landscape when you are on the deck of a steamer, and you can write home about it and frighten your relations on your behalf; but when you are away among the swamps in a small dugout canoe, and that crocodile and his relations are awake – a thing he makes a point of being at flood tide because of fish coming along – and when he has got his foot upon his native heath – that is to say, his tail within holding reach of his native mud – he is highly interesting, and you may not be able to write home about him – and you get frightened on your own behalf.

About encounters with insects in West African Studies, she wrote:

But it’s against the insects ashore that you have to be specially warned. During my first few weeks of Africa, I took a general natural historical interest in them with enthusiasm as of natural history, it soon became a mere sporting one, though equally enthusiastic at first. Afterwards a nearly complete indifference set in, unless some wretch aroused a vengeful spirit in me by stinging or biting. I should say, looking back calmly upon the matter, that 75 per cent of West African insects sting, 5 per cent bite, and the rest are either permanently or temporarily parasitic on the human race. And undoubtedly one of the many worst things you can do in West Africa is to take any notice of an insect. If you see a thing that looks like a cross between a flying lobster and the figure of Abraxas on a Gnostic gem, do not pay it the least attention, never mind where it is; just keep quiet and hope it will go away – for that’s your best chance; you have none in a stand-up fight with a good thorough-going African insect. …

Of course you cannot ignore driver ants, they won’t go away, but the same principle reversed is best for them, namely, your going away yourself. 

And later in the same work:

While in West Africa you should always keep an eye lifting for Drivers. You can start doing it as soon as you land, which will postpone the catastrophe, not avoid it; …it may be just as well for you to let things slide down the time-stream until Fate sends a column of the wretches up your legs. … The females and workers of these ants are provided with stings as well as well-developed jaws. They work both for all they are worth, driving the latter into your flesh, enthusiastically up to the hilt; they remain therein, keeping up irritation when you have hastily torn their owner off in response to a sensation that is like that of red hot pinchers.

After her second trip to West Africa, Kingsley toured England and spoke widely of her travels. She lectured on diverse topics from opening trade to Europeans in the region to the harm caused by missionaries converting native people and destroying whole ways of life in the process. Her opinions, formed from personal experience and observation, were controversial, sometimes creating a backlash in the press. Yet her work was influential in establishing perceptions of West Africa in Europe, and many of her observations are still relevant.

Volunteering as a nurse for the Second Boer War, Mary Kingsley returned to Capetown, South Africa in the late 1890s where she died of typhoid on June 3, 1900. In England between journeys, she had met Rudyard Kipling, striking up a friendship of mutual respect and admiration. In her work, Kingsley often quoted Kipling. At her death, Kipling gave her eulogy before her burial at sea with full military honors.

About her own writing, Mary Kingsley was humble and humorously self-deprecating, as the following story illustrates:

Alas! I am hampered with bad method of expression. I cannot show you anything clearly and neatly. I have to show you a series of pictures of things, and hope you will get from those pictures the impression which is the truth. I dare not set myself up to tell you the truth. … It is a repetition of the difficulty a friend of mine and myself had over a steam launch called the Dragon Fly, whose internal health was chronically poor, and subject to bad attacks. Well, one afternoon, he and I had to take her out to the home-going steamer, and she had suffered that afternoon in the engines, and when she suffered anywhere she let you know it. We did what we could for her, in the interests of humanity and ourselves; we gave her lots of oil, and fed her with delicately-chopped wood; but all to but little avail. So both our tempers being strained when we got to the steamer, we told her what the other one of us had been saying about the Dragon Fly. The purser of the steamer thereon said “that people who said things like those about a poor inanimate steam launch were fools with a flaming hot future, and lost souls entirely.” We realised that our observations had been imperfect; and so, being ever desirous of improving ourselves, we offered to put the purser on shore in the Dragon Fly. We knew she was feeling still much the same, and we wanted to know what he would say when jets of superheated steam played on him. He came, and they did; and when they did, you know, he said things I cannot repeat. Nevertheless, things of the nature of our own remarks, but so much finer of the kind, that we regarded him with awe when he was returning thanks to the “poor inanimate steam launch”; but it was when it came to his going ashore, gladly to leave us and her, that we found out what that man could say; and we morally fainted at his remarks made on discovering that he had been sitting in a pool of smutty oil, which she had insidiously treated him to, in order to take some of the stuffing out of him about the superior snow-whiteness of his trousers. Well, that purser went off the scene in a blue flame; and I said to my companion, “Sir, we cannot say things like that.” “Right you are, Miss Kingsley,” he said sadly; “you and I are only fit for Sunday school entertainments.”

Mary Kingsley wrote two books, Travels in West Africa, published in 1897, and West African Studies, published in 1899, and she published several articles. Her writing was descriptive and full of detail about the surroundings and observations of the people she encountered. The humor infusing her writing makes reading her work still a joy today.

Bleeding Rouge: Lessons from Cambodian History

By Supriya Savkoor

There are novels that take you to a fictional world you feel you’ve been to, with fictional characters whom you feel you know personally, even wondering what happens to them after you close the book. Then there are novels that you have to read—the ones that plunge you in a time and place that open your eyes to realities so large, you are changed by them.

If you read my post from 2 weeks ago, you know that, for me, a stunning example of such a book is In the Shadow of the Banyan, a somewhat fictionalized version of author Vaddey Ratner’s childhood in Pol Pot’s Cambodia. Books like these make you realize that human history is vastly more bizarre, more tragic, and more perplexing than any plot an author could conceive.

This incredible novel made the Cambodian genocide so real for me, in a kind of “no way could this have really happened” way, I gobbled up all of Ratner’s interviews, as many articles about Cambodian history as I could read, and even watched a couple of documentaries about the country. Heck, I even went online, googled “Cambodian people” to see their faces and find out, a generation later, how they’ve been holding up.

Anne Frank’s diary had been required reading in my eighth-grade English class in Texas. That first time I and my classmates learned about the Jewish Holocaust, we all turned to look at each other in utter disbelief, as though the teacher might have made the whole thing up. I learned a little more about the holocaust in high school, but that was the sum of my education about this facet of history. The takeaway for my young self back then was that, however catastrophic and appalling I understood this act of genocide to have been, it was the type of event that couldn’t happen again, definitely not in these modern times when we humans were supposedly smarter and more civilized than generations past. After all, photos from that era were in black and white, the police and SS uniforms looked like something out of a Charlie Chaplin movie, as did the Führer’s goofy mustache and bizarre Nazi salute, which made him seem more like a caricature than a real person.

Of course, we all know  genocide and other mass atrocities occur all too often—anywhere, anytime. Consider Rwanda, Bosnia, Somalia, Sudan, Iraq, Libya, and now Syria. And just as often, we tend to avert our eyes and keep ourselves blissfully uninformed. Educators can and should change this, and making Ms. Ratner’s powerful novel required reading in history classes (not just the specialized ones, but the general ones) would be a great first step. No other novel in recent memory so aptly drives home the tragedy of such large-scale injustice—as well as the need for us to harness our collective responsibility and strength to prevent and end them.

Growing Up Black in Nazi Germany

By Supriya Savkoor
 

Photo: Mohsin4376

True story: Hans Massaquoi—the son of a German mother and an African father—came of age in Germany in the era when Adolph Hitler’s popularity surged, right through World War II (and the ethnic cleansing of “non-Aryans”), and beyond. It's unbelievable that he survived, but he also never saw the inside of any of the concentration camps or gas chambers in which millions of European Jews perished. He, like most of his compatriots, didn’t even know of the existence of these death chambers until after the war.

I was stunned when I first heard about Massaquoi’s truly unique life. It was on the radio during one of my morning commutes back in January and, sadly, the story was actually part of his obituary. He'd died that day, at the ripe old age of 87. His passing marks the end of an era, and yet what a legacy he leaves behind. A full, rich, exceptional life—one I’m surprised that I, and perhaps you as well, had not heard about until now.

As soon as I heard about him, I looked Massaquoi up on the Internet. Turns out he’d written his autobiography in 1999 (and still we hadn’t heard of him?). I convinced my local library to order a copy, though it didn’t take much convincing. Soon, I found myself spellbound as I flew through the book.

Hans's grandfather, Momolo Massaquoi,
had been king of his Vai tribe in Liberia.
Amidst political infighting, he abdicated,
but continued to play an influential role
in Liberian politics and society.

(Photo: Mohsin4376)

Massaquoi was born in Hamburg, Germany, in 1926. His parents met when his grandfather, a member of African royalty, served as the consul general of Liberia in Germany, bringing over part of his large family. At the time, Hans's father, Al-Haj Massaquoi, was studying in Dublin, occasionally visiting his own father in Hamburg as well as wooing Bertha Baetz. Eventually, Bertha gave birth to Hans, or Hans-Jürgen, as he was named. When Hans was still a toddler, Al-Haj, reportedly quite the ladies’ man (whom Bertha could never get to the altar), left Germany.

Massaquoi’s upbringing in Germany was anything but easy. His loving, devoted mother took up a job as a nurse to support them both, but she was dismissed when Massaquoi was still a child (and, as he found out many years later, because of his race). He grew up way too accustomed to the constant racial taunts from other children—the most common one, which followed him everywhere for years, was Neger, Neger, Schornsteinfeger (Negro, Negro, chimney sweep)!—as well as the institutionalized racism in Nazi Germany at school and, later, at work. He became accustomed to stares and hearing that he was ugly, often from total strangers. Massaquoi’s stories about the savage cruelty he endured from teachers amd principals, with no recourse, as well as not being allowed to legally date or attend university (despite his ambition, thirst for learning, and impeccable academic record) is at times difficult to read. He learned to hate the way he looked as well as suppress his angst, even with his mother, whom he adored but did not want to hurt.

Still, in his innocence and naivete, the young Massaquoi proudly wore the swastika on his school uniform. He desperately longed to join the Hitler Youth movement along with his classmates and neighborhood friends. He was turned down for being a non-Aryan, of course, but he felt shame rather than anger at not garnering that very overt symbol of acceptance. He had also learned to revere the Führer, love his country, and fear and hate the Jews, right up until adolescence when he realized he was considered one of the "enemy.”

One of the most astounding stories comes early in his autobiography, when a school-age Massaquoi and his mother visit a new “zoo” in Hamburg. To their utter shock, one of the exhibits displays African people, tribals who had been captured, caged, and displayed like dangerous, wild animals. Massaquoi describes not only his shock and his mother’s outrage, but also their utter discomfort when the crowd, both inside and outside the cage, all begin staring at Massaquoi, filling him with bitter shame and contributing to the low self-esteem he continues to feel throughout his early life in Germany.

Later, when Allied bombs rain down on Hamburg during the war years, he and his mother make nightly runs to their nearest bomb shelter, as does everyone else in the city. One of the country’s largest industrial cities, Hamburg was considered crucial to supplying the German military with weapons and other essentials. Eventually, more than 40,000 of its citizens die from these war-time bombings, and Massaquoi constantly wonders how he, of all people, manages to survive.

After the war, Massaquoi works a few grueling years as a factory machinist, then as a jazz musician (at a time when jazz was considered the music of undesirable non-Aryans and thus banned), and finally as a black market smuggler. Obtaining a Liberian passport, he is finally able to leave Germany in the early 1950s. He makes the long journey by ship to Liberia, where he’s reunited with his long-estranged father and begins a new life. 

No spoilers here; you’ll have to read the book to find out about his interesting reunion with Al-Haj as well as the many other members of Hans’s royal family, including a brother he hadn’t known existed and a grandmother who summons him to Lagos, Nigeria. His adventures in Africa are fascinating, including his perceptions about race, ethnicity, family, and his place among it all. His adventures around Liberia range from rubbing elbows with the country’s elite, living for a time in squalor, and visiting rural tribal areas. (Regarding the latter, monkey stew, anyone?)

Somewhere along the way, Massaquoi, along with many young German men he knew, decides he wants to make his way to the United States, where he envisions a promising new life in the land of the free. When he finally arrives in the late 1950s, living on a third continent and the most diverse country of all, he’s stunned to discover not only segregation but another form of institutionalized racism, the hypocritical kind. Again, reunions with his German friends and family, American immigrants like him, prove surprising.

(Photo: Mohsin4376)

Because the numerous pictures in the book make no secret of it, it’s no spoiler to tell you that despite all the hurdles he has to cross, Massaquoi eventually achieves the American dream. He becomes the editor of African-American magazine, Ebony, marries, buys a house in a Chicago suburb, raises two high-achieving kids (one a doctor, another a lawyer), and regularly travels all over the world, interviewing the likes of world leaders and celebrities. (Photos in the book include one of Massaquoi pretend sparring with boxing champ Muhammad Ali and another in which he and his good friend, author Alex Haley, are poring over important-looking papers.) 

Though Massaquoi had always assumed he'd been the only black German during the Nazi era, he later learns there had been at least a few others, all of whom had perished in the concentration camps. On his return to Germany in 1966, two decades after he'd left, he's surprised to discover the country had been rebuilt as though it had never been through the war, was thriving, and had seemingly become as diverse as the United States. There was even a large subculture of mixed-race Germans, the result of American soldiers based in Germany after the war. He also pieces together the fate of friends, family, and nemeses in Germany and Africa from across the years. 

Massaquoi’s book, Destined to Witness, is not particularly prosaic, but it’s spellbinding nonetheless. If you can, get your hands on a copy. And RIP, Hans. You were a truly remarkable man.

History: Reread and Rewritten

By Beth Green

One of the biggest thrills for me when researching a place to visit—whether for tourism or for living abroad—is reading about its history. I have written here before about reading a book just because I like the setting. But I also seek out works of both fiction and nonfiction to flesh out my concept of what a place was like at particular moments in time.

Following is a short list of a few historical books about China I often recommend to friends and other travelers.

* Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China, by Jung Chang, is one of those sweeping, epic tales that makes you want to flip right back to the start after finishing the last page. Part memoir, part novelized biography of the author’s mother and grandmother, Wild Swans tells the story of a family as well as a nation. From her grandmother’s bound feet to her mother’s work with the Communist Party, and finally to Chang’s emigration, Wild Swans illustrates the great changes China has undergone better than any other book I’ve read on the subject. At the time I read it, the book was banned in China. I got it from an expat friend, who got it from a friend, who brought it in from Hong Kong. And yes, I passed it on.

*Journey to the West, attributed to Wu Cheng’En. Often called just Monkey when in translation in the West, this is one of the four great classical novels of China. It describes the pilgrimage of a monk from China to India, on a quest to bring Buddhist scrolls back to his homeland. There is evidence the monk, Xuan Zang, was a real historical figure, but I’m guessing that the tale’s other characters are not: Sun Wu Kong, a monkey king; Zhu Bai Jie, an awakened pig; and Sha Wu Jing, an immortal general fallen from service in the heavenly court. If you travel in Xi’an or the western parts of China you’ll often find references to this party’s legendary journey.

*River Town and Oracle Bones, by Peter Hessler.  These two books about journalist Hessler’s experiences, travels, and friendships in China since the 1990s are titles I often recommend to people who ask me for something to read about China’s contemporary history. (I mentioned River Town in my post about the Yangtze River, here.) Hessler moved to a small town in Sichuan province in the 1990s as a Peace Corps volunteer. His books reflect the amazing cultural and social changes that have taken place since that time, and also the changes in his own perceptions of China. He’s got a third book now, Country Driving, which I keep meaning to read.

*1491: The Year China Discovered the World, by Gavin Menzies. Probably known to my friends and family as the book I love to hate, I often recommend people read this book even though I doubt it’s historically accurate. (I’m not the only one. There was considerable controversy about this book’s claims.) Basically, the author asserts that China discovered the Americas and Antarctica before Columbus. I’m willing to accept that as a possibility, but then Menzies goes on to say that the Chinese influence from landings and shipwrecks on their voyages forms the basis for much of indigenous tradition in the Americas.

That’s where I get skeptical. However, what is fascinating to me about this book is the reception it got within China—my students loved it. The government loved it. It was featured on the news. It was widely available for sale (unlike Wild Swans, as I mentioned above, which features actual history.) So I recommend this book, because it has resonated with a huge population—it shows what they would like their history to reveal. Menzies followed up this book with two books I’ve yet to read:  1434: The Year a Magnificent Chinese Fleet Sailed to Italy and Ignited the Renaissance and The Lost Empire of Atlantis.

Do you have some favorite titles about the history of a place? Add them in the comments!

Sign of the Times: Symbolizing the Indian Rupee

By Supriya Savkoor

(Credit: Ravindraboopathi)

Recognize any of the following symbols?
€, ¥, $, £, ₦,₮, ₩,฿, ₴, ₫, ₭

I haven’t embedded any secret or scrambled messages in there nor am I cursing at you in Swahili. Rather, these icons represent a handful of currency symbols from around the world. I even threw in the currencies of Mongolia, Laos, and the Ukraine. Not that these relatively small countries aren’t entitled to their money, but I use them as a point of comparison to India, the world’s largest democracy and second most populous country. India’s currency is called the rupee, but for centuries since its inception in the 16th century, the rupee didn’t have an official symbol, and was simply abbreviated as “Rs” in front of the numeric amount, as in Rs20.

Then came spring 2009, when the Indian government announced a contest in search of the ideal symbol. The finance minister suggested whatever new symbol is adopted should reflect the country’s culture and ethos. By summer 2010, some 3,000 entries had poured in (not much, really, when you consider the country’s population of 1.2 billion). Of those 3,000, five were shortlisted. On July 15, 2010, the government made its choice:

₹

Designed by architect and visual communicator, Udaya Kumar, the new symbol combines the Devanagari letter र (pronounced “ra”) and the Latin capital letter for “R” without that vertical bar at the left. Kumar added the parallel lines at the top of the symbol, he said, to denote the tricolors of the Indian flag.

India rolled out the new rupee symbol over the next six to 24 months, first on coins in 2011, then on bills in 2012. Banks started printing the new symbol on checks, shopkeepers on their price tags, and international newspapers within their business pages. Even Apple and Windows computer operating systems updated their code (i.e., Windows 7 and iOS 5 and above) to support the new symbol in different fonts.

And if money talks, the Indian rupee could tell some good stories.

Ancient India, along with ancient China and Lydia (a kingdom in what is modern-day Turkey), was one of the earliest issuers of coins. The term “rupee” comes from the Sanskrit word “rupya,” meaning coin, and “rupa,” meaning silver. In the 15th century, when the Pashtun leader Sher Shah Suri, founder of the Sur Empire in India, introduced the first rupee coin, he based its value on silver. Though the price of silver fell tremendously in the 19th century, successive dynasties and conquerors kept the rupee going, from the Moghuls, the Danish, French, and Portuguese, the English, and right through to Independence and beyond.



A silver rupee from the Mughal Empire,
minted under Akbar's reign (1556–1605). {{PD-1923}}



French Indian rupee from 1938
(Credit: Banque de L'Indochine, image by India Post)



From the East India Company in 1835 (Credit: Ranjithsiji)



George V on the silver rupee coin from 1918 (Credit: Almazi)

After Independence in 1947, the Indian government replaced King George VI’s mugshot with the Asoka lions, which remains a national symbol.

Many countries and regions use or have used the rupee as their currency as well, including Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Mauritius, Nepal, Burma, Bhutan, the Persian Gulf, East Africa, Italian Somaliland, and on and on.



A Sichuan rupee, struck in Chengdu, for use in Tibet.
(Credit: Clemensmarabu)

Reverse of the Sichuan rupee (Credit: Clemensmarabu)



A Rs100 note from Mauritius (Credit: Avedeus)

A Rs1000 note from Pakistan, with a portait
of founding father Muhammad Ali Jinnah.

(Credit: Adnan Asim)



A pre-2001 Nepalese rupee, with King Bipendra’s portrait,
before the political change from monarchy to republic caused
the government to abolish monarchs’ pictures on currency.
(Credit Bill Clement)



The rupee in the Seychelles

The first rupee coin, made of nickel, issued in Pakistan in 1948
(Credit: Almazi)

The Japanese forged Indian rupee notes in Burma during World War II as part of a propaganda war.

A Burmese Rs10 note issued by the occupying
Japanese Army, circa 1943. (Credit: Bill Clement)

And now, finally, the Indian rupee has a currency symbol. Perhaps the beginning of a glorious new chapter?