Singing the happy Jodhpur blues

A sleeper train with bunks stacked three high brought us to our eighth stop, Jodhpur. Known as the blue city, not for its love of emotion-filled guitar-heavy music or the residents' inordinate sadness, but for the indigo blue tint used to paint many of its buildings, it is one of those places where you just know you can not take a bad photograph. The tiny cow-clogged lanes look so artfully distressed that you could swear that a team of decorators had recently come through with the latest shabby chic manual in hand.

Our hotel lay smack in the middle of all that blueness at the foot of the Mehrangarh Fort, so even our pre-dawn arrival was not enough to keep me still for more than an hour or two. As soon as the sun peaked over the horizon, Laura and I were making our steep ascent up the hill, trying to keep an accurate count of how many ancient gates we had passed through, lest we bypass the entrance to the fort itself. Apparently, we were approaching from the back side, leading everyone to caution us about not missing a turn after the fourth (or was it fifth?) gate.

We managed to find the entrance gate and ticket counter, where we were promptly rewarded with- cue the confetti- a map and an audio guide. My excitement at receiving this latest guide turned out to be completely justified. Many of the explanations were given by Maharaja Gaj Singh II himself. He is the latest Maharaja and the one who established the trust to turn this fort into a spectacular museum. Joined by his family, they offered extensive commentaries on what it was like to grow up in and around the palace. This, combined with some of the best displays I had seen in India, put the monument into a very contemporary light, where it was less of an artful relic and more a living institution with rotating art exhibits looking to celebrate the past while acknowledging the present. Among the permanent collections were rooms dedicated to gifts of state, royal cribs, palanquins, howdas (elephant chairs)and a small but impressive painting gallery. There were rooms such as the Phool Mahal, or flower palace, in which no collection could have competed and those were wisely left bare. There was even a resident palm reader in the courtyard of the Moti Mahal Chowk or Maharani's corner. (For anyone curious, yes, I paid him a visit and he told me everything I wanted to hear, so as far as I am concerned, he is an excellent palm reader). The entire place was run with a professionalism that put all the other forts and museums we had visited to shame. That, combined with its inherent beauty, made it fort to which all other forts would be compared.

We had now seen how the royals lived, so the following day, we opted for a look at a much simpler way of life. We took a tour to the remote desert villages inhabited by the Bishnoi community. The Bishnoi people belong to a sect of Hinduism who believe strongly in the sanctity of all forms of life. They are strict vegetarians and in the past have willingly died in order to protect trees from being chopped down. Accordingly, hunting is strictly prohibited and animals are free to graze undisturbed. This was evident when we saw a normally shy blue bull antelope gazing serenely at us from the side of the road. The male black buck deer we spotted later calling to his harem of 10-15 females was understandably a bit rowdier, but just as safe from harm.

Our first stop was at the home of a Bishnoi family for a demonstration of a traditional opium ceremony. This involves someone, usually a man, taking a chunk of opium, mashing it up and running it along with some cold water through a sieve to create a tea-like drink. He then pours this beverage directly into his (or the recipients') cupped hands and sips away. We were told that these ceremonies were essential to village culture and took place anytime that a significant event (ie. a wedding, a birth, a day ending in the letter "y") was underway. I appreciated the cultural importance of what we were seeing, but all I could concentrate on was the facts that (1)for sure, that was not filtered water and (2) this bacterial broth was about to be poured into my hands that had not been washed once since scampering around the flora and fauna of the desert trying to get a picture of some small bird that would not stay still. Even so, I did not want to be the one person responsible for the international faux pas that pissed off a group of peaceful tree-huggers, so I put my faith in the curative properties of opium and partook (or not, depending on the statute of limitations on this sort of thing). It was bitter tasting, not to mention potentially toxic, so none of us clamored for seconds leaving more for our hosts, the tea brewer wearing all white and his brightly clad wife. I am pretty confident that none of it went to waste.

Our next stops were the ones I dreaded. I knew we would be visiting a potter, a block printer and a rug maker and feared that our nice nature tour would quickly devolve into yet another shopping nightmare. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I found the stops for more interesting than off-putting. Perhaps it was the fair prices and extremely soft-sell nature of the craftsmen or maybe it was the opportunity to watch them create objects of beauty using the most rudimentary of tools. (The potter's wheel did not even have a pedal, just a round stone upon a wooden peg and a guy putting it in motion with the help of a stick.) Most likely it was the lingering effects of the opium tea kicking in.

After a visit to a non-Bishnoi family for a simple lunch of lentils, shrubs and chapati (non-leavened bread) served sans utensils and with, if not disdain, at least disinterest, we returned to the bustling city. We knew we were close as soon as the symphony of car horns got underway. The insanity of the traffic in India is the subject of another common myth. Only, I am not sure if I can call it a myth if it completely and totally justified. A 4-lane road is not to be used for anything less than 6 six cars, 2 cows and 3 tuks-tuks across, all of whom (except possibly the cows) will have a hand pressed firmly to horn. I have never seen anything like it in my life. The blowing of the horn is as integral to driving in India as the pressing of the gas pedal. It is unimaginable to go from one block to the next without the use of both. There is an entire language that is born of this and the horn can mean "I'm about to pass", "Speed up" or "Hi, how's the family?" It can be a simple one-note honk or as in the unfortunate case of a long distance bus we took, an entire song played everytime the horn is pushed. But the oddest part of it is, that somehow, miraculously, it works. In the time we were there, I never saw a serious accident, never saw an incident of road rage (road panic, yes...but that was just us), never even had anything that would qualify as a close call. Everyone is on the same page of what, at first, appears to be a demonic demolition derby... and consequently, against all logic to the contrary, it works. Go figure.

After returning safely back to town, I ran up to the royal cenotaphs in time for a tranquil and beautiful sunset. The cenotaphs are on the other side of town, facing the fort and are reached by means of a winding road up a hill. The location manages to keep away both the touts and the crowds (who I guess go hand-in-hand) and provides what has to be the best view in town. It was just me, some birds, a friendly security guard and a city resplendant in blue.






The view from Mehrangarh Fort


Royal Palanquin




The Phool Mahal or Palace of Flowers was devoted to all things pleasureable











The Blue City at Twilight


Village Home


A Bishnoi man prepares tea for an opium ceremony


Drinking the opium tea


A Bishnoi woman in traditionally colorful garb


Black buck deer


A Nilgai or Indian Blue Bull antelope


Jaswant Thada : The marble Cenotaph of Maharaja Jaswant Singh


A security guard from the Cenotaphs followed me around the gardens trying to help me get a photo of this little guy.


The clock tower marks the epicenter of a souvenir market

Comments

  1. It is so so strage because I remember that when I was there I didn't like it at all, but now when I look back ... the place seems great !!!
    We have to go back there to check it out again ;D

    ReplyDelete
  2. Berti, I can't decide which is the best part of your blog, your narratives or your photos. Both are superb!

    ReplyDelete
  3. Laura, I didn't like the shopping area here, but then again I didn't like the shopping areas anywhere. Let me know when we are going back.

    Thanks, Sandi. You are much too kind. Have you ever thought of starting one yourself. Your Tanzania pics were amazing.

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