My Friends call me Raj
The Rickshaw man’s dirty fingernail jabbed indifferently at the general direction, down an alley imposed on by tall restaurants all claiming to have ‘The best lake view’. But the sight was as deflating as fruit in your Christmas stocking. I stood blankly for a moment on the ghats (stairs) looking not at my reflection but at cows grazing on the Pichola lakebed. Maybe it’ll be different in the morning.
It was a little. I met a Kiwi girl and her Iranian partner (trying to pass himself off as a Kiwi). Leigh, Arash and I, with an Aussie, Damien, resolved to make the most of Udaipur, supposedly Rajastans most romantic city. Its kinda funny how an empty body of water makes such a difference to the ambience of a town – at least in comparison to the postcards those kids are trying to sell me. The Lake Palace now sits in the middle of the grassy paddock with only a sad puddle of water on one side waiting its turn to evaporate. A few Flamingos strut down here. At sunset camels and elephants parade wealthy guests across to a restaurant, the job the boat used to do. That’s not me by the way. So Arash and I slipped in the side and were soon requested to leave. Cool with us, we just wanted to walk down the path entrance past the Mahouts and their Pachyderms.
Udaipur’s City Palace was my first taste of Rajasthani opulence, with those sexy drop-shaped minaret’s and rooms that reverberate by the light of the mirror-glass mosaics. The views into the rooms are veiled by detailed carved screened windows (Havelis), but give out gaping views onto the would-be lake or a courtyard. As a little Rajastani cultural appetiser we shimmied along to Bagore-ki-Haveli, an 18th Century Haveli on the ghats, for an evening dance performance. We pulled up a mat right in front. 2 girls with crazy hazel eyes twirled pois, clinging them on the small cymbals on their shins and elbows. A solid Rajastani women displayed an amazing feat balancing more and more (up to 7) stacked bowls on her head at once, while dancing, and standing on broken glass and swords. But I’ll always remember the two girls dancing to the eastern rhythms, pots of fire on their heads. Coming out of a twirl one fell and hot coals dramatically set her dress up in flames. Rather than dropping to smother the flames, she ran, until Arash and Leigh, acting fastest, took her down and dowsed her with mineral water. Naturally there was no water back stage – you see, this had never happened before.
Next morning we took the earliest bus possible to Chittorgarh, which boasts the biggest fort in Asia (28sqkm). It’s so big that it’s impossible to photograph it with any respect to its scale. I really got a bit excited here. Maybe it was my childhood wonder of castles and all that. Despite its formidable defenses it was conquered three times in its history. Each time Jauhar was declared by the proud Rajputs – death came before dishonor – as they rode out to certain death while women an children immolated themselves on a huge funeral pyre. Of course the fort boasts uninterrupted views over the lands from the 180 metre high hill, but the best vantage point was probably from the top of the Jaya Stambha (Tower of Victory), which rises 37m in nine exquisitely carved stories. Imagine looking down on the invading army on the plains, thousands of men and horses deep. If you’ve got no imagination think Lord of the Rings. The forts ‘ruined’ buildings and temples here were in great condition, almost free of tagging and litter. And touts.
I moved on to Jodpur with Asa and Theresa (the Swedes) as Arash and Leigh headed in a different direction. Credit where it’s due – Meherangarh fort, still run by the Maharaja of Jodhpur, is a world-class attraction. Held to be Rajasthan’s most formidable fort, it stands like it knows it’s a living legend. The audio guide that comes with the price of entry sets off the imagination – the cannonball scarred walls, the Sati marks of Maharaja Man Singh’s widows who threw themselves on his funeral pyre, the design of the massive spiked gates whose entrances turn sharply at right angles preventing war elephants from building up speed and ramming them down. The vantage point of the fort gives a penetrating view into the oddest sea of cubist blue buildings. Painting the house blue used to symbolize the home of a Brahmin, but now residents continue the tradition believing the glowing blue to be an effective mosquito repellant.
An astropalmist gave me the disturbing news that I won’t have a job this year. He was right about a lot of other things, the kind of things that are usually true for travellers, but London will be tough without working. I guess I’ll be dossing down.
The tight alleyways of the market just outside the inner gate are a humming affair. Thanks to the guy that pointed out I was standing in cow shit. Really, it happens. Oh, and Safron Lassi, gahhhhhh
How to describe the scene awaiting us at 6:00am at Jaisalmer train station… Picketing guesthouse owners and rickshaw drivers paraded 30 metres back from the gates, held in a line by baton wielding police. We were the targets, or rather, their potential customers. It was hard work getting to our guesthouse of choice, and we didn’t end up staying there anyway. A Canadian couple were thrown out of their place when they expressed not wanting to book a Camel trek from them. Its all about the commission racket again. When the dust settled the sun was beginning to rise. We sat up in a rooftop restaurant in Jaisalmer’s golden fort overlooking its turrets and the waking city. The forts maze-like laneways are alive with shops, restaurants and guesthouses, but from all this the 12th century fort is beginning to suffer.
Jaisalmer is graced with some finely sculpted sandstone Havelis built by wealthy merchants, and are still in good nick. The stonework of Patwon-ki-Haveli is like honey coloured lace. The Haveli next door are privately owned and vacant. Except for the bats and pigeons. I took some panoramic shots back to the fort.
I met back up with Gareth, my English cobber from Madekeri. He’d gone ahead and booked our Camel trek in the Thar desert. But we had a few other supplies to get our hands on. Sunglasses (lost mine again), desert snacks and of course some hard liquor. The rum sounded quite expensive and as expected there was a special price list for foreigners. We enlisted some local help and paid a boy to get it half price.
Almost there. What else do real camel trekers need? Aside from camels. Yup, turbans. If you dont look the part you may as well stay at home with your rocking horse. Gareth got this decorative red one, and I got the bright orange, flying the dutch colours I thought. Turbans though, their colours and the way they are tied, are more than a personal choice. They denote caste. Mine denotes the Rajput warrior caste. Orange. Har! My friends call me Raj.
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ps. Sorry I’ve been slow/slack to get these new posts up. There’s a couple more to come. On the plus side there are heaps of new photos in my Photolog. Check the India section under ‘Rajasthan’, ‘Maharasthra’, and ‘Andhra Pradesh’
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