Day Eighteen

Here’s what I’ve gathered about Jodhpur. Being that this is the second largest city in Rajasthan (under Jaipur), I think it’s a relevant discovery. Tourists are lured to the town by the fort so they can be sold handicrafts. That’s it. That’s the whole purpose for the city existing. Yes there are other industries, many to support the local community, but the majority who produce handicrafts overwhelms any other population. Of course not all handicrafts are sold locally. Many are exported to other tourist destinations in India, and some make their way internationally. And the local craftpeople are also contracted out by western companies to produce handicraft-style products. But I see no justification for centralizing this industry in this region other than the tourist draws of the forts and palaces.

Certainly, during the Mugul period (1100 – 1800), it was important for everyone (except maybe the farmers) to live within the city walls. That was how you got protection, and participated in the community. But with independence, the new cities sprung up outside the fort walls. This seems to be the most prolific building period in the cities I’ve visited. These buildings are what are used for all local businesses. I thought I was being judgmental in finding them ugly and dingy, poorly kept and fallen into disrepair, but Gandhi saw the same thing as a common trait of his people. He cites the poor upkeep of Indian dwellings as a cause for marginalization of his people in South Africa. He frames it as a side-effect of other priorities, and seems to dismiss it. But he did not get to see the long-term consequence of the neglect within India. To me, there’s such a stark contrast between the aesthetic value of the rural villages over the cities that I cannot imagine anyone wanting to live in the cities. It would be like giving up central park east to go live in the subway. I know there’s a lot going on here that’s over my head. I do not understand India, and doubt I’ll make any progress in the few days I have left. Suffice to say it is very difficult to run a country with so many people. Looking at it as an outsider, it doesn’t make sense. Whenever I don’t understand how a business works in the US, I explain it away by saying it’s a front for drug dealers or the mob. I’m tempted to similarly write off India that way as well. Can you imagine my audacity? Stay tuned to see if I make the leap.

Anyways, today in Jodhpur I saw the fort, and the old and new cremation grounds. While the Mugul emperors (Muslims) burry their dead, the Hindus burn them. So Mumtaz Mahal’s body is in the Taj Mahal, but the Maharajah bodies are burned up and their ashes laid to rest under giant monuments called Cenotaphs. Before Jodhpur was founded as a city, the local Maharajah had his seat of power in Mandor. This was the capital of the princely state of Marwar. The region had no easy access to water and only 38cm of rainfall a year. It should never have been a city, but thrived due to its proximity to trade routes. It was the place people traded in their camels for horses on their way somewhere more temperate. Marwar means Place of Death. Mandor had been the capital for some reason despite being on low ground and difficult to defend. So a new city was built up in the hills by a Maharajah named Jodh-something-or-other, hence Jodhpur. But the family cremation grounds remained in Mandor for a few generations longer. The Cenotaphs started out pretty huge, but gradually got smaller and more similar. By the time the grounds was moved into Jodhpur, they were built identically. The fort only had a few rooms open to visitors. Much of it has yet to be restored and doesn’t quite match the scale of the fort in Jaipur. But there are more museum displays and I got to see some bad-ass weapons. That’s about all I can say for Jodhpur. We left after a great lunch and made it to Osian in about two hours.

I know I’ve complained a lot about how vacant my hotels have been. I warned my travel agent that she was booking me into places I wouldn’t fit in. I called the local tour company today to reiterate the issue and got nowhere. I guess this just isn’t a region that’s easy to travel alone. When I got to the desert camp in Osian and heard I was the only guest in the whole place, my heart sank. I had figured this would be the most crowded of my stops. I don’t have a good sense of the relative prices of each hotel. I booked everything together. But this place had a strong Medieval Times vibe to it and seemed like a place that would be popular with younger tourists. I was told one couple would be arriving later in the day. Partytime. Excellent.

The camp is a little recreation of a fort comprising a number of walled courtyards and gateways leading out into open desert. There are two plots of tents out in the sand. Each one is built on top of a cement platform that houses the infrastructure for the electricity and plumbing. The tent is supported by a metal frame, and then covered by a thatch roof to keep more of the heat out. But whereas my first hotel was really a little house with a tented roof, these are real tents with zip down doors and netted windows. The cement platform extends out from the front into a patio with a sofa and some chairs. With very low expectations, I’m left in my tent and suddenly realize this place is amazing. I’m completely alone in a desert oasis. What I first perceive as complete silence gradually transitions to a cacophony of nature. There are birds, and bugs, and goats, and either dogs or coyotes or something. It’s not loud, but it replaces the eerie silence I first detected with a comforting background track. I explore the tent for a few minutes, walk around the grounds, and then it’s time for my camel ride. At first I was disappointed that I couldn’t hold the reigns myself. The elderly man leading me down the path and out into the desert moved much like the camel: slow, steady, persistent. But once we got out into the open and I turned on some music I got lost in the endless sands. He snaps me out of my trance to point out a pair of desert deer in the distance. As opposed to the multitude I saw in Ranthambore, desensitized to tourists on safari, these tear off into the sand, kicking up long trails of sand behind them. They look rocket powered. I’m out on the sand for an hour, but feel like I could have gone five. I may look into camel caravans in the future. It sounds like something that exists.

I walk back to my tent on wobbly knees and spend the rest of the day reading on the sofa. As the sun sets a boy comes by and lights some candle lanterns for me. I haven’t had much time to read since the train and it feels great to be outside away from the cities. The sun winks goodbye over the horizon. I probe with my long lens, looking for that mythic green spark but see only the pink echo of a day come to a close. I read for another hour, pushing my eyes to make the most of the dimming sky and flickering candles. Folk music starts up in a nearby courtyard so I mark my place and go off to investigate.

The other guests have arrived and they sit on cushions drinking sodas out of glass bottles while a folk band rocks out with some sitars and drums. They’re two ladies (I find later are) from France, touring Rajasthan since Saturday. They look like sisters, but I’m pretty sure they’re sharing a tent like mine: one double bed. I’m brought some tea as the song ends and when it starts up again, two girls in folk costumes come whirling down the stairs and stomp out eastern rhythms a few feet in front of me. They’re backlit by the fire, but I can see their silhouette strike out this way and that. The costumes are quite unlike dewali day saris or belly dancing costumes I’ve seen. They’ve long flowing skirts with long pants underneath. And the tops are layered with cloth and tied to the arms so they billow out in the wind. The effect is that the dance is not as much about the dancer’s body as the way the body moves the costume. Arms and legs move in lockstep to produce unexpected shapes under the costume, like fingers twisting into shadow puppets in time with the music. They finish up with some rapid twirling with such abandon that when the music stops, they lurch to a halt; dizzy, disoriented. A few more musical acts come out, and the girls join the band every two or three songs. I attempt some low light photos and try to catch the spirit of the performance.

I drop a few comments on the performance to the other guests sitting nearby. They correctly read my attempts at socializing for the desperate cry for attention it is and they kindly invite me to join them for dinner. It’s such a relief as the prospect of sitting awkwardly at the other end of the dining area from them, eating alone, was giving me the howling fantoids. We have a very nice conversations about the places we’ve seen in India. I’ve been to Delhi, they’ve been to Goa. I was already having a great time here, but their kind companionship made this my best night since I left Habitat. Dinner was just aight, but I finished it off with a little Old Monk rum and bid the girls goodnight.

So here I lay. In my pajamas. Under the covers. In my tent. In the desert. In India. An ocean away from the people I love, but feeling very much at home. The stars shine bright in the sky, twisted just a bit from the ones I know. The dogs howl to each other across the sands. Some sound like threats, and some like yearnings. Fires dot the horizon showing me I am not alone out here in the darkness.