3/1/11

Daliesque landscapes of undulating sand. Talia, my desert steed, takes me through the shrub and dunes. I have so many questions about the animals and plants but the almost peace is a rarity to be treasured. The camel’s bells chime and apart from us there is no other sound at present.

In the stillness my conscience wavers. These camels appear healthier than in other places but mine cannot open her left eye and there is a smell of disease about her, the metal pins through their noses are used to guide them and whilst i am glad to see the desert, and not from a jeep, i resolve that the conditions would have to be very different for me to take a trip such as this again.

The desert where time and distance disappear, While time seems irrelevant the position of the sun and stars dictate all and what seems far can be right in front of you but more often than not what seems near is so far away. The sun sets in the distance illuminating Pakistan too before it disappears out of view.

Here in the desert the observation and acknowledgement of sun-up sun-down comes to life for me. In Pushkar i felt separate from its religious significance, grateful as i was for the suns presence and consistency. But in this environment it holds so much weight, the heat it brings or takes away is immediately tangible, the scars it leaves on the sky, the multitude of stars that follow and their clarity. All of it brings an overwhelming sense of life, the universe and everything and a deep seated gratitude to and for what i do not know.

Nye Sal kee Badhai ho

1/1/11

A strange collection of europeans and indians gather on a roof top to see in the new year. strange stories and life theories pass from mouth to ear; feuds and gossip and anecdotes alike. the early hours awaiting new years GMT were whiled away with a bottle of dirty indian rum and the last man standing, brilliantly named Aladdin.

Into the desert

29/12/10

Hot, bright, dusty desert sun and everything matching. Sand walls, sand floors, sand forts.

Jaisalmer

Up into the sandstone fort and along the winding lanes and alleys in search of Bobby, not only famous for henna and massage but for her vibrant character. As you weave in and out you can ask anyone where Bobby's is, they all know and no one acts surprised that you walk past countless other henna and massage parlours without a glance. She sits cross-legged amongst a myriad of beautiful handwoven textiles of every colour and design, her smile fills the room, her laugh oozes out of the room and into the alleys and bounces around the ancient forts outer walls, second only to my sisters wonderful guffaw.

This women is strong and courageous, kind and intelligent. She is brutally honest in her opinions of arranged marriage and the mistreatment of women in marriage and when widowed. Her shop sells the produce of women from her village who have no education. She provides them with some income, advice, shelter in the rains and to me an example second to none.

Everyday in India I contemplate what a privilege it is to be here at this time, it feels so precious and in such a state of flux. Older travellers revisiting say the change is so evident already but to me there is still so much of the ancient, fragile and fading as it is. Bobby, though fully entrenched in the overbearing tourist trade, reminds me that change can be positive as she talks of more children being educated and berating their fathers violent behaviour towards their mothers. With good education and more role models like Bobby change doesn't seen so ugly.

sun-up sun-down

18/12/10

Drums play the sun in and the sun out everyday, it's entrance and exit is marked, rejoiced. Tonight a legless man plays the tabla drums with a backdrop of the holy lake and it's many temples. The last bathers drip dry from their holy wash, the gypsies continue to sing and play their handmade instruments, musicians from all over join the cacophony in harmony to the setting of a big pink hazy Indian sun.

Pushkar escaped

28/12/10
At first i was voluntarily stuck there, after meeting good folk the shock wore off and it seemed the perfect place to spend an inchristmassy christmas. xmas night played out by drums and spinning fire balls and then i resolved to leave at last the next day. it wasn't to be. Road blocks strikes, cancellations, the whole place shutdown. Destination scrubbed i decided to jump on the first bus out, which puts me in Jodphur, sitting on the city wall of a fort, looking down at a cloudy city of blue houses. Drums still play, the unescapable sounds of Rajasthan continue to beat and sing, multicolored turbans and tales of the glorious battles of the maharajahs all around.

The road to Azmer

23/12/10

To be on 2 wheels again, gearless clanking bike over rutted road, wild west scenery to the left and right, hot dry sun cracking my face, bare landscape interspresed with patches of calling children taking rides and asking for pens and pennies.

Pushkar rooftop

19.12.10
Invited to paint the rooftop of a new restaurant for all the pakoras and chai you can take. Kites flutter above and monkeys jump around, stealing food from the street below to gulp on their playground of once luminous green domes belonging the only muslim temple in town. The moon rises, threatening fullness within two days and deep dark mountains are illuminated in the setting sun.

Pushkar

14/12/10

The town surrounding a holy lake, it is a place of pilgrimage, so relaxed the travellers get stuck there, some forever. The first evening boasts the well known shops and offers from street tauts, a nice lake but not idyllic, ghats of interesting and beautiful sounds, amazing turban clad men bathing and requesting blessings.

It begins for me when the gypsy girl and her uncle spot me on the holy bridge, $ in their eyes. They play and sing. The song is about a deceased brother returning to his sister in a dream. It’s in some wonderful desert language and her voice has guts, his playing is sharp and poignant, my heart sings too.

16/12/10

Pushkar continues to pound it's rhythm. In the evening a conversation around a campfire acquires a guitar, and another, a flute and a double sided drum. Somebody pulls out two big clay jars and completes the percussion section. Another stringed instrument appears, i cannot name it. The dancing begins.

The night is full of music and smoke and it rings in my ears as i trace the lake around to find my present home, hopping from ghat to ghat, no "holy brahmin" to take my money now for a contrived blessings. Just me, water and moonlight.

This morning i moved to a treehouse below which music is played, food prepared and stories told in broken english, filled in with hindi, spanish, hebrew, etc.

The Spanish have gone in all directions and the moon cafe hotel empties then slowly starts to refill. Cyclists part-way through their journey from devon to sydney tell a new type of story.

This holy lake town has a thin skin and many layers beneath it, tales of treachery and cheating, the smell of forbidden alcohol, the remains of discarded needles and the out pourings of an old mans heart.

Jaipur

14/12/10

It is not beautiful.

Banks and electronic shops, dirt and dust, stark poverty, traffic upon traffic puffing out black plumes of smoke. But up close, or low down the colours, the women decorated from head to toe, the vibrant produce on offer, it's there when you're open to it and well hidden when you're not.

In the middle of the dusty industrial streets there is a palace which definitely boasts beauty but tells a story of war and riches. Maharajahs who's hobbies are truly indulged dwelt there. One was the size of a town, another a world polo champion and one who's interest in astrology meant that a second sundial standing 27 metres tall was built so as to be accurate to the second.

Into Rajasthan

13/12/10

Sitting in a restaurant in Jaipur, a hectic Rajasthani city jam packed with sights, i negotiate my first food in 48 hours and it tastes good but feels wrong. I've left my present partner in crime, a bulshie and enthusiastic London lass with a nose for travelling and endless curiosity, suffering the classic complaints of "The Delhi Belly" back in the hotel.

The 6 hour train journey was mostly taken up embarrassedly passing the three other pale people on the train on the way to the toilet, looking even paler than before.

Delhi was a whirlwind of amazing sights and stark contrasts. Half a kilometre from crumbling beggar-filled streets a metropolis of high-end clothes shops and continental restaurants all with telling signs that you are still in India. LONELY PLANT recommended restaurants and DELUXE TOILETS crawling with cockroaches aplenty. The energy and bustle is constant .

Getting on

11/12/10

Rapid self-made tours of Delhi distract me temporarily from the shock of senses, collision of worlds going on all around, under and on top of me. I gather strength and curiosity with it, i ditch some of my worry over clothes and etiquette and hold my head a little higher and speak my refusals with a little more authority.

The Shock

8/12/10

... now the smell! Cumin, excrement, incense, heat.

Decorated cows pulling rickety wooden structures full of rice and pulses.

Ankles of girls, that sparkle and shimmer, sing a marching jingle.

Lame, broken, starving amongst shiny watches and sharp suits, amongst us in our rich white skin.

Is this to be my home? Am i to fall for and into step with this city of constant noise and pungency?

Relax, inhale, exhale, be.

They'll be tears before bed and whilst i can't be lonely yet, i am not lonely, i know i need an ally.

It's too big, too intimidating alone.

Heathrow to Indira Gandhi

7/12/10

I can't taste it or smell it yet but I can hear and feel it all around me. Seat negotiations like market haggling. Hindi and English spoken interchangeably. Every button is pressed, wrapping on blankets, eye shields, toothbrushes, ripped off. Rows of turbans and red dotted foreheads.