Defend My Castle

In Dunegal

After switching bus in Gujarat I arrived as planned in Udaipur, southern Rajasthan at four in the afternoon. I had tactically stalled in Gujarat for a couple hours in the morning, so as to time my arrival with a cooler evening. However I didn’t take into consideration the fact that Rajasthan never really gets cool during the long summer months. Being predominantly desert, the only thing fierier than the burning heat was the history of Rajput warriors who hailed from the area. The warriors from Rajasthan, the Land of the Kings, were supposedly descendants of the sun. They were renowned for their fighting prowess and ruled here for over a 1000 years. When they weren’t fighting to keep out invaders however they were fighting amongst themselves. It would be this infighting that eventually saw them become vassals to the Mughals before the ruling classes were bought out with the wealth and titles of the British. For the ordinary people of Rajasthan however they saw little gains and the division between rich and poor, is to this day, one of the most pronounced in all of India. Literacy rates have come along way from 18% of the population in 1961, but at 67% it still lags the rest of India.

Why did the elephant cross the bridge?

Arriving in Udaipur I could have been in Agrabah, with sandstone buildings, narrow crowded streets, and overhanging canvas covers. It wasn’t hard to picture the turbaned guards with billowing trousers and even wilder moustaches chasing down Aladdin back in the day. Unlike a lot of the places I had been previously, Udaipur was very hilly with most roads winding up and down and around and around. This meant walking was not only tiring on the legs with the steep gradients but tiring on the mind trying to remember the way you came.

Udaipur Palace

My hostel was quite fortuitously placed right on the side of the massive Lake Pichola. With our own private jetty I could sit out at sunset to watch the hordes of bats that flocked over the lake to fish for eels. Despite the water being choked with weeds and a slimy layer of algal bloom, local kids swam there the whole daylong. From Daiji Footbridge that crossed the lake I had a good view of their antics and the whole of the city as well. It was so built up that it looked like a can of coke that has exploded after being forgotten in the freezer overnight. The buildings were rocketing outward and upward over each other like stone plants desperate for the sunlight and a view of the lake.At the very centre on the highest hill was the City Palace; a myriad of towers and balconies that imposed itself on the rest of the city below. Inside the City Palace’s impressive gates was a less than impressive museum. The museum had quite an extensive collection of mostly underwhelming paintings, an array of antiques you would find at a bootsale and royal chambers bedecked in mirror tiles that made each room more classless than classy. Far more interesting were the views it afforded out over the city and the grim tales of a princess who drank poison rather than let the city be drawn into a war with two rival princes who sought to marry her.

The saving grace about the city being so built up was that the towering stonework offered some shade in the alleys. Going for random walks I could lose myself within a few minutes and explore the cities back alleys. These had open sewers running either side and I saw mothers come out of houses with a dustpan holding a little turd that they dumped unceremoniously into the drain to be whisked away. At other times people cut out the dustpan altogether and simply squated on their doorsteps hovering over the sewer beneath them. Surprisingly the city though smelt relatively clean, the level of litter was lower than many other places I had been but there was still the same number of cows standing looking mildly lost in the centre of that concrete jungle. Old-fashioned steel pumps were set up and kids would take turns pumping for each other to drink. Considering the water was most likely being pumped from the lake I refrained from having a drink despite how parched I was.

After Udaipur it was on to Jaisalmer, right out on India’s western border with Pakistan. The overnight bus to Jaisalmer turned out to be one of the most dramatic I’ve taken out here but for all the wrong reasons. After waiting for over an hour on the bus to show, the tour operator informed me my bus was going to be another two hours late. Rather than wait I paid to upgrade to an AC bus that was leaving then. Another sting was then having to pay for a tuk-tuk to take us to where that bus was leaving from, a charge the operator had conveniently forgotten to mention. It was the cowboy who then tried to charge us to put our bags in the hold that was the straw that broke this camel’s back. I felt marginally guiltily about my choice of words but the guy was quick to drop the charge, take our bags and usher us on. The company certainly had the last laugh though when two hours into an eight-hour journey the AC gave a dusty cough and kicked the bucket. Lying in my bunk I was in danger of drowning in the sweat that poured out of me. To optimize the AC, those buses are designed with no windows but with no AC on top of that it closer resembled a coffin ship. It all could have been bearable until the bus driver tried to pick up more passengers and cram them on to an already crammed bus. My fellow local passengers were even more angry and stormed off the bus, blocking it in and telling them it wouldn’t be moving until the AC was fixed. This was at 4am. Despite the early hours I too had to get and stand on the picket line to force the driver’s hand. It would be half an hour for them to fix the AC, camped on the side of the road though it was hard to tell exactly how there were fixing it as the driver and his cronies were sat in a group chatting.

Elephant Proof Gates

More odd than that though was the music blaring at 4am wafting about the T-junction. India has noise laws so strict it makes the DUP look like Ibiza regulars, so I was keen to investigate the disturbance. In the middle of a road sitting on cushions were a group of ten boys all under the age of twelve and five men singing with drums, chimes and keyboard. As soon as the kids say me they were up and dancing and shouting for me to join in. Happy to oblige I danced my part but as I sat down with them I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling. It was very strange for anyone to be out at this time and I wasn’t sure if it was a harmless campfire sing-along or was there a more sinister undertone, like the singing street kids in Slumdog Millionaire. 

Guess it's moo-ving day

Not wanting to be left behind by the bus I went back to check after half an hour or so. I needn’t have worried, as the bus was standing as decrepit as ever and in no danger of moving anytime soon. We were now waiting on a replacement bus, as surprisingly sitting about doing nothing hadn’t managed to fix the AC. The replacement was now going to take 10 minutes or an hour, quite a strange timeframe but whatever. After another forty-five minutes of waiting everyone was growing restless, thankfully the driver had a solution. If we got back on (the new passengers who had attempted to board had long since ditched for other transport) the AC would start working after 40km. Too tired to even put up a fight to the blatant mix of bullshit and magic, I was just happy to get back on the bus and sweat it out the rest of the way to Jasialmer.

You might think that was it, but oh no, this was the bus journey that kept on giving. When arriving in most destinations by plane, train or bus, a swarm of tuktuk drivers are waiting for the doors to swing open to offer you best price delivery to your hostel. And by your hostel I mean the hostel that is paying them commission to bring tourists. I have seen them use every trick from saying your hostel is closed, it’s fully booked, it’s flooded or a parade was blocking the route. Sometimes they will even drive you to the their hostel and tell you it is your hostel despite the difference in the name written above the door. The best price they are offering is usually about two or three times the normal price and then they expect a tip on top of that.

Walking is a sweaty business

Now I have adopted the practice of barging past them as soon as they try to block me in, grabbing my bags and letting their offers fall on deaf ears. The bus to Jasialmer took the biscuit though, because a tout actually got onto the bus outside of the city, woke me up and started spreading his nonchalant bullshit about prices and destinations while posing as a helpful passenger. I was not too happy to be woken but happy to let him talk as I had been pre-warned this could happen. He seemed to think I was in the bag as he cleared a path when we got off to his tuktuk, that was of course necessary as my hostel was on the other side of town. What he had taken into account was the google maps loaded in my pocket that told me my hostel was a five minute walk away, god bless the smart phone. Once he had got me clear of the other drivers and touts I relieved him of my bags and ditched on foot for my hostel, ignoring his trailing angry curses.

Jasailmer

My first glimpse of Jasialmer castle made it all worthwhile however. As a kid I had spent countless summer days on beaches building the perfect sandcastle. Jasialmer castle was that sandcastle. Rising out of the desert dust, perched like a fierce bird of prey on a rugged hilltop, the fort dominated the skyline. Formidable sandstone walls rose up between curved bastions. A thick scattering of houses sought protection at the base of the hill, cowering beneath the forty-foot walls that rose up unassailable above them.

Walking up the single steep path, under portcullis and through impregnable gates, it was like walking backward through time. The commanding view from the castle wall was only lost to the desert haze. Inside the fort a series of Jain temples had been built dating back to the 15^th and 16^th century. These were some of the most intricately carved temples I have visited, a labyrinth of doorways and arches, staircases and altars. They had 6,666 deities represented there in statues, carvings and paintings. Holy men loitered in every temple to garble out the meaning of each alter for a few rupees despite the signs hanging everywhere that said not to tip the holy men. Religious corruption is not just a western phenomenon.

Jain Temples

I experienced probably the most embarrassing moment of my trip in Jasailmer fort too. Walking through the main courtyard, taking a drink of water, I stepped in a huge cow shit. My feet newly lubricated shot out behind me and I fell face first to the ground. As I was drinking from my bottle at the time, the impact sprayed the water out and soaking me from head to shit covered feet. Standing up shocked by it all I realised I wasn’t alone in the courtyard. Instead seemed to be assembled every man in the city, hysterical with laughter at my antics. Nothing else for it I had to join in with them, but ever since I’m paying a lot closer attention to where I put my feet!

He's hoping no one fires the cannon

From Jasailmer I organized a camel safari overnight through the desert. This began with a 4x4 taking us out deep into the wilderness. On the way we passed village women walking 5km to the nearest well with their huge water jugs balanced on their head. They would complete this journey three or four throughout the heat of the day. Huge wind turbines rose up on the horizon, needed to power the 3000km electric fence that runs the length of the border. Apart from scrub bushes and the odd cow or herd of goat, the desertscape was barren. About an hour’s drive into the desert we came across a handful of mostly mud houses that made up the village. Stopping to let the sun set a little bit more we had chai with a local family who were sitting around us wide eyed and curious. The woman making the chai put a bowl of water down and a goat came over to drink. As soon as it bowed its head to drink she set to work milking the goat, straight into the pot of chai. Fresh from the teat it was one of the creamiest, earthiest chais I’ve ever had. After that we were introduced to our camels. Mine was called Latia and had this rather endearing trait of sneezing and farting unashamedly at the same time. Our guide told me they only tame and ride male camels. Female camels remain wild and bear the young. After four years growing up in the desert the young males can be captured, trained for a year and are then ready to go.

Desert Mud Houses

Following the herd

The camel was knelt down when I climbed on to the saddle. Then came the seasick inducing lurch to its feet. The hind and front knee joints of a camel open in opposite directions. First it teetered alarmingly forward and then stumbled backward as if it was losing its balance before swaying into a balanced position.  From its back the camel is a lot higher off the ground then I gave it credit for, though I felt fairly safe and secure as we trotted off into the desert. The jolting up and down was easy to get used to, though by the second day my groin was aching from the stretching. It was only those stumbled steps as we went up and down dunes that threatened to unsaddle me but Latia was extremely sure footed despite his ungainly gait. We trekked for nearly two hours through that sea of sand spotting fleeted footed antelope, more wild camels, scurrying desert mice and of course more cows. Cresting a hill we came out among the waves of dunes that swept in around us. Dismounting here, through an equally awkward movement we set about making camp. This was basically lifting off the saddles, laying out the sleeping mats and making a fire for dinner. That night we camped out under the haze rather than the stars that were unfortunately lost behind it. Still it was all rather pleasant, until I factored in the wind that whipped up the sand into cutting daggers. We wrapped scarves around our heads but even still the sand was relentless in its assault. Surrounding our sleeping mats, into our mouths and ears and up your nostrils.

The next morning I woke half buried. Pulling myself upright the sand cascaded off me but a thick layer still coated my body and had burrowed right through to my boxers. After a quick breakfast our guide went off in search of the camels who had been allowed free to wonder at night.  

Our sleeping mats buried alive

He was gone almost half an hour and we were almost giving up the hope that he was ever coming back, when we heard gypsy bells ringing. Looking up we some him bumping down the hill in a masterful display of skill, riding one camel bareback while leading the other three behind him. We were soon to be repeating the feat when on the way home he misunderstood me saying I wanted to lead my own camel rather than have one of the handlers holding the reigns. “Sure you can race them,” he said, before jumping up behind me. Not quite what I had wanted but I wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass. With a few cracks of the reigns, a kick of my heels and plenty of “Ya”, the camel broke into a brisk trot and then into a full on pelt. Behind me the other riders were bumping along too. Again it was far from stylish but pretty thrilling racing along the dust path back to the village, a perfect end to the safari.

Jodhpur Clocktower

I was however still washing sand out of my hair and body crevices for the next couple days after in Jodhpur. Jodhpur city was dominated by the massive Mehrangarh Fort (there’s certainly a trend developing here). This was the largest out of all the forts I visited. It had never been captured in its 500 year history. The fort came complete with elephant proof gates, its own secret garden and a huge sprawling parapet. Taking an audio tour of the fort my attention was drawn to a collection of handprints on the wall near the main gate. These belonged to the 20 or so widows of the Maharajah Man Singh who died in 1843. As custom dictated, they joined their husband’s body on the funeral pyre and followed him into the afterlife. Crazy that so barbaric a custom was followed by royalty just over a hundred and fifty years ago!

Mighty Mehrangarh

Jodhpur is called the blue city because a lot of the houses are painted a pale blue. This began as a religious trait of the Hindu Brahmin class but had been adopted by many more of the cities inhabitants. The blue dye is also attributed in keeping at bay mosquitos and other insects. Whatever the reason, the kaleidoscope of colours from the fort walls really is quite some spectacle. Winding my way through the back alleys was fun, if sweaty work. It is really quite a challenge to have to navigate cows, dogs and scooters in an alley where there isn’t room to swing a cat. However I took a wrong turn and went into an alley where the dogs soon made sure I knew I wasn’t welcome. A pack of five or six were snapping at my heels, while others barked over head to alert the rest I was coming. Rounding tight corners to come face-to-face with bared growling teeth was extremely intimidating. Having to jump and spin to get passed them and I was getting disorientated. Happily I stumbled my way out into a larger street and they stayed behind to bark and mark their territory. Frightening to think what could have happened if it were a hapless child in my place. Still there was plenty to see and explore in those back alleys, with each twist ready to reveal some new hidden treasure and every local’s beaming smile to see a gora walking through their world.

The Blue City

After ten days of battling the desert heat I’d had enough for now and was off to Delhi to catch up with Nabeel before heading on to Rishikesh to see mother Ganga.