Sunday 28 November 2010

Let loose into India

Parting from the rest of the safari members was hardly an occasion for fond farewells, or exchanges of addresses; a brief shake of hands with “the group of three” and a short hug from Sylvia, thanking me for the help I gave. A more touching farewell came from the staff members, who all turned out to wish me well. How I wished I could have communicated more effectively with them, but they had little English, and my Hindi remains non-existent. During the course of the safari they’d fondly referred to me as Krishna, Lord preserver and protector; “when Krishna smiles the rains come down,” was one of their quotes for me. It mattered to me that I’d gained their respect.They’d done everything in their power to ensure I got to ride as pleased me, gave me compliments in my riding where it was appropriate, we all felt the same about the standard of riding on the second safari, had a mutual understanding I guess. I was the only western person on a horse Once again, as I sit and write this, a lump appears in my throat, a tear creeps into my eye; the whole experience left a calming, satisfying aura shielding me from whatever else the world could throw at me. However difficult people or situations had been I’d risen to the occasion, without fuss or overt displays of emotions, especially unhealthy ones. Riding into and around the fair blew my mind, I felt I deserved that, felt I’d earned that rite. As we wound between camels, horses and cattle we’d pass gaggles of tourists, cameras out, happy snapping. Amusingly I considered their possible take on our entourage, probably looked like a tourist who’d jumped on a horse for a ride around the fair, that put a smile on my face, it didn’t matter how any onlookers may have perceived it. For us it was playtime, Jesal raced alongside me on Laxshmi at one stage, flat out along the test track, on one gallop I looked up to see all the guys sat in line, pennants in hand watching me fly down the track, it almost felt they were showing me off. One thing is for certain, they all had big cheesy grins on their faces watching me. I must confess to enjoying the whole pose, backing Poonham up and walking her sideways, in and out the tethered animals; I’ve also got her to understand the word ‘stand’, I should have done it in welsh though. (Photos: 1] Urban shanty; 2] The railway children- Ahmadabad, Gujarat, India)

For the first time I’ve been let loose into India on my own, having just realised this little difference has been felt, it isn’t as if it’s that unfamiliar. It has been 26 years since I’ve actually been here, but it is only a bigger, more hectic version of Sri Lanka. Traffic is much worse, walking down any street in the cities is madness, you hardly dare take a sideways step without looking in case a vehicle of one sort or another mows you down. In Ajmer tourists aren’t exactly unheard of, only that very few stop here, most merely pass through on their way to Pushkar. So again, I walk round to the amazement of the locals, which is kind of nice, yet also can be hard work, there is no such thing as me going out without being the centre of attention. The first couple of strolls were the worst, constant hassle from folks wanting to get my attention, not too persistent though, most view me with good humour. Indians seem generally good-natured. The average person only wants to get my attention out of curiosity, there is no ill intent, and at worst wants to make a small amount of money from the tourist. I don’t mind this, it’s only the lying and deceitful people I take exception to. (Photo: A cute beggar girl - Rajkot, Gujarat)

The booking clerks at the rail stations can be the worst type of Indians you are likely to meet. In my mind they are surly, difficult, unhelpful and corrupt. To begin with I was merely turned away, no space on the train I wanted today, nor the next one, in any class. The clerk didn’t offer to see when there might be a space, no alternative offered, a simple, NO! After persisting he actually came up with the next train there was space on, tomorrow morning. Unfortunately I didn’t know about these TAKTEL tickets, one’s held in reserve and can be bought by tourists at a premium price, about 50% extra. He then asked me for 230 rupees, which is so little, only after I realised the price printed on the ticket was only 217 rupees; that annoyed me, really annoyed me. After failing to find any information on a connecting train to take me to Diu I went to book a ticket to the nearest station I could get anyone to admit existed, which they wouldn’t for Delwala, though all the railway maps clearly show it. A different clerk was even surlier, sending me away twice to add information to the form I had to fill in to get my ticket. I guess at least he suggested I try a TAKTEL ticket, though there was no need to sling the ticket across the desk with such contempt. ( Photo: Bemused muslim - Ahmadabad rail station, Gujarat)

Indian railways, only the second largest in the world, almost the highest employer in the world, and I would say one of the most defined experiences in the world. It takes some beating, the people can be so kind and considerate, yet so awkward and arrogant. The trains have a terrible safety record, yet better than road safety within the country. Over a million people are transported every day on the Indian rail system, and much as I’d love to declare it a nightmare, it works, in its own indomitable way. Trains are often late, but not massively, they are crowded, though it depends on which class you’re in, of which there are a multitude. Of the reserved tickets, which are the only way to have more than a couple of inches to park your arse, 2nd class non-a/c, costs about 1 rupee for two kilometers. They’re sleeper coaches, which convert down to three tier bunks by about 9-10pm. In theory three people share the lower bunk during daytime, in practice some folks really abuse the system. A family often only buy two seats then squeeze two adults and two or three kids, supposedly into that space. Which is fine when it comes to sleeping, and not so bad when it’s a mix of kids and adults. From Ajmer we had nine people for six seats, and the group was not giving any leeway as to space. Only two out of seven of them had tickets, but they weren’t budging for anyone. Four fat, middle class Indian women, arrogant to extremes, they knew they were out of order but didn’t give a damn. I held back for a while, eventually exerted the right to have a third of the bench. And this morning I nicely pushed a guy out the window seat I’d been allocated, I showed him I wanted to take pictures out the window, there was only four of us to an eight berth compartment anyway. (Photo: Development for those that do - Nr Ahmadabad, Gujarat)

Middleclass urban women definitely tend to be on the large side, and I do mean the majority of them. Rural Indian women have been seen to have much leaner, lithe, fit figures. In fact I’d have to say urban women in general here lean towards fuller figures. An active lifestyle explains the lithesome figures of countryside women, it doesn’t fuller explain the large, verging on fat figures, of urbanites though, or the reasons these are worn with pride, almost arrogance. I believe like many cultures the fuller figure is a sign of wealth, prosperity, even decadence. It’s a symbol of social standing, which is reflected in the male’s preference for larger women. I do not believe it is necessarily a purely physical attraction, of course I’m biased on this, but in India at least the means to judge people depends on social standing, their relative wealth and future prospects. The higher class/aristocratic members of many cultures display opulence in their physical form, you need wealth and privilege to be able to grow more rotund. (Photo: Plastic sheets for those that don't - Nr Ahmadabad, Gujarat)

As I’ve penetrated further into Gujarat the urban squalor becomes more apparent, more housing developments are clear to see, but so are the shanties surrounding every town, and I don’t think the new housing is for the poverty stricken. Ahmadabad was particularly bad, a jumbled mess of timber and plastic stretching along the railway, roofs a mosaic of asbestos pieces laying higgledy-piggledy in an abortive attempt to make them waterproof. Rusty tin roofs are held in place by boulders, scraps of plastic or hessian provide little more than scanty privacy from neighbours. Most of these shacks are half open to the elements during the day any way, the poor mans air conditioning, allowing air flow through your living quarters, so the stench of the urban squalor can waft through. Top marks for ingenuity, when forced to people are masters of invention, the only stuff that stays unused are the ubiquitous plastic wrappings from sweets and food, whether in the city or countryside they are a constant reminder of our need to find an alternative to non-degradable plastic as packaging material. (Photo: If you can't eat them, you have to work them - Gujarat railway siding)

Gujarat is more industrialized than areas I’ve been through so far, which is hardly surprising considering the weeks I spent in the heart of rural Rajastan. Towns and cities have huge complexes despoiling the skyline, power stations are easy to discern, enormous tanks stood on high metal girders suggest chemical production, which brings to mind Bohpal and makes me wonder whether safety standards are any better now, I have my doubts!Huge areas between towns have been cleared, construction barely started, yet already an army of tented accommodation erected with workers and their families already in situ. Some tents are reasonable, they are in the minority though, around the peripheries of the site are the basic shelters of the labourers, one sheet of plastic stretched over two poles, nothing more than the most basic of roofs. From clusters of these shelters woman range out, scouring the railway line for anything worth picking up. Dried dung, being the main fuel for fires and cooking, is regularly collected, not much gets left to decompose. Tiny bits of metal are gathered, once enough is collected it can be sold for scrap, I don’t think the retaining clips for the actual rails are best destined for the scrap heap. I would hope they are sold back to the railway, though I have sever doubts about this, unless of course they have a budget for buying back pilfered rail parts, it wouldn’t surprise me. Temporary camps are common though, possibly some are of the nomadic tribes, one thing is for certain, times are tough in the unseasonable rains hitting the north of India at the moment. (Photos: Playtime in Rural Gujarat)

Rural Gujarat is highly cultivated, I know there are a lot of swampy areas, sporting very sandy soil, but as I got further south and west the soil is obviously very fertile. There is a lot of water, where it accumulates it looks stagnant and rank, though it fails to perturb the water buffalo, they wallow happily in murky, foul looking pools, almost fully submerged. Their presence has not abated in the slightest, either one or two, the prized possessions of a family living on the breadline, or groups of half a dozen or more driven down the road by a herder. More often they are in small groups, unaccompanied, wallowing in festering pools of muck that pass as water holes. In general the cattle have been much the same in number as in Rajastan, there have been exceptions though.A few herds have been seen, which isn’t usual, some of the tribal groups in Gujarat exist by herding cattle, traditionally nomadic they drive the cattle ever onwards. I believe there has been a tendency for these tribes to start settling in one area, of course there is no way to tell whether or not any specific group is pastoral or nomadic when viewing them from a train window. The difference in dress is noticeable though, fewer Dhotis are worn, the men favour trousers baggy above the knee, laying in pleats, and narrow legged on the calf, a bit like exaggerated jodhpurs but of thin cotton. Rather than multi layered turbans, a red pillbox affair sporting a tail is more usual, a few simple wraps around the head, tucked in leaving a loose end to trail behind. Heavy sequined half tops provide scant cover for their womenfolk, these backless tops barely cover more than a third of their upper bodies. Being hard working country folk, the bodies they expose are trim, athletic and quite sexy. (Photos: 1] Sadhu, or dirty old beggar @ random rail station; 2] Cotton plant ricks- Rural Gujarat)

The first stretch of land was largely cotton growing, whilst I expected to see fluffy white buds most were ragged dregs, looking spoilt by the rain. However it may have looked it became clear it hadn’t wrecked the crop altogether, teams of pickers worked systematically through the fields, gradually clearing the plants of every last bud of cotton, one side of the field colourless, shrivelled plant remains, they other a multitude of ragtag streams of white blowing gently in the breeze. There were acres and acres being grown, for hours of the train ride, undoubtedly being the dominant crop, where already harvested stacks of plant remains stood like hayricks, sheets of plastic draped over their peaks to protect them from the rain, a last ditch attempt to save the winter’s store of animal feed from spoiling in the rain. These ricks of cotton plants can’t be appropriate fodder as they are, threshing machines are brought on site, reducing the plants down to little more than sawdust, then once more left in plastic covered heaps to be used as required. Slowly, gradually, more diversity of crops appeared, first small plots of sugar cane nestled in a small corner of tilled land, or an acre of papaya plants, still in their infancy, in straight orderly rows, luscious green against the deep ochre of the damp soil. Sugar cane stands became more profuse, standing tall and proud beside newly ploughed fields, the colour contrast bringing a brightness missing from the drab overcast sky. Date palms initially achieved no more than forming scanty barriers between fields, then small plantations stood in irregular patches of land tucked between homes and major crops. The presence of palm trees gave the feeling of approaching the coast, way before we were anywhere near, first the date palms, then coconut palms, tropical borders to lush farmland. By the time I neared the coast sugar cane grew in profusion, far outnumbering the acreage of cotton. (Photos: Fertile lands, happy living - Rural Gujarat)

By and large the buildings along the route through Gujarat have been drab and run down, they reflect the utilitarian nature of an industrial region, they have walls and roofs, but only provide shelter. Decoration is almost unheard of, paint a phenomenon yet to be discovered, render a practice of myth and legend. It gives a picture of shabbiness, blackened walls that stand no chance of withholding the heavy rains. The interiors must be damp and uncomfortable during the rainy season, I wonder how their health suffers due to these conditions.An occasional newly built house will be brightly painted, few of these exist in once into rural areas. Piles of sandstone blocks stand apparently neglected, some stacked orderly, most in an untidy heap. I’m sure they are destined for use, maybe when the owners can afford the mortar, or have collected enough blocks to extend their hotchpotch cluster of buildings that form both home and animal shelter. Older blocks are dark and grimey, the new a light yellowy orange. One thing is certain, they are of a porous material, left unsealed the moisture will seep through unabated. At the approach to any town or village the accumulation of trackside rubbish increases, it isn’t just liberally strewn along the verges, it forms a dense carpet, plastic waste of no use to man nor beast. (Photos: 1] Palms lined avenue - Rural Gujarat; 2] St Thomas church, my home - Diu Town, Gujarat )

From Somnath I took a government bus, a chicken bus, for a long laborious ride to the island of Diu, an independent domain within alcohol free Gujarat. In some ways you could call it a booze fest for the deprived citizens of the surrounding dry state. It may sound bad, but it isn’t so in reality, there aren’t hoards of drunken Indians making dicks of themselves. They get over enthusiastic rather than leery, being too friendly, insisting on photo sessions with me, but truly grateful for the photos. I’ve even had a guy come into the Internet cafĂ© followed by pal with camera to be shot shaking hands with the white curiosity. Yes it does try my patience, but I’m not about to allow it to intrude on my headspace. I think I’ve got to the stage where feigned smiles are a thing of the past, I’d prefer them to see an expression of forbearance rather than joy. Three days, in a different hotel each night, to reach Diu, on the north west coast of Gujarat. It’s been wet on and off the whole way, with two days of rain to cope with in Diu town. But I’m here now, it’s sunny and quiet, I’ve a couple of rooms and my own bathroom for the next two weeks. It’s in an old Portuguese church on the quiet edge of town, overlooking a fort, two other huge church structures, and the coast. For less than a ten quid I have a lounge area, with writing desk, bathroom, balcony area and bedroom. It’s twice the price of a box room, with shared toilet! There’s no comparison though, I’m settling well, am comfortable and relaxed, and have as much peace and privacy as desired. Having written loads on my blog, and got up to date, I’m about ready to start writing seriously again. So the maps are out, the Americas journal sits next to me on the desk and my fingers are well lubricated, the end is emerging through the haze! (Photos: 1] The sun shines on the righteous; 2] One of the many Green Parrots - Sunny Diu day, Gujarat)

Baba ji does the camel fair

An early morning hazy mist hung over the countryside, light cloud cover took the heat out the sun, prolonging how long it took to burn off the overhanging mist. Whilst not looking stormy and dense, the clouds done a good job of holding off the full intensity of the sun, making it pretty damned good riding weather.Our fourth day of riding was to take us over the Aravelli Mountains and into the regions bordering theThar desert, it was due to be a long slow slog, picking our way over difficult rocky terrain, battling our way through dense, thorny scrub. It wasn’t to be a day we might enjoy a faster pace of riding, so there was no need for me to feel deprived by the lack of cantering or galloping.Up to that point any attempt by Jesal to lead an orderly, controlled trot or canter had ended in complete disarray. After three days the advanced riders within the group had failed to get their mounts into any semblance of control; as soon as increasing the pace to a trot it all started going wrong, every time.We’d barely broken into a canter, managing less than 30 metres before a rush of horses from behind brought bedlam to the proceedings, bringing it all to a dissatisfactory halt before it had even got under way. Laxshmi, as lead horse, was skittish and halted my progress by bouncing from side to side, as Jesal reined her in harshly whilst kicking her hard and whipping her face. In the meantime Dunraj and Kumari would rush down each side, crowding closely in on Poonham, blocking me in and spooking Poonham. Disconsolate I rode, my frustration clear to Jesal, for prolonged periods I let the reins drop loose, my feet out the stirrups, only using my dangling legs for communication with Poonham. I guess my dissatisfaction couldn’t be ignored, it was that obvious; apparently not though, no other punter noticed.Nor did they equate their lack of horse control with the lack of cantering or galloping, despite my gentle assertion that until people managed to maintain control of their mounts, the guide could not risk picking up the pace. I was still piggy in the middle, which I only now realise the full predicament this put me in.I was a self-declared newcomer to horse riding, on this basis alone the other party members would take little notice of anything I had to say about horse riding. To suggest any failing on their behalf was beyond belief to them, what did I know, they were advanced riders, and they had their own horses. The criticism should have come from the safari organisers, I assume it didn’t because the others were not making any complaints about the pace of riding, they seemed content to plod along, day in, day out! I wasn’t, I’d planned the two together as a natural progression to my riding, the second safari was supposed to be a harder faster ride, needing more effort, more endurance, and more experience Personally I can’t see how they managed to ride at all, with their heads shoved so far up their own backsides. At no point did any of the three question any of their own actions or attitudes, everything was always a problem created by someone else, they could never be at fault. (Photos: Camels and herders - Pushkar fair, Rajastan)

I wasn’t alone in my criticism of the standard of riding, Jesal completely agreed with my analysis of the problem. He knew how I liked to ride, he’s seen me take my first and every subsequent gallop, he’s watched as my confidence and competence improved, given praise at the speed with which I’d progressed since arriving. In an effort to appease me he invited me to continue alone into gallop if Laxshmi was prancing from side to side, the relief was instant, nothing to hold me back, I couldn’t wait for the next trot! True enough, a short trot and as we tried to canter Laxshmi her antics and Jesal just waved me on. Straight into a canter, not bothering to seat myself I lifted out the saddle and kicked Poonham faster. Being slightly reluctant at first, she wasn’t used to being out alone like that, she was up to speed as Dunraj drew alongside. No way was he going to pass us, we were almost flat out and he hadn’t the speed to pull further past. I didn’t care though, being up out of the saddle, balanced well and going like thunder was all that mattered. Not knowing whether she was enjoying the experience or scared shitless I continued, savouring every second of it. The sight of a highway looming in the distance meant reining in, giving myself plenty of time before meeting the road. Kumari hadn’t been too far behind, and we all stopped safely on the edge of the road. Everyone had taken pursuit when I took off, unable or unwilling to rein in, only then did I inform them it’d previously been agreed for me to continue alone. Of course that was a bone of contention for some! And that really put a smile on my face, they hadn’t been able to hold the horses back! Sometimes my sense of humour appals me! (Photos: Horses, the cute and the ugly - Pushkar Fair, Rajastan)

Beyond caring whether anyone else enjoyed it or not, my only concern was having a good ride. A second opportunity presented itself and I was off again, a similar situation occurred. Poonham and Dunraj were almost neck and neck, mother and son striding out together, with Kumari close behind, ever the competitive one. When a village hove into view, it was time to rein in and regroup before entering the narrow village streets. Us three at the front pulled up nicely, just at the junction of the first street, without spilling over onto the concrete road surface. The next two didn’t, though the guides behind them managed fine, and rushed through gaps between us, onto the road. Bitter complaints followed, rules being laid down by punters; apparently whichever person is in front must look behind to check how close the others are before reining in. I was stunned, that would have meant entering the village doing at least a fast trot, I had to point out the basic premise about riding or driving behind anything, “keep a safe distance”. All this had happened in those first three days, already I reminisced about the delights of riding the first safari compared to this. The riding failed to improve in the following days, but that was the least of our worries. Our fourth day was a real humdinger! (Photo: Hanging at the fair - Pushkar Fair, Rajastan)

As soon as setting off we began the climb taking us over the Aravelli mountains, without putting hoof to tarmac a rough track began, wide enough to allow a jeep and the horses to pass easily. We travelled similar trails to the ones I’ve done over mountains on my motorbike, only up to a point though, once out of the higher valleys a bike would have been useless. There were some rocky sections, very narrow ones, with drops of a hundred metres, later in the day we fought through thorny scrub for hours to find our way through a dried up ravine, even losing the scant cattle trail we entered by. Gorgeous mountain villages perched on impossible outcrops of rocks, the houses built into the rock itself. They were hotchpotch affairs visually, I’m sure they’ve stood the test of time though. Folk were awesome, so pleased to see us, lining up to greet us at the side of the road, coming forward to shake my hand, thanking me for coming to their village. Jesal said it was the first time the safari had come through that way, the heartfelt warmth of their greetings suggested as much. What did take me by surprise, was their state of dress, it was almost impeccable. It might have been wet and muddy, they may have been working in the fields, but even the slightly worn garments looked well laundered, even the Dohti wearing oxen plougher looked clean. The tranquillity of those upland pastures was superb, the people real gems, the purity of riding silently through such areas didn’t escape my attention. When I did talk to anyone it was to point out flora and fauna to Jutte, who rode Dunraj, to pass back the info. At the few brief stops I could only think to exclaim how beautiful the area was, rarely enticing any confirmation from anyone but Jesal. (Photo: Cattle doing what they do - Pushkar fair, Rajastan)

It was like following old herder’s trails, dipping up and down between hills, passing through villages every hour or so. In the shelter of the mountains the land was still very moist, oxen ploughed silently, their work eased by the recent rains. Cresting our last ridge the trailhead came to another village, and the first accessible road for a hours. As usual our arrival elicited a high turnout of local curiosity seekers, people and horses milling everywhere. Having gone to pee behind a bush I don’t know what happened, the first I heard was the loud, frightened neighing of a horse in distress, closed followed by Sylvia, the Italy rider, screaming as well. (Photo: Camels enjoying sunset - Pushkar fair, Rajastan)

By the time I got there she was face down in the gravel, rigid, screaming at everyone to leave her alone. Unbelievably they were actually going to, I mean all the other safari members, so I gently sat down a metre away and asked her if she could talk to me, so we could find out what the problem was. It worked, eventually, a bit of breathing control and a few gentle words established the nature of what happened, it also got her talking and helping to assess possible damage. When rolling over was deemed possible, even desirable, things didn’t look drastic to me. She’d been caught full kick by one of the horses, in the melee of horses, riders and trying to get one of them to hold all their horses, so they could go for a pee. Our guide hadn’t been any slouch, by the time Sylvia was on her feet one of our vehicles was almost with us, luckily being within about 20km when it happened. As I loaded her into the car and discussed whether she should go to hospital, I heard Andrea declaring how unsafe the horses were and they shouldn’t have horses on safari if they were likely to kick. Being calm and rational gets a point across better than hot-headedness (I must be growing up at last), what surprised me was the most experience rider, blaming the horse for getting spooked by too many people and horses close behind. I felt obliged to confirm with her that one of the golden rules of being around horses, was don’t get too close to their hind quarters. Maybe people grow complacent with their personal horses, who supposedly never kick, but it’s still the most basic knowledge, a horse could kick! I probably shouldn’t have pointed out about their constant complaints, or inability to control their horses properly, and it was this which prevented us from cantering or galloping; at least it was managed without any anger or the slightest raising of my voice. And I’m glad I didn’t blow my cool, I made fair comments but still needed to live amongst these people. Much later we found out it was only a cracked rib, which I thought it might be, at worst. But it meant the end of riding on her holiday. Now we were down to four, with me being the odd one out; at least I wasn’t an aggressor. Cool, calm and rational I can handle; I like this man! (Photo: Going home empty handed - Pushkar fair, Rajastan)

What I wasn’t prepared for was the onslaught that followed! Leaving the village put us straight onto gravel paths again, as we picked out way downhill all the memories of Cai’s accident flooded back. Seeing him spread across the freeway, lying, dying. Only then did I question my actions and decisions when dealing with Sylvia’s accident, doubts about possible internal injuries, though such concerns were rapidly washed away by the grief.

Three days without rain, exactly as desired, except it was too hot for people then. What we needed was a good gallop, allow the cool fresh air to cool us down. Of course we couldn’t, could we? Attempts to achieve canters always ended with Dunraj and Kumari coming either side, crowding Poonham and eventually even she starting laying her ears back and getting nervous in the crush. After two more days of this any patience I might possess should have been long gone, eruptions should have been due, instead I withdrew a bit, remained polite, passed the time of day with them, even tried to be helpful, but kept myself more and more to myself. If sat for more than ten minutes listening to them talk exclusively in German I would remove myself, have a cigarette, or just sit in my tent, happier with my own company. But every day plodding along wound me up further, by the end of day five I realised that I was not getting what I wanted out of the safari through no fault of my own. Rather than make demands and cause problems about it I decided to leave, so told Vishan of my decision just before supper. Rather than leave I got my own guide and a promise to pander to my needs where the riding come into it. And didn’t we just canter and gallop! Stretches of highway were avoided, we’d loop round off the road at a canter, joining it a kilometre of so later. Boy, they really put me through my paces. Poonham lost a shoe, which slowed her a touch, and my right knee and ankle swelled in sympathy. They were fine the next day, just a sign of the rigours of riding hard and fast all day, it’s a good thing to be aware of. (Photo: Balloon rides over the fair - Pushkar fair, Rajastan)

Then it was back down to thunderous deluges, our last day before Pushkar, next stop the camel fair. A downpour became a deluge, became a thunderstorm, stayed with us for hours. It got to the stage where the everything was sodden and the horses were becoming chilled, they needed exercise but none of the other three would ride them, they all refused to ride because it was raining. I only realised at the last minute, no-one came to inform me in my tent, I threw my boots on and set off on Poonham, all the other horses were ridden by staff. Not one item of rainwear was offered them, the guys were in heavy rain with only thin cotton shirts, whilst they used what they had to shelter them while they got in the 4 X 4. And the ironic thing was the ride was one of the best, of either safari, and not just because the others weren’t there. Surrounded by excellent countryside the route was empty of people, the colours were gorgeous, heightened by the persistent rain. As we got to small villages a trail of people could be seen, as we criss-crossed the dirt tracks leading different ways towards the fair. Trucks would squeeze through the minute village streets, loaded with Marwari horses, cattle or even the occasional camel. We stopped in a filthy hovel for chai, the guys needed to warm up, I was fine I was soaked through, but warm…ish. In fact as soon as the rain stopped I had my cape off, my jacket open and revelled in the warming rays. Given a last chance to ride into Pushkar everyone else reiterated their refusal to ride that day, so it was left to us to ride the horses into Pushkar. (Photo: It was that way last year! - Pushkar fair, Rajastan)

For a couple of hours we rode through a land of smaller scale crop production, small orchards of a local fruit, fields of Marigolds and Roses, our first cotton plantations. The journey in was along a soft-sanded track, great for a spurt of speed, give the beasts a chance to stretch, make the most of the conditions. Don’t they just love the feel of wet sand beneath their hooves? Camel herders drove their camels past, groups of up to a couple of dozen, nose to nose with the horses, who were a tiny bit uncomfortable with this. Approaching the site it got busier, countless trucks with horses, herds of cattle and more and more camels; I couldn’t imagine a better way to arrive at Pushkar Camel Fair. A touching moment that brought tears to my eyes, filled my mind with thoughts of Cai. It seems to be the way, whenever I experience a moving moment it brings it all back to mind. I can live with that! (Photo: Part of the well used test track - Pushkar fair, Rajastan)

Rounding Pushkar off with a ride through the showground was also an exceptional finale to the horse riding experience in Rajastan. Again, I went with only staff members, they rode with pennants aflutter, using the chance for some free advertising, I rode feeling a bit special, having achieved something special. I also got the chance to have a good gallop up and down the test track, avoiding camel carts and young kids. I thoroughly enjoyed it,had a bit of a pose, got photographed by tourists, and had the chance to have a solo ride. Poonham didn’t want to canter off on her own, so it took a bit of persuading, once she trusted me to take her back to the others we made the most of the chance, galloping up and down the 500m track. The rest of Pushkar fair was alright, maybe I should have wandered round the bazaar, but I couldn’t be bothered, I wasn’t interested in buying anything, I’d done what I set out to do and hadn’t fallen at any hurdle. (Photo: Jesal and the guys - Princess Trails, Adventure Safaris, at the camel fair, Rajastan)

Thursday 25 November 2010

Where's the one with a silver lining?

Indeed, the stage had been set for a safari which gave more rewards than I gave it credit for. The unhappy overtures plagued the whole safari, even if they weren’t openly voiced complaints, most aspects were tainted by the flow of negative comments or sour expressions. And then, to really give them something to complain about, the second day of riding ended with a cloudburst, drenching us all. If they’d had any spirit in the first place, that would really have put a dampener on it. It’d rained the first night, but only once we’d been fed and watered. Besides, my tent was the only one which seemed to leak, so they couldn’t complain that much.Morning broke with deep blue sky and fluffy white clouds, a promising start which materialised into displays gloom and thundery temperment. Kama, you reap what you sow; it couldn’t have rained on more deserving people! Pigeon holed as unofficial go-between, I’d been asked whether to shelter or continue riding, I’d elected to continue, on behalf of us all. It wasn’t driving rain, it wasn’t freezing cold, and it only lasted for half an hour. By the time we reached camp it had stopped and we were nearly dry by the time we arrived. Our dry beds awaited, blankets folded and slightly musty, a dry rug on the floor. We even had buckets of hot water waiting at our campsite, we’d never had that on the first safari. Bloody luxury I thought, I even treated myself to a warm douche and gave my dreads some attention. (Photos: 1] Urban farming; 2] Lesser Pied Kingfisher - Outside Deogarth, Rajastan)

I should have saved myself the trouble, a worse drenching the following day undone all my hard work. Another unanimous decision by me saw us take shelter from a storm front that caught us a few kilometres before the new camp. The veranda of the local school gave ample shelter, it really lashed it down for over half an hour, without abating in the slightest. Huddled into the deepest darkest recesses of the veranda, the other four clients sheltered, while the staff and me held the horses, hiding behind pillars, to avoid the spray back from eddying winds. When finally it settled into a heavy drizzle, I slipped out and plucked my rain cape from my saddlebag, Jasel suggested it best to set out, despite how wet it still was. An hour away from camp, and two from darkness, we couldn’t hang around too long. For once I opted out of the decision making process, I didn’t feel I had any right to, I was the only one with any waterproof clothing. It was better than nothing, but only kept the water out to a certain extent, within half an hour water was seeping through, needless to say I was warmer and drier than the rest. A sodden entourage of foreigners riding horseback through the villages was a sight of hilarity for the local populace, what sorry picture we were painting. With a resigned smile glued to my face I done my usual, nodding greetings, exchanging mirth and generally getting the most out of the situation. (Photo: Country living - Nr Arvelli mountains, Rajastan)

Even from a distance that night’s camp was a disaster zone, it was reminiscent of Glastonbury, awash with mud, bits of camping debris strewn about, and tents disappearing into the gloop. And still the rain fell! A full scale mutiny would have erupted if any suggestion of camping had been made, but there wasn’t a plan B. There wasn’t much I could contribute to the group discussion, it was mainly moaning in German in anyway, so I retired to a bedraggled awning to have a smoke, soon joined by the guide and the safari manager. To apologies and enquiries is things were OK I maintained my smile, it all amused me, all I could do was shrug my shoulders and smile. Whatever will be, will be! We weren’t exactly in desperate straights, slight discomfort perhaps, more inconvenienced than anything. You had to laugh about it, what else was there to do, cower together and compete for who’s the most miserable? Within an hour two rooms in an animal clinic had been cleared for us, we had almost dry beds under a dry roof, with a dining table on the veranda. But the rain eased off and stopped completely by the time food was served. Rice, dhal, curry and chapattis, now there’s a surprise! Actually, the special dish they served up was exceptional. The Paneer was in a gorgeous, rich Masala sauce; nice and spicy, just the way I like it. Of course for those who don’t like Dahl, and don’t like spicy food, I believe it failed to impress. Amidst the murmurs of discontent could be heard the rumblings of rebellion; What should or shouldn’t be done, about the rain, the safari; what will or won’t be tolerated. I think that was the first night I took myself away from the group to write my journal, and then had an early night. (Photos: 1] Under the watchful eye: 2] Left to tend the goats, while the mature women gloat - Aravelli foothills, Rajastan)

To put things into perspective, before the others awoke I meet a group herding their buffalo to Pushkar. They were still 80 – 100km away, so had a fair walk ahead. On their backs they carried a small bundle each, containing all their goods and supplies, they slept out in the open every night, rain or shine. From dawn to dusk they drove the cattle ever onwards, towards Pushkar camel fair, it was a two-week walk each way. For protection against the weather they had dhotis, thin shirts, a single thin blanket and a turban. Cheery smiles and courteous greetings were exchanged, Vishan and Virendra established what they were up to, then we all wished each other the best of days and they were off. A simple, yet gracious, exchange can make your morning bright, settle well on your soul for the forthcoming day, but sharing them won’t always transfer the joy it brings yourself. The rain had cleared over night, blue sky prevailed, but the outlook remained gloomy. (Photo: Leaving the fertile valley - Aravelli Mountains, Rajastan)

Monday 22 November 2010

Life's a bitch, bitch, bitch!

For our first day of the second safari, a non riding day, sightseeing and meeting the rest of the group filled the itinerary! Having already toured Udaipur I skipped the sightseeing to catch up on my Internet stuff, but joined the others for lunch as an introduction. I’d caught up while they were in the Botanical gardens, waiting with Vishan the safari manager while they completed their flower gazing and had a boat ride round the cities lake. It was hot and unpleasant hanging around the city, waiting in the sun for other people to see the sights. At least I can’t claim to have been lonely; there were a whole host of Indian tourists wanting to have their pictures taken with the white freak with dreads and tattoos. My attitude remains one of patience, I do travel around wanting nice photos of curiosities. Well, to them I am a curiosity! Having to pose with one after another, many times for the same group, is touching on the ludicrous, and is certainly an infringement on my personal space. But they have little respect for that anyway, it’s not a part of their culture. Their world is too crowded to allow for personal space, the idea occurred to me to ask for money, as the locals do. There again, I’m not in favour of making such payments, so wouldn’t demand it myself, it could have proved lucrative though. I must have posed for more than a dozen photos. If there’s one thing I haven’t seen much of around Udaipur is western folk covered in tattoos, or people with dreads. But the locals are different in their response than those I’ve fell foul of in Muslim countries. I do get the attention and the comments, most are compliments though, simple statements like, “nice hair,” “ hey tattoo man, nice tattoos”. I must ask of myself, why have I got dreads and tattoos? I like them, I like the way I look with them, if I don’t want attention the I should keep myself covered; maybe I should get a full Burkha. (Photos: 1] Birds and fishing camp; 2] New found guard dog - Rajastan)

I found myself in a pretty poor mood to head off on another safari, I questioned the other members of the safari, how much I’ll enjoy their company. Which wasn’t fair on either myself or them! My worries were being one amongst a group, there is strength in numbers, an established group tend to be less flexible than a group of individuals. But what was the point imagining problems that didn’t exist? If I felt bad it was down to my own head state, therefore it was my own problem, something I needed to sort out for myself rather than let it taint my ride to Pushkar. So what if the other three people are all together, so what if they speak German amongst themselves, it’s the language they normally communicate in, of course they will revert to that amongst themselves, though it does set them aside from the other two of us. What I needed to do was sit quietly and chill out for a short while, use a bit of meditation to sooth away the stress, which was why I went to the trouble to learn it all those years ago! And so the following morning found me relaxed and eager to start the long ride to Pushkar. We drove out to a place called Deogarth where our first camp had been set up, though only 120 km by road we were taking the long way round, avoiding tarmac except for short stretches to connect between trails. (Photos: 1] The old and the new; 2] Heading into the mountains - Rajastan)

Poonham turned her head away and lifted her foot as if threatening to kick me when I greeted her on arrival at the camp for the start of the safari. Stroppy mare, but she was OK after I refused to give ground. By the time I sat on her back she took more notice of me than the handler. She persisted in trying to trot every few minutes, which wasn’t totally out of character for her, she can get like that, and I know I can deal with it no problem; if only everything were so clear cut. Laxshmi, the new lead horse, is a bit skittish and tends to fight against the hard treatment by Jesal, our guide. But she is number one horse and the others know this, and are used to it. Mumol’s rider made a real issue about it, from the group claiming to be advanced riders she was the one stepping forward proclaiming to be the most experienced. As soon as we tried trotting she was nose to tail with Laxshmi, so when Laxshmi started prancing Mumol started getting nervous too, so a battle between horse and rider ensued. Now I know from experience that Mumol doesn’t react well to harsh handling of the reins, she fights against it, she needs understanding, soothing. Having a tendancy to kick out at other horses if crowded from behind I always keep my distance, and I’m generally the one riding behind her. It was pandemonium, Dunraj came along one side of me, pressing close to Mumol, Kumari pushed up from behind on the other side, crowding Mumol even more. No way was I about to allow Poonham to get kicked, so kept my distance. I tried to block Dunraj off, to keep him far away from Mumol’s rear, to force him behind me. His rider had no control over him, he was acting purely as his pack instinct dictated, regardless of his rider. And the same for Kumari really, for their reward Mumol starting lashing out with her hooves, catching Dunraj and nearly Kumari as well. I was the only one who really kept out the fray, the owner’s last words before we set out was to keep a reasonable distance, the horses were bound to be a bit uptight on the first ride of the safari. But no, the advanced riders knew better. Mumol was declared out of control by her rider, too nervous to be ridden effectively, the other two blamed their horses as well. Of course it couldn’t have anything to do with the riders, they are much too experienced, they all own their own horses, they know everything. I’d say the proof is in the pudding, or should that be in the eating? I don’t know, I’m just a novice! (Photos: 1]Bygone days on the farm; 2] Mid-mountain farmland; 3] Ever upwards - Rajastan)

Arriving back at camp not one of them made any attempt to unsaddle their horses, or lift a bloody finger to do anything, they were huddled in a group bitching about the horses, the organisation and Jesal the guide. What a lovely start! But what idiot allowed himself to get press ganged into acting as go-between, it was perceived as the easy option, smoothing the way for guests and staff, an attempt not to let emotions get out of control. I tried making points diplomatically, but they had made up their minds, the horses had problems and Mumol at least couldn’t be ridden behind Laxshmi. Poor jesal was really worried, it was obvious they weren’t happy, my suggestion that Mumol and rider go nearer the back was gratefully accepted. Ironically Mumol’s rider on the first safari was also from Germany, but a totally different class of German. Sebina was cool, calm and collected. When finding the battling for dominance got her nowhere with the horse, she adapted, eased off a touch and got so much more from Mumol. (Photos: Mountain homestead - Rajastan)

It only got worse as days went by, our first full day Andrea, Mumol’s burden, refused to attempt to trot or gallop on Mumol, claiming her to be unridable. Mohan, a 16 yr old inexperienced assistant guide swapped horses with her, he managed perfectly well. In fact the last safari he rode Mumol for a few days after Sebina’s half safari had finished. He had his first ever gallop on her, which put a huge grin right across his face. But swapping placated one of the group at least, the others weren’t complaining so much about their horses, they just had limited control over them. I couldn’t even get to canter, as soon as we did Dunraj and Kumari came steaming past me, out of control. A trot couldn’t be sustained due to this problem, so we spent most of each day plodding along, with me seething but trying to encourage Jesal to get us cantering and galloping. Whenever he tried it was bedlam again, I don’t think he could take the risk of the situation getting out of hand. I could see his point, yet understanding was no compensation for me, my reasons for the Pushkar safari was for the hard and fast riding in was meant to consist of. (Photos: Top of the Aravelli mountains - Rajastan)

Early on the stage had been set, whether it was about the horses, food, the weather or the local people, someone always had a complaint about something. We passed through some lovely farmland, gorgeous terrain and lovely people. We may as well have been sat on a bloody merry-go-round for the enthusiasm they showed. Lucky for me not to be positioned between two of them, I’d have had the whinging in stereo then. I could hear the mother, on Dunraj, and daughter, on Kumari, bitching constantly as they walked their horses side by side (contrary to basic instructions of riding on safari); the mother in particular maintained a sour faced expression almost throughout the entire safari. When we stopped for a break they did indeed speak amongst themselves more often then not, as it turned out Sylvia also spoke German so I pretended to sleep or sat with the guide and his assistant, one of the lackies. I maintained a smile in their presence and tried to explain things as they moaned about them, in an effort to get them to understand better and think more positively. Sorry to say, they were the worst example of ignorant, arrogant tourists, they are the type of people that give German tourists a bad name. Being invited into a person’s house to eat our lunch, two of them didn’t even take off their boots, even after being told it was disrespectful not to. I found it an effort to feign companionship with them, eventually I didn’t bother, but that is another story. (Photos: 1] Footloose and fancy free; 2] Our fortress home - Rajastan)

Sunday 7 November 2010

The Maharaja's Sadhu

I continue to get people pointing and admiring my hair, though I'm sure some are just mesmirised. Hindu holy men allow their hair to go wild and form into dreads, of the few who've openly commented it's been to liken it to that of a holy man, a Sadhu!

As soon as I rode Punham I found her easy to adapt to, rising into a trot saw me instantly into the rhythm of her gait, and settling into a canter was fine too. We cantered regularly in the first couple of days and I had no problems what so ever, even waylaying the stirrup didn’t matter. For sure, it made me feel a bit unstable, but I remained securely in my seat, actually managing to find the stirrup and get myself sorted out. That isn’t to say the experience wasn’t un-nerving, but taken as a whole it was a confidence booster. Even without the stirrup I found the rhythm of the Marwari horse easy, keeping a firm seat wasn’t perfect but I went with the natural flow of the horse, which is just as well as I’d be crippled by now if that was the case. As for Punham, she’s beautiful, a piebald with the whitest of coats and silkiest looking of manes. Fair enough, she takes the pee a bit; she knows I haven’t much clue about riding and takes matters into her own hands somewhat. She hasn’t been horrid to me though! She has caused me a bit of concern, a couple of times at water troughs she’s refused to drink. Yeah I know, you can lead a horse to water but can’t make it drink! (Photos: 1] Our campsite - Somewhere in deep rural Rajastan; 2] Peasant with his wordly wealth - Rural Rajastan)

Our rides have taken us through a touch of real India, inducing an all-pervading feeling of calm and tranquillity. I’ve found myself talking quieter and calmer, relaxing loads and thoroughly enjoying every aspect of the safari. Before starting I was worried how touristy the experience would prove. Any worries have been firmly caste aside, there isn’t any tourism where we’ve been so far, the reaction of the locals shows that clearly. You’d think they’d never seen a tourist in the flesh, it’s obvious seeing a horse is a big enough event. That goes for the animals as well, goats are fine, they don’t give a toss, but cattle freak at the sight of us approaching. The folk herding them have no chance at control, they turn and bolt, whatever the people try and do. No amount of shouting, cussing or cajoling makes a bit of difference. As for the horses, they don’t blink an eyelid, taking it all in their stride. (Photo: Down by the riverside - Rajastan countryside)

Everyone, everywhere, were so lovely, not just curious to see us but happy and excited. Kids jumping up and down shouting and waving, first they’d come running at the sight of the horses, then see the white folks and become even more animated. We had no idea what they were shouting for much of the time, the bye-bye was easy to understand and the ta-ta we could surmise was the same. It was great to see their bright, smiley faces at our presence. We hadn’t seen another horse for the first four days out, it’s obvious they are rare commodities, hence the enthusiasm with which we're met all the time. Riding along dusty lanes between fields a distant voice would be heard, I’d have to scour the edges of the surrounding fields until barely discerning a small waving arm, the source of the high pitched voice trying to get our attention. It would be wrong to say they were dressed in rags, some wore little better, but in the hot dusty environment it’s hard to maintain any semblance of cleanliness with what you wear. Rural India is poor, without doubt, a readily available change of clothes is a luxury, I drew the assumption that few could afford such luxuries. My biggest impression was the joy they were all too ready to exhibit, poverty or not. They certainly enriched my life as I passed through!(Photos: Karni Fort/Hotel - Rural Rajastan)

The villages have been rather shabby affairs, generally with stone paving or cobbles, not nice for horses if on a step slope, and animal dung everywhere. Of course there would be, the villagers collect it. Dried it makes excellent fuel, fresh they work it smooth and spread it over the ground to produce new ochre coloured surfaces, they are hard, claimed to be anti-bacterial and easily replaced annually. Mixed into semi-liquid form it’s spread across the floor for a very quick covering to enhance the presentation of the home, like a quick coat of paint. I admit it isn’t a job I would like to do myself, but I wouldn’t have to because I’m a guy and it’s women’s work. It goes against all our western sensibilities to mix and spread animal manure all over the house. Can you imagine it? “Oh, I love the shade of the shit in your kitchen, how did you manage to spread it so fine?” It goes without saying, you can’t base judgements on people by our western standards, not when visiting their country, living within their own culture. Our rules do not apply!(Photos: Rural Rajastan)

Having expected to find it physically harsh, I’m pleasantly surprised, my body has stood up to the rigors so far. No sore arse, no aching legs, no noticeable ill effects at all. I was shattered after the full day’s ride, but not sore or aching! Luckily we were treated to a visit to an old fort turned hotel this evening. Karni fort, the property of Virendra’s (the proprietor of the riding centre) cousin, a beautiful place that does the owner proud. The building is an historical fort, excavated and restored with wonderful style, you wouldn’t guess the amount of work it involved. We got a guided tour by one of the staff and sat down to chai with the owner after a swim in the delightful pool. It done just the job, rejuvenating me and putting me in a mood to accept the chance of a night-time drive in search of Panthers. We were in the right area, but I am very skeptical of any chance we might actually see one. Virendra has so many cousins, he is related to the Maharaja of Jodhpur, cousins. They form the nobility of the Rajputs, his name alone ensures we are welcomed onto peoples land and into their homes, it's like being personal guests of teh Maharaja.(Photo: Rural Rajastan)

The amount of trotting and cantering has been stepped up a bit, watching Jasel and Sebina (another safari member) I noticed them rising out the seat for faster canters and copied them. It felt so natural, it was a delight, more natural than sitting for a canter. A wonderful feeling of exhilaration followed, as if a breakthrough had been made. The next thing I knew we were in a flat out gallop, absolutely great, it had me whooping with joy and egging Punham on as fast as I could. Not once did it enter my head how to stop, or that it might be a problem, and it wasn’t. Oh the joy of it, definitely comparable with riding a fast windy road on the bike. What a confidence boost! My thanks must go out to Julia, who explained this transition of a forward, raised canter as being the stage between cantering and galloping. What a marvelous effect it had on both me and the horse, massive confidence boost for me and seemed to make the two of us gel better. So far the safari has been a sharp learning curve for me, one I’ve reveled in and made the most of. Each day, each phase of progress has filled me with joy and fulfillment. One scary moment came with a runaway cow though, during a gallop, it broke loose and made a desperate dash for the gap between the horses. The horses never even broke stride, I was hard on the tail of Sebina and Mumol when it darted in front of them, actually making contact. No chance could either of us do a thing, there just wasn’t enough time. My heart skipped a beat and then the hazard was over and the thrill sent me soaring, laughing with delight. I do have to watch following so close to Mumol though, she has a tendency to kick, so I must try and keep my distance. Not so easy at times, Puham likes a bit of free rein, she certainly isn’t a slouch once breaking out of a walk.(Photos: 1]Fertile farmland; 2]Taking care of 'lil brother - Rural Rajastan)

Two instances saw me the closest I can expect to coming off without actually falling, neither were my fault, though with a bit more foresight and experience it wouldn’t have been such a threat. Both were down the lead horse Dunraj, who’s actually Punham’s son, deciding to veer off in a different direction. First time was across a wide open grass plain, with an occasional tree in the way. We were galloping down a dry, dusty, well worn, track when he just hung a right and made off across the grass, followed by all the other horses. I hadn’t a clue what was going on, initially assumed Jasel had turned off intentionally. By the time I realised it wasn’t a scheduled detour I struggled to gain control and we nearly piled into a tree. At the final point of missing the tree and reining her in sharply I nearly went overboard, but only nearly, a point of pride for me. The second incident was very similar, but it was at a crossroads of dusty tracks Dunraj again decided he wanted to take a right turn, nearly causing a four-horse pile-up. Only by using my arms against Punham’s neck did I actually stay on that time, otherwise I would have been catapulted through a cactus hedge. It was exhilarating, I kept my cool, and my seat and yes, boosted to my confidence another notch. This progress just keeps on coming, every day I feel more comfortable, more confident and more inclined to canter and gallop, rather than walk and trot. Joy of joys, stood in the stirrups, leaning in low and forward and the horse thunders down the way, with me egging it on all the way. As we go I can feel my weight adjusting from left to right in tune with the slight changes in the horses balance. That feeling of being in tune and responsive is beautiful, steering at full tilt is no problem and adjustments happen naturally. What a lovely thing to experience, what joy! (Photo: Come into my parlour - Wildlife park, Rural Rajastan)