Change In Plans

HINDU TEMPLE FROM 1020 AD (WITH BOUGAINVILLEA)

Namaste from Khajuraho, a small town in Madhya Pradesh, in the heart of central India.  We traveled here to look at the recently excavated thousand-year-old temples, and as a jumping-off point for going to look for tigers in Bandhavgarh National Park.

We have been traveling in India for two and a half weeks, which is nowhere near enough time to have any intelligent conclusions about the society or the culture or the economy.

That said, I offer six observations under the heading “early impressions of India.”  Observations 1-3 are simple confirmations of what we had read, seen on TV, and been told by many people about traveling in India. They are blinding glimpses of the obvious. Observations 4-6 are bigger issues which India (the person) and I are thinking about, asking about, and trying to make sense of.

Observation #1 - India has a lot of people.  Reading that India has about 1.15 billion people crammed in a relatively small space gave us an intellectual understanding of this fact.  Our visceral understanding has come from being here, and having scores or hundreds of people around us in all public places at all times of day.  Every time I try to count (e.g., 50 people hanging around idly outside the rural Jaisalmer airport even after the day’s only flight had been cancelled) I am astonished at how many people I can see.  City streets are the most incredible: wall-to-wall people sleeping, working, eating, cooking, walking, riding, selling, buying, idling.  If there is a verb to describe a non-amorous human activity, several people will be doing it by the side of an Indian road.

Observation #2 - Cows really do rule the road. From what I can tell, there are no other rules in Indian driving except “avoid hitting cows.”  On city and village streets, and on national motorways, there are all kinds of vehicles and pedestrians and cows going in both directions in both lanes at widely varying speeds.  Cows always have the right of way.  Everyone seems to be somehow comfortable with this.  Traffic moves most of the time, and we haven’t seen a lot of accidents.  City traffic jams are bad though, and will get a lot worse as the Tata Nano (for only $2,200) really starts to sell.  A favorite fact: Varanasi is a city of over 2 million people, in a metropolitan area with more than 4 million people (i.e., roughly the size of Minneapolis/St. Paul).  I don’t know how many cows, but a lot.  There are two traffic lights in Varanasi, and  neither of them was working when we were there.  Roundabouts, attentive drivers, patience and luck.

Observation #3 - the swastika really is a Hindu symbol (it is even a Hindi word).  The clock-wise facing swastika is used everywhere here as a decoration.  Everyone I have asked makes a clear distinction between this and the counter-clockwise version used as the symbol of Nazism.  The clockwise version means progress and continuity through love, and was introduced by Indo-Aryans about 4,000 years ago.  The counter-clockwise means domination through blood, so no one thinks that the Nazis chose it by accident.  It is deeply freaky to see this symbol, regardless of direction, which is now absolutely associated in the West with unspeakable acts of hatred and destruction, decorating temples and rickshaws and shop walls.  

So much for the obvious.  Here are some broader concepts.

Observation #4 - India is overwhelming in its size and age and complexity.  Our guide, Indrajit, keeps encouraging us to think in the context of trying to “understand Europe” in three weeks by spending a few days in a few countries.  India has twice the population of the expanded EU, and has at least 2,000 more years of civilized history.  Prior to 1857, it was really a fragmented sub-continent of about 500 “princely states”, each with its own history and characteristics.  Relative to the long history of the place, the integrated Indian nation-state came about only last week, and independence from Britain was yesterday.  It is just very complicated.

Observation #5 - Generalizations are risky, but applying a basic framework of religion/caste/class/ language/gender/urban vs. rural has been useful.  In trying to understand historical events, current affairs, individual perspectives, and likely behaviors, these six variables seem to be useful.  For example, understanding a little of the warrior tradition of Punjabi Sikh men, or knowing that Marwari merchants from Rajasthan are widely believed to have exceptional commercial acumen is helpful in following the shorthand that is used in the press, on the news, and in conversation.  These six variables also seem to determine a lot of societal hierarchy, distribution of income and opportunity, differential growth by region, etc.  

The role of women in Indian society seems particularly difficult to understand.  On one hand a current female President, a most-famous female prime minister, good representation of women in growth industries and professions.  On the other hand, many Muslim and non-Muslim women in purdah (wearing burqa, veil, the whole bit), the ongoing importance of dowry and arranged marriages, absolute exclusion of women from Hindu cremation ceremonies, high rates of gender-selected abortions and (alleged) female infanticide.  This is definitely Ph.D. dissertation territory.

Observation # 6 - to make any sense of it, I need to embrace the contradictions.  I feel as though I understand about 2% of India, and on many days I feel the number slipping back toward 1%.  There are many elements of Indian society that I think we will just need to appreciate: we will never have the deep background or suppleness of mind to really understand.

We are incredibly glad to be here, and to have the privilege of making these observations first hand.  This is exactly what we were hoping that our trip around the world would be about.

SUNRISE OVER THE GANGA

Greetings from Varanasi!  This post is about our second day of exploring Hinduism’s (and Buddhism’s, it turns out) holiest city.

We were up and out the door at 5:30 this morning to watch sunrise on the Ganga.  This is the third consecutive morning we have been in motion before 6 am.  The kids have been total troopers, despite being outside of their comfort zones (a little!) but were feeling a little ragged this morning. 

We drove back toward the Dashashwamedha Ghat in pre-dawn darkness.  As always in India, there were thousands of people on the streets regardless of the hour.  We had to walk the last 500 meters to the river because the road got so crowded with pilgrims.  They were playing finger cymbals and chanting “Shiva is great!” over and over again in Hindi.  We fell in with the procession, and made our way quickly down to the water.

Still in darkness, we took a rowboat upriver this time.  We passed a series of ghats where people were bathing themselves in the river, some (presumably pilgrims) in a state of religious ecstasy, and many (presumably locals) with the distracted air of someone showering at the local YMCA.  It is a cliche to write about, but I still could not get over how filthy the water is, and I gagged a little every time I saw someone take a mouthful.  This part of the river was full of decaying buildings and homes that had been converted into budget guest houses for pilgrims and backpackers.  Many advertisements had been painted on the old stone walls above the ghats.

YOGA BOYS GREETING THE SUN

As the sun actually broke over the horizon, we were passing an outdoor yoga class for about 50 young boys who were described as “potential priests in training”.  All of the boys ran down to the river and filled small clay pots.  Then they lined up along the bottom step of the ghat and poured out the pots simultaneously, before going back to the class for the “greeting of the sun” yoga position.  Although most of the boys seemed very serious, it was refreshing to see a few goofing around and splashing each other. We wondered if there are Varanasi boy-yoga-class equivalents to hockey moms, getting the kid to the ghat before dawn, making sure he has the right matching orange pants and robes.  

We turned around at the southern cremation ghat, which already had several fires going, and rowed a long way back downriver in the full sunlight.   In the midst of all of the holy activity, it was surprising to see dozens of professional washers beating laundry vigorously on rocks along the riverbank. Apparently this has been the tradition for thousands of years, and is an expected part of the menagerie.

We disembarked from the row boat and walked through the streets of the oldest part of Varanasi for about 45 minutes.  We passed the area where the cremation wood is cut into pieces (with hand axes), and past stalls where all of the cremation ritual supplies are sold to the retail trade.  The streets were absolutely filthy, with old garbage and rubble strewn everywhere, which surprised me in the holy epicenter of a major world religion.  My linear Western brain is struggling to understand many things (anything?) about India.  I do need to get over gaping at and talking about pollution.

We sort of visited the extremely holy Vishwanath Temple (or Golden Temple, so named for the color of the roof) in a highly militarized part of the old city.  The temple stands directly next to an important mosque, and each building has been torn down by angry mobs of zealots several times throughout Varanasi’s long and complicated religious history.  Dozens of soldiers stood guard, and we were all body searched (including Zola and Tallulah) three separate times.  Non-Hindus and non-Muslims are not allowed to enter the actual temple and mosque, respectively, so once we got through all of the security we could only glimpse at the courtyard through a gap in the inner wall.  

During the rest of the morning we visited the hugely prestigious Benares Hindu University, with its small temple, full of shrines and joyful bell ringing.  Everyone else visited the Mother India temple, but Tallulah was happily asleep, so she and I stayed in the car.

ZOLA AND GIANT BUDDHIST STUPA

In the afternoon we drove to Sarnath, just outside Varanasi.  Because I don’t know much about world religions, I was totally surprised to find out that Sarnath is one of the four holiest sites in Buddhism.  It is where the Buddha gave his first sermon after becoming enlightened, and it is where he converted his first five disciples.  The relationship between Hinduism and Buddhism is complicated.  Buddha was born to Hindu royalty (warrior caste) in the 6th century B.C.  He repudiated Brahminism, and espoused a non-caste philosophy in his new, self-enlightenment-driven religion.  Buddhism became popular in India.  Hindus determined that Buddha was, in fact, the 9th incarnation of Lord Shiva, and incorporated Buddhist tenets into the theological sprawl of Hinduism.  Now only 2% of Indians are Buddhists (but the ideas really caught on elsewhere in Asia).

The “Deer Park” site was discovered in the early 1900s by the British, and the monasteries and temples have been largely excavated.  The central monument is an enormous brick and stone “stupa” which is built on the actual site where he is believed to have given the sermon.  A stupa, as I found out, is a solid dome structure, in the shape of an inverted begging bowl.  Apparently when he left his disciples for the final time, all the Buddha had to give them was his own begging bowl, so this became an enduring symbol.  Being in India has constantly reminded me of how little I know.

All of our heads were spinning after two days in Varanasi. For me, it has created more questions than answers, and I am glad we have two more weeks in India to keep exploring.   Zola, Tallulah and I were glad to go swimming in the late afternoon (in the pool, not in the Ganga), and for everyone to get to bed early.  

Tomorrow we leave for Khajuraho and for the Bhandhavgarh Tiger Reserve.

THEY HAVE BEEN WONDERFUL!

Greetings from Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India.  Varanasi is a 4,000-year-old city, and is the spiritual capital of Hinduism. This post is about our first evening here.

We arrived yesterday afternoon, after taking three flights from Udaipur. The flights were uneventful except for Tallulah and me spilling a glass of apple juice on the hand luggage of a Japanese couple sitting behind us. They were incredibly gracious and easygoing about the mess we created.

Varanasi is located on the holiest part of the Ganga. The Ganga (”Ganges” is apparently an English bastardization) is officially the national river of secular India, but more importantly, it is an absolutely central element of Hinduism. The Varanasi stretch is holiest because the otherwise south-flowing river loops and runs north (ie, toward heaven) here. Also, in mythology, the gods spilled a drop of the elixir of life in the Ganga here while they were fighting with demons.

For at least the last 4,000 years, Hindus have been coming to Varanasi to bathe in the river, and to be cremated on its banks after death. A Hindu aspires to have his or her first and last drinks from the Ganga. Dying in Varanasi and/or being cremated here is believed to “break the cycle” of reincarnation, and secure a place in heaven. Varanasi is a very big deal to Hindus.

Last night we walked through a big Sunday market, and down one set of stone steps (Dashashwahmed ghat) out of dozens that lead to the river. The ghats are central to the interaction of the faithful with the river. Dashashwahmed ghat has seven large platforms, where young priests perform a nightly “thanks and goodnight” ritual (aarti) in honor of the river. More on that later.

We pushed out from the ghat in an old wooden boat, and rowed upriver about 500 meters. From a distance, we could see seven or eight bonfires burning. As we pulled closer, our guide pointed out the burning corpses on the pyres, and explained the whole cremation ritual to us. Zola and Tallulah took all of this remarkably in stride - showing interest but not much emotional reaction. Coinidentally, this is in keeping with the Hindu practice of not showing any emotion during the cremation. Visible sadness is believed to be the manifestation of the departed’s soul, refusing to leave this life.

We were able to see several creamtions in various stages of progress: family members bringing a body into the water for a complete submersion before burning (and the “last drink’); a pyre being lit with the sacred fire bought from an ancient untouchable caste; the ritual end, where an old man doused the cremation fire of a loved one (his wife?) and then turned his back and smashed the clay water pot on the ground.

There are about 200 cremations every day in Varanasi, and the wood is stacked 30-40 feet high along the ghat. To keep the process moving, burning time is limited to about four hours, which apparently isn’t enough to combust an entire human body. Unburned remnants (usually the lower back and pelvis) are discarded into the Ganga. Between human parts, animal carcasses, the ashes and detritus of countless worhsip and cremation ceremonies, runoff from thousands of bathers, and a lot of plain garbage, the Ganga is remarkably polluted. The justification for polluting it is “the river can take anything, and stay pure.”

We rowed back downriver, where the evening aarti ritual (the Agni Poojah) had begun in all of its chaotic glory. Back on Dashashwahmed ghat, several thousand pilgrims had gathered to watch and participate. Seven young priests stood on the raised platforms, and swung a series of sacred objects (oil lamps, smoking censers, peacock-feather fans, woolen dusters) in synchronized motions. A praise singer chanted through giant loudspeakers and hundreds of bells were rung in fast rhythm. The noise was overwhelming. The smell of burning hair drifted downriver from the cremation site.

We watched the fire ritual from the rowboat for about 30 minutes, sitting about 3 meters from a handsome, long-haired priest on his platform. This mass celebration is done every evening.

Tomorrow morning we will go back out on the Ganga, to see the sunrise bathing ritual, and to walk in the ancient city. In the meantime, all of us are trying to process what we are seeing and hearing in Varanasi.

LAKE PALACE HOTEL IN UDAIPUR

Greetings from Varanasi, the holiest city in Buddhism. Although we are in Varanasi, this post is about Udaipur, and is mostly an overadjectived gush about the Lake Palace Hotel.  Varanasi is a completely different story, which I will save for the next post.

On Friday evening we drove five hours from Jaisalmer to Rohet, just outside of Jodhpur. We stayed at the same hotel where we had eaten lunch on Tallulah’s birthday (after the wild wildlife safari) several days earlier. A couple of hours after we arrived on Friday night, Lu got a huge smile, and said, “I know this place. This is where we had cake!”

We drove another five hours on Saturday morning, arriving in Udaipur in the early afternoon. We stopped in Pakorna to admire the outside of the remarkably beautiful Jain temples there. No one is allowed in until noon, because ‘the gods are sleeping’. I’m still confused about Jainism, helpful comment on my post notwithstanding, but they have created some spectacular temples for sure.  We also stopped to see a colony of huge bats (”flying foxes”) hanging asleep in a couple of roadside willow trees.

We stayed at the Lake Palace in Udaipur, which has been something that glamour-loving Zola has been looking forward to for weeks. For anyone who remembers it, this palace was in the James Bond movie, ‘Octopussy.’

The palace was built in 1757 by the king (maharana) of Udaipur, to be used as a summer residence. As the name suggests, it is in the middle of a large lake. The summer-palace notion is somewhat funny, because the full-time residence (the City Palace) is only 500 meters away, on the shore of the same lake. As with many of the other Indian royal families, after losing the privy purse in 1971, they leased a palace to the Taj hotel group to increase revenue and cut costs.

Arriving at the Lake Palace by boat was awesome. The whole building is white, with black-marble floors, and huge high ceilings. The gardens and fountains in the palace courtyards are beautiful. Most important, every window looks out on the lake: facing east toward the old town and City Palace, or west toward the low mountains in the distance.

CITY PALACE COMPLEX FROM THE WATER

In the afternoon we went back to shore, and toured the City Palace. Udaipur is most renowned for having never been subjugated to (or allied with) the Muslims of the Mughal Empire. The Mewar royal family has ruled continuously since 623 AD. There is a helpful chronology, in English, of the 75 monarchs of the reign just inside the palace gate. It was interesting to see how frequently the throne was handed to an adopted son (5 out of the last 6 successions) because the king died with no male heir, despite multiple wives. There is something more to this story than I understand yet.

The City Palace was started in 1559 for defensive purposes. Udaipur saw off the last of the Muslim invaders in the early 1600s, and after that, the additions to the palace were mostly around recreation and leisure. In the courtyard there is a huge wall for elephant tug of war, and a great parade ground for show horses.

Because the golden age of Udaipur was in the 1800s, two to three centuries after the golden ages of Jaisalmer, Jodhpur, etc., the decorative style of the palace is very different from the ornate stone carvings and screens that we had seen elsewhere in Rajasthan.

A lot of the City Palace decor was imported from Europe (tiles from Delft, mirrors from Belgium, colored glass from the U.K.), and a lot of the artistry was in frescoes and paintings. Fashions change, I guess. The classic Indian ‘miniature’ style of fine-brushstroke realism is evident throughout the palace. The portraits are great, but the landscapes reveal how far behind the Indian painters were in understanding perspective, shading, and foreshortening.

One other manifestation of peaking in the 1800s is a room in the palace dedicated to the British Colonel, James Tod Jr., who befriended the kings in Rajasthan between 1806-1824. There was also an unnamed room which displayed sketches or photographs of the British agents to Udaipur from 1805 to 1947. Most were Lieutenant Colonels, and the (generally grim) portraits are a stereotype of stiff-upper-lip imperialism.

After touring the palace and a park, we went back out to the amazing Lake Palace. The kids and I went swimming in the old marble outdoor pool, with a great view out across the lake. My sybaritic son was blissful when one of the hotel staff brought him and Tallulah chocolates to eat while he luxuriated in the hot Jacuzzi. Not exactly roughing it.

India (the person) and I hired a babysitter, and had a sublime dinner without kids at the rooftop restaurant. There was confusion about the reservation, so they seated us at a lone table on a terrace facing the floodlit City Palace across the water.  The tasting menu of Rajasthani dishes (served in tiny bowls arranged on a platter) was extraordinary. More so was the light on the rippling water, and the reflection of the other palace. For us, it wins the ‘best ambience’ lifetime restaurant award hands down.

Unfortunately, again, we stayed only one night. This was a peak hotel experience - setting, building, service- unlike anything I have ever had before.

This morning we were up, out, and across to the shore, before 6 am to start the long trip to Varanasi. We will definitely make it back to Udaipur.

Jaisalmer - Rajasthan - India

This short post is about the cancellation of today’s flight from Jaisalmer to Udaipur, and the overland drive to Jodhpur which replaced it.

This morning we woke up in our desert tents to the sound of Indian Air Force jet fighters taking off from the nearby airfield. Even from a distance of 3-4 km, the noise was unbelievably loud. Zola, of course, asked, “Is Pakistan invading?”

All morning long, the planes roared overhead. Apparently the US Air Force arrives next week for joint exercises, and the IAF wants to be ready.

WHO LIKES CRICKET?

We delivered our gift of 150 pencils to the village school nearby. The principal seemed a little confused, in part because he only has about 50 students, but he and the kids were very gracious. Zola took pictures with the whole student body, and was relieved that there were no attempted kisses.

Before leaving the tent camp,the staff took us on a long-awaited tour of the 400-year-old waterworks that supplied the area’s farms. We walked down a set of stairs which led us 30 feet underground, and then along a barely lit passageway to a giant cistern. When India (the person) realized that the hundreds of dark spots on the walls and ceilings were bats, and that our presence was waking them up, she declared the tour over, and hustled the kids back up to daylight.

We went to the small civilian airport in the early afternoon. A small group of passengers was gathered for the lone commercial flight of the day: the 2:20pm Kingfisher flight to Jodhpur, and on to Udaipur.

For the first time in our travelling lives, India and I were required to remove all batteries from cameras and cell phones, and to put the batteries into our checked luggage. We were told that this was to ensure that no photos could be taken of the Jaisalmer airfield. Maybe the USAF has insisted.

Indian security is very thorough. Having had many recent domestic terror incidents, as well as the perceived threat from Pakistan, combined with a deep-rooted societal impulse toward bureaucracy, means multiple screens, pat-downs, luggage searches and official stamps. This is even in the minute Jaisalmer airport. Overstaffing seems to make it all go reasonably quickly.

The twelve or so passengers settled into the small departure lounge, expecting to board quickly. India (the person) and I chatted to a very nice English/American couple, taking their first child-free vacation in many years.

Just as we should have been boarding, a Kingfisher airline representative came in to tell us that the flight would be delayed 45 minutes.No one seemed fazed, and we went back to talking. Eventually, Tallulah and I entertained ourselves with juggling and songs.

About 20 minutes later, one of the airport officials came in, and made a small two-hand gesture to the Kingfisher rep. Nothing was said, but the same gesture that a modest first-base umpire would use to indicate a runner is safe after a pick-off attempt can also mean “we are closed,” or “it’s all done.”

A few minutes later, Mr. Kingfisher indicated that the flight was cancelled
due to bad weather. In unison, the passengers all looked out the big picture window at the sunshine and the windless blue sky. Sensing disbelief, the spokesman explained that there was a big sandstorm between Jodhpur and Jaisalmer, and that the military (?) had closed the airport to incoming planes.

We debated our options: stay in Jaisalmer and wait for tomorrow’s flight; drive 4 hours to Jodhpur tonight; or drive 8 hours to Udaipur, our original destination.

We decided to pile all of our luggage on the roof of a hired SUV, and drive the 280 km to Jodhpur this evening. Tomorrow morning we will drive down to Udaipur, seeing some Jain temples along the way.

We are sorry to miss one of our two nights at the famous Lake Palace in Udaipur, and eight hours in a car with small children usually maxes out my parenting skills more than once.

That said, we are referring to this entire year as a change in plans, so an occasional hiccup in the itinerary is to be expected. Frankly, we have been pleasantly surprised to date (knock wood) to have had so few travel and health problems.

Incidentally, we are now about halfway between Jaisalmer and Jodhpur on the road, and have seen no signs of a sandstorm.

ZOLA ECSTATIC

Jaisalmer - Rajasthan - India

This post is about the second half of our day in Jaisalmer, after returning from our tour of the Fort and the old town.

India (the person) and I were dazzled by the hand-crafted beauty of Jaisalmer Fort and by the grandness of the havelis (old mansions) in the old town. We were also saddened by their evident decay, both from having excess water erode the foundations and from general overcrowding and neglect.

A visit to ancient man-made Lake Gadisar, just outside the city, did not make us feel any better.

Lake Gadisar is actually a reservoir, constructed in 1367 (!) to provide water for the people and animals of the desert town. For more than 600 years, it was the primary source of drinking water. Even after artesian wells took over the primary function in the 1970s, people used to swim and row on the lake, taking refuge from the heat of the Rajasthani desert.

We were warned by our local guide for the day, Mr. Mahendra, that the water levels in Lake Gadisar were currently a bit low, due to poor rains, and that the lake was probably too polluted now to swim. What we saw was actually pretty awful.

The depth appeared to be about 2 meters below normal, and the ghats (spiritually significant steps that are supposed to lead directly down into the water) ended with several meters of dusty ground before the waterline. An island shrine was stranded on dry land, 30 meters from the water.

The water level, though, is fundamentally beyond anyone’s control. If the rain doesn’t come, the water level will be low.

CATFISH

What was harder to look at was the green and greasy water itself, and the unbelievable amount of garbage floating on its surface. We watched two men come down to the waterline and empty a bag of garbage directly into the lake. They explained to us that the papers and other refuse “had been used in a wedding”, and that “Hinduism required disposal in the lake”. Then they threw in the garbage bag and walked off.

The only sign of life in Lake Gadisar was a mass of dozens of large catfish, roiling the surface of the water as people (our kids included) fed them handfuls of rice puffs. Their slick gray bodies and their gaping little whiskered mouths were truly revolting to look at.

Even with good rains, I think it will be a while before anyone is able to swim in Lake Gadisar again. This is too bad. Indrajit, our wonderful guide, is a naturalist and a serious conservationist. He had to just shake his head and lament softly for how much work is still to be done.

On the positive side, Jaisalmer has scores of modern windmills, spinning away in the desert, and providing a significant percentage of the city’s electricity. Also, two eco-friendly and water-neutral hotels have opened within the fort. All is not lost.

Late in the afternoon, Mr. Mahendra organized a camel ride in the desert for us. We drove about 20 km west from the hotel, over the best paved road we have seen in India. Being so close to Pakistan, the military has made the passability of these roads a top priority.

CAMEL CARAVAN

We parked a couple of kilometers from where the flat, scrub desert turns into sand dunes. There were literally hundreds of camels by the side of the road, and hundreds of tourists, Indian and foreign, mounting up and riding toward the setting sun.

Based on our experience in Morocco, all four of us felt like camel-riding pros. Zola and India (and Indrajit) each rode alone, and Tallulah and I rode together. The camels were bigger, and saddles were much more comfortable than the ones we had seen in the Sahara.

As each little tourist group set out, it quickly attracted a small entourage of boys in school uniforms selling cold drinks, and men selling snacks. The boys walked alongside us, asking again and again, “Do you want Pepsi? You promise to buy from me? You promise?” A 12-year old named Vijay walked the full two kilometers out to the sand dunes by my side, asking his three questions every minute or so.

The great long tourist caravan traveled in a line for 45 minutes until it hit the low sand dunes, and then spread out like a blossom in the desert. Little groups of 5-6 riders climbed and claimed individual dunes, with latecomers like ourselves forced to press on to find a dune to call our own.

When we stopped and dismounted, a larger group of drink sellers and chip sellers converged on us. We learned to say, politely, “Nahi. No thank you. Nahi,” and invariably the sellers said goodbye and walked off.

Just before sunset, we were approached by two young women with jewel and make-up bedecked faces, dressed in beautiful sarees and head wraps for dancing. With their brother accompanying on a drum, they danced and sang a lively desert song which we had heard many times in Pushkar. Eventually the dancers had me and India and (creating particular excitement for them) Tallulah all whirling with them in the sand. We paid them a little bit of money, and they moved to the next dune and were repeating the performance within minutes. Zola studiously ignored the dancers, and enjoyed eggrolling down the sand dune as if he were in a suburban back yard.

The sunset over the desert was beautiful. Our main camel herder (who had walked out next to our little caravan) climbed on a camel, and invited Zola to join him for a gallop across the sand. It was wonderful to see the look of pure joy on our son’s face as they came thundering back along the ridge of sand dunes, the pink sky behind them.

Eventually we all mounted our camels again, and rode back in the gathering twilight.

Prior to actually arriving at the camel site, I had imagined that our sunset camel ride in India would be very similar to the one that we took in Morocco two months ago. I had envisioned splendid isolation, as we trekked alone into the high dunes, with no evidence of humanity in the windswept sand.

This is India, though, and isolation, splendid or not, seems to be in short supply. The 500 or so other riders, the camel herders, the entourage of drinks and chips sellers, the roving dance trios, and the various other hangers on, combined to make this a distinctly Indian and wonderful experience.

We all loved it, as we are loving pretty much everything about India.

Jaisalmer has been wonderful, and very thought provoking. Tomorrow we head out to our last stop in Rajasthan: Udaipur.

Jaisalmer - Rajasthan - India

This post is about our first day in Jaisalmer, exploring the fort and old town. Jaisalmer is a nearly thousand-year-old monumental achievement of architecture, administration, and craftsmanship. Unfortunately, it is being destroyed practically in front of our eyes.

After our adventures at the military airbase yesterday, in the late afternoon we arrived at the camp where we are staying, in the desert about 6 km west of Jaisalmer. The camp is run by the same outfit that we stayed with in Pushkar, but this semi-permanent site is less militaristic, and more comfortable. The kids are delighted to have a beautiful swimming pool in the desert.

Just before dusk, we walked out to the main road, and walked further west, climbing a small rise to watch the sun set over the desert. As we walked through a small village, a group of very friendly kids walked with us for about half an hour. We promised to visit them in their school tomorrow, and to bring pencils for everyone.

This morning we went into Jaisalmer early, to look at the fort and temples before the daily hordes of tourists.

Jaisalmer Fort is more of a fortified city than a military installation. Construction was started in 1156 by a local king, named Jaisal. Although Jaisalmer is in the middle of a dusty nowhere, it is right on the ancient Spice Route, which connected India with Constantinople. Some current versions of history have sanitized the early activities of the Jaisal warriors, saying that the fort “supplied the camel caravans,” or “supported the spice trade.” For the first few hundred years, though, it seems that the main industry in Jaisalmer was raiding and looting caravans, or providing “protection” against raiding and looting. By the 16th century it had become a city of traders and merchants, with protection as a self-interested sideline business. As the port of Mumbai opened in the early 1800s, the Spice Route dwindled, and Jaisalmer declined slowly into economic insignificance.

The fortifications are built from massive blocks of yellow limestone, jutting up out of a low, rocky hill. The walls were generally made using ‘dry technique,’ which means that the blocks were carved and fitted together without mortar, and are still in place 850 years later.

To this day, large, round boulders are perched along the parapets, still ready, if necessary, to be rolled down onto invading troops. A slippery limestone path runs uphill from the old town, the extramural part of Jaisalmer that was settled in the 17th century. The path zigs and zags at 90-degree angles through a series of heavy gates into the fort. As in the other Rajasthani forts, the sharp turns made it difficult for invaders to use their less-than-agile elephants as battering rams.

The main square of the fort (Dussehra Chowk) is directly under the king’s balcony, which is the focal point of the long-abandoned royal palace. The intricate yellow limestone carvings of the palace are exquisite. The square itself has several cows lazing around, amidst piles of garbage and builders’ rubble. The contrast with the beauty of the old buildings is stark.
At ground level, the rest of the fortified village is reminiscent of Fes, or even of some of the hill towns of Tuscany and Umbria. When we looked up, though, the beautiful yellow limestone facades and balconies could only be Jaisalmer.

The most impressive sight in Jaisalmer Fort is the Jain temples, which were built by wealthy merchants in the 15th and 16th centuries.

I am still completely baffled by Jainism. It originated in 500 BC as an offshoot of Hinduism, primarily following 24 prophets rather than the million plus Hindu gods, and prescribing a radically strict form of veganism and pacifism. Paradoxically, Jains have also been hugely successful businesspeople throughout India’s long history.

It isn’t possible to use enough superlatives to describe the two Jain temples that we saw. A small army of exceptional craftsman spent decades carving icons of gods and prophets of all sizes. In one temple there are 6,666 stone representations of prophets in the lotus position.The only way to differentiate which prophet is being honored is by a small mark (a bull, a lion, a fish) carved below the legs. The dome of the same temple is a stack of concentric stone doilies, carved from a single piece of limestone. The base of the dome has hundreds of erotically paired stone singers and dancers, each about eight inches tall. The shrines themselves are four-faced marble statues (each face pointed toward a different compass direction).

Jaisalmer Fort is truly spectacular, but it is literally crumbling. It was designed to contain about 2,000 people with minimum-impact medieval lifestyles. In recent years tourism has exploded in an uncontrolled fashion. About 5,000 people live within the walls today. More important, there are 56 hotels and B&Bs, plus dozens of restaurants.

The water draining from the open sewers is literally eroding the hill and the ‘dry technique’ fortifications out from underneath the city.

It isn’t clear what could be done to save Jaisalmer Fort. Disneyfying it would require displacing several thousand people (whose families have been resident for hundreds of years) and closing scores of businesses. Then an enormous amount of restoration would need to be funded. None of this seems remotely feasible in an Indian democracy.

Under any circumstances, we were delighted to see Jaisalmer, and we were glad that we happened to be staying in the desert camp well outside of the city.

Jaisalmer - Rajasthan - India

This short post is about travelling from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer, in the westernmost part of Rajasthan, and in the beautiful arid heart of the Thar Desert.

We took an early afternoon turboprop flight from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer on Kingfisher Airlines. Kingfisher’s service is spectacularly good, which has been a pleasant surprise. In the middle of this short flight, the pilot requested that Zola come up to the cockpit (through two sets of locked doors), which was a cool experience for him.

Jodhpur and Jaisalmer airports are also working bases for the Indian Air Force. In Jodhpur this just meant a little extra security on the ground. As we flew into Jaisalmer, over the “flat as a chapati” Thar desert, we could see that the airfield awaiting us was on much more of a war footing.

Jaisalmer is about 30 km from the Pakistani border, meaning that it would take a Pakistani warplane (an F-15 or F-16) less than two minutes to reach the air base after crossing into Indian airspace.

From the air, we could see squads of fighter planes lined up on multiple runways. Zola and I counted at least [censored - IAF] which looked ready for immediate action. We could also see networks of fortified hangars, bunkers, and a big perimeter wall. We did not see the anti-aircraft systems, but I’m sure they are there.

The Kingfisher flight landed in a remote corner of the airfield, and the 20 or so tourists on board stumbled off, to be greeted by an IAF officer and several sub-machine-gun wielding enlisted men. We had to walk about 200 meters across the desert to a bus that would take us to the terminal. We appeared to be the only civilian flight at the airfield.

Zola, of course, was very excited by all of this. As we walked, he asked me, in a loud voice, “How far did you say Pakistan is from here, Dad?” Then he asked, “Dad, when was the last time Pakistan invaded? Do you think they are going to invade again?” The last two questions visibly startled the IAF officer who was escorting us, so I did my best to laugh and make hushing noises. Just then we heard several boom noises in the distace, which were probably big-gun target practice or firing drills.

We piled onto the old (civilian) bus, and moved out down the runway. We drove past about [censored - IAF] planes, and finally reached the gate which separated the military operations from the civilian passenger terminal.

Unfortunately the gate was locked, so we sat in the heat for about 20 minutes while the guards searched for the officer with the key. Many vehicles drove to and from the area where our plane landed, and to a HQ-looking building in the [censored - IAF]. Finally, the key was found, and we were released back to the baggage claim and waiting taxis of civilian control.

All jokes aside, this was a stark reminder that India “lives in a tough neighborhood.” All seems quiet on the Western front, but muscular deterrence is clearly a serious business.

This short post is about the rest of our daughter’s fourth birthday, in Jodhpur, India.

After we got back from the wilder-than-expected wildlife safari drive, and after we marched with the wedding procession for a bit, we had lunch at a small hotel in the village of Rohet.

Our guide, Indrajit, organized a chocolate cake for Tallulah, complete with candle. We all sang. I don’t know how he came up with a cake, because it is not a part of Indian cuisine.

Indrajit told us that on a kid’s birthday in India, the child touches the feet of all of the elders in the house, and the family visits a shrine together. For the whole day, the child gets small portions of his/her favorite food (real food instead of cake). That evening there is a celebratory feast for adults, and the birthday child may get a few gifts. Our kids were amazed at what a rotten deal that sounded like.

When we got back to the hotel, the manager presented Lu with a beautiful arrangement of flowers, and she got another chocolate cake. Although we agreed to wait until after dinner, mysterious fingerprints appeared in the cake throughout the afternoon.
At the birthday girl’s request, she and I went swimming in the hotel’s outdoor pool for the last hour and a half before sunset. During that time (very special for me), she started singing a song that she made up. It went, “Today’s my birthday, and I am six years old. Today’s my birthday, and I am six years old.” Apparently the force of repetition convinced her, and she started telling everyone that she was “six today, not five.”

The Crown Prince of Jodhpur and his bodyguards came down to swim while we were in the pool. It is his house, after all. He suffered a traumatic brain injury while playing polo in 2003. We were told that he is greatly improved, but we saw ourselves that his motor control was still poor, and he needed assistance to dress himself and to swim. It was sad and sobering to see this dazzlingly handsome, muscular man in obvious and long-standing distress. The whole scene was almost Shakespearean, and reminded us that our own health and happiness is perhaps fragile.

At dinner, Tallulah received yet another cake, and warm good wishes from many of the hotel staff. She managed to stay awake long enough to blow out the candle and eat two bites of cake. As she slept, wedding fireworks went off above the city of Jodhpur.

I think she had a happy birthday. This morning she woke up and proclaimed to us, “Now I am seven!”

Jodhpur - Rajasthan - India

BIRTHDAY PRINCESS AND NEW FRIENDS

This post is about our second day in Jodhpur, highlighted by celebrating our daughter’s fourth birthday. Thanks to India (the person and the place) it was a special day for all of us.

We were up early, and Tallulah got to read a flood of birthday wishes and e-cards from friends and family. Ever since we had a birthday-like fairy/princess going away party for her in June, Tallulah has maintained that she is already four years old. We have allowed this polite family fiction to extend into her proclaiming yesterday as her fifth birthday.  This drives her brother crazy, of course.

She also opened a few presents before breakfast, including a sparkly red Indian dress from our Mukut, our incredibly sweet (and competent) driver for the last ten days.  Tallulah put on the dress and refused to take it off for the rest of the day.

We drove about 40 km out of Jodhpur to a small village called Rohet.  We had arranged for a wildlife safari tour which ended up being much wilder than we expected: a natural, cultural, and mildly narcotic family experience.

Our safari guide, Ajitesh, drove us out in an open-top Mahindra & Mahindra jeep-like vehicle, with camouflage seat covers that read “Property of India Army.”  We were looking for black buck, which is a species of Indian antelope that was hunted nearly to extinction.  It has been protected for about 20 years, and now seems to be coming back strongly.

Unlike African safaris, there are no fences around Indian game parks.  In this case, we were not in a game park at all, but were driving around in  wheat fields, now lying dusty and fallow after the harvest.  We spotted dozens of black buck, some in a large family herd, others in a bachelor herd (of non-alpha males), and other males on their own.  If we had not known that they were so rare, we would not have appreciated that this was special.  Although they are beautiful and exotic looking, as they lazed in the shade they seemed as common and unremarkable as white-tail deer on the median strip of a New England highway.

The Rohet area had a relatively large population of black buck even through the species’ thinnest times. A small religious/agrarian community, called the Bishnoi, has been protecting them “for a long time.” I asked Ajitesh how long was a long time. He replied “At least 400-500 years.  The Bishnoi were the world’s first ecologists.”

We visited a Bishnoi farm very near where we spotted the antelope herd.  ”Bishnoi” is the Hindi word for the number 29. The name represents the 29 principles that the Bishnoi people live by.  Some of the principles are ten-commandment like (”don’t commit murder”),  but many have to do with sustainable agriculture and conserving the environment (”don’t cut a living tree”).  

The farm was small and relatively humble, but apparently the Bishnoi are almost always successful farmers, and have plenty of money.  They support each other, and are considered excellent neighbors, because their principles include helping others (Bishnoi or not) in whatever ways possible.  The children on the farm were healthy and very beautiful.  The parents put kohl around their eyes to ward off evil spirits, and to protect against eye infections.

BISHNOI FARM CHILDREN

We drove a few kilometers from the Bishnoi farm to a “Brahmin village,” which was an enclosure of several farm houses.  The compound houses an extended clan of 50-60 people. There were four new communal tractors parked outside the walls, and we saw scores of bags of recently harvested grain.  We toured the houses and the courtyards, admiring the small shrines and the photos of the clan’s patriarchs.  

Just as I thought we were going to leave, Ajitesh told Zola that we were going into the last house for “the opium ceremony.”  I assumed he was kidding, and headed for the jeep.  

Of course, he was not kidding, and so we found ourselves seated in a circle of male clan elders, watching them ritually make tea from opium.  Again and again, the master of ceremonies poured cold (bottled) water through a cheesecloth full of opium rocks.  The water got progressively more brown.  The men sang and chanted a little, and then decanted the tea into a small wooden vessel.  

The leader poured the tea into his cupped palm, and offered it up to Ajitesh.  He drank three palmsful, explaining: one in honor of the village, one in honor of the god Brahma, and one in honor of the ceremony itself.  

The other men all drank from each others’ cupped palms, and then poured for us. 

Ajitesh had told India and me that there was “basically no narcotic” in the tea. The government-issued opium rocks are of very low potency. Nevertheless, reluctance sprang from many questions and concerns running through our minds:Was this remotely hygienic? Was it legal? Was there really no opium in the tea? (That seemed unlikely, given the more-than-ceremonial enthusiasm with which the elders drank.) Would we become opium addicts? Even if we didn’t become opium addicts, would we get deathly sick from drinking out of a farmer’s hand in rural Rajasthan? Should we be ingesting opium in front of our kids, for heaven’ sake?

Politeness and the momentum of the moment won out over the questions, so India and I both slurped some down.  She stopped after a polite palmful, but I went with the ritual three.  Afterward, the men all smoked bidi cigarettes (a pack of 50 costs about 4 US cents), and we sat together for a while.  I don’t know what opium is supposed to feel like, but I did not feel any effects.  Maybe I will go into withdrawal tomorrow.

Later, Ajitesh told us that the men usually concoct a much stronger opium potion, or they smoke the rocks.  For us tourists, it was just show.

Finally, we came across, and were invited to join, a very colorful Hindu wedding procession in the village of Rohet.  This is considered a very auspicious sign on a birthday, so Tallulah is assured of a healthy and interesting year. I think she is having an interesting time thus far.

Happy Birthday, Tallulah!

INDIA (THE PERSON) PARTAKING IN THE CEREMONY