Asian Walkabout

The goddess Karni Mata has a keen eye for Bikaner. A Rajasthani incarnate of the fierce and beautiful Durga, Karni Mata most recently protected Bikaner from disaster in 2002, when 80 trucks in a military convoy caught fire, releasing 1,000 tons of ammunition into the surrounding city. Amazingly enough, only one person died in the fiery rain, leading locals to flock to Karni Mata’s temple in Deshnoke to give thanks for her protection.

There is one way to know that you’ve gotten Karni Mata’s highest blessings. Our camel guide Keysore has received them many times; so has Daisy, Camel Man Vijay Singh’s wife, at whose guesthouse we stayed. Karni Mata’s blessing, when it comes out, is easy to spot, because it’s the only white thing around, save for the occasional tourist. The rest of her 20,000 tribespeople—rats as well, but in the usual gray suit—scurry hungrily around her temple, piling themselves up to sleep, lapping up offerings of milk and egg yolks, and, if you’re lucky, crawling over your feet.

We visited the Karni Mata temple on the third day of our 4-day camel safari. It was just the two of us, three guides, three camels, and a camel cart piled up with supplies, food, and blankets. The tour so far had been a silent, plodding affair on bone-cracking saddles. A typical day went something like this: wake up under ten pounds of blankets. Freeze. Get served a breakfast of toast, scrambled eggs, tea and porridge. Mount camel, much to dismay of American backside, which is accustomed to office chairs. Pass through peaceful villages with handmade huts and cud-chewing livestock. Watch as children run behind camels screaming “Ta ta! Ta ta!” (Bye Bye!). Disappear into shallow dunefields and swaths of sand punctuated by thorny scrubs. Pass tender fields of peanuts, lentils, wheat, and mustard. Chill out on blanket as camel guides make rice and dahl for lunch. Repeat for dinner. Crawl into tent to avoid cold.

It was a pretty provincial affair, up until the rat temple. Dubbed the “Eighth Wonder of the World,” this large, ornate temple is a hub of blessings for believers. To them, the rats that scurry across the ground and pile up in corners aren’t rats at all, but kabas, Mataji’s reincarnated tribespeople. The kabas are purported to be clean, disease-free, and blessed. “They never leave the perimeters of the temple, nor do they reproduce,” says the website karnimata.com. People come to worship them and receive their goddess’s powerful blessings.

As someone new to this belief system, it’s harder to stomach. After about ten minutes amidst the kabas, you start to lift your feet an awful lot when you walk, thinking one’s on its way up your pants, or nervously batting your hands on your clothes to make sure they’re kaba-free.

The camel tour ended with a long, pelvis-rearranging trek back to a jeep, which in turn took us back to the guesthouse. Happy to be back indoors as this northern Indian cold snap continues. We’re heading to Ranthambore National Park next, continuing the animal theme, hoping to spot some wild tigers…

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Few of Creation’s creatures are more awkward than the camel. The critter’s ill-fitting body parts lend its appearance an aesthetic value similar to that of a kindergartener’s first art project. Its graceful, fluted ears become it, but, looks-wise, it’s all downhill from there. The eyes, cloudy glass marbles half-contained in their sockets, appear permanently glazed. Its feline snout protects a mouth filled with crooked tombstone teeth, and a greenish crest of foam permanently lines the gums below. A prehistoric, woolly neck slopes into a mountainous body held up by spindly legs and calloused joints. The beast’s innards are in constant distress: Its slitted nose pulls forth of thick and labored inhales, belches rumble from the depths of the prehistoric neck, and it constantly farts as though it’s had a long night of drinking Pabst Blue Ribbons.

Lacking the gentle, adorable quality of cows and the horse’s regal grace, the camel is the ultimate utilitarian beast. Its padded humps have comfortably held humans, sundries, building materials, and war provisions since man first figured out how to subdue it using ropes and sticks. In the great Thar desert, the dune-ridden, reddish-brown phenomenon that links Rajasthan with Pakistan, camels are still employed the same way they have been since the dawn of domestication. And we were lucky enough to take them for a ride.

After a Jeep ride into the Thar desert, a landmass with definitive Lawrence of Arabia mystique, we (Seth, myself, and fellow tourist Fernando) saddled up on a trio of ancient camel beasts to take a 3-hour tour of the Thar. Our guides, dressed in traditional desert tunics and turbans, added to the epic feel of the journey. Once astride the camels, we were a good ten feet off the ground. It was all desert beauty and cobra holes as we started meandering along a narrow path leading deeper into the desert.

Then Seth asked what the camels’ names were. I imagined something exotic, like Nagahindi or Desert Queen.

“Robert,” replied our five-foot-tall English-speaking guide, who would later start belting Hindu songs in a girlish voice and crank calling people on Fernando’s cell phone. Robert burped in confirmation. The other two were named Rocket and Number One. Rocket was a “very fast running camel,” while Number One seemed to have no particular claim to fame, besides being good for ladies.

Robert, Seth’s camel, was a neurotic lover of freedom who regularly trotted out of line and tried to take off on his own. His neurosis involved regurgitating his breakfast, chewing it, swallowing it, and regurgitating it again. He steadily munched on his snack of grass and bile throughout the trip, a rabid digestive foam percolating at his lips. Rocket defied his name by being unusually slow. Number One, the ladies’ man, did whatever he was told.

We strolled through rock-strewn scrubland onto sculpted sand dunes boasting delicate, wind-blown patterns. The sky turned to a deep periwinkle as the sun dropped low to the east, over Pakistan, located just a few miles away. We took rest stops to photograph the immaculate dunes and enjoy the sunset ambiance. Other tourist camel groups had already nestled into dune valleys to set up camp and watch the sunset. A Muslim-clad man with a bag of Kingfisher beers appeared from the east just as the sun was getting low, selling his chilly wares for us to toast the sunset with. A band of bored-looking gypsies sat down in front of us and did a music/dance routine. As soon as the sun had disappeared, leaving the sky a hazy purple, we mounted our steeds back to the jeep.

This was just a warm-up for the longer trip we plan on taking from the town of Bikaner, purported to have fewer tourists and dunes just as sweet as those surrounding Jaisalmer. We leave for Bikaner tomorrow at 6am, just in time to catch the tail end of the Bikaner camel festival and explore another fascinating, historic Rajasthan town. We will also meet the highly esteemed Camel Man, King of the Desert, for a multi-day desert ride.

People just don’t build fortresses like they used to. These days, our forts are digital, comprised of firewalls and DMZs, encryptions and layers of invisible security. Impressive, sure, but also invisible. Back in 1459, less than 40 years before Columbus misnavigated his way to the New World, an Indian king named Rao Jodha lay the groundwork for what would eventually become the imposing, red-stoned architectural marvel that defines the city of Jodhpur. He was the 15th king of Marwar, the mythical Land of Death, located in western Rajhastan. His empire lay nestled in a barren, dusty plain on the vital trade route between Delhi and Mujarat. It was a dry, fly-ridden town where merchants led camels through narrow alleyways, priests performed puja (blessings) nightly, and the scent of chanting and incense filled the air.

A fine kingdom, indeed, but terribly prone to attacks by the neighboring tribes at its old location. Jodha needed to protect his empire, so he turned his eyes to the heavens, where a 400-foot cliff loomed over the nascent town of Jodhpur. It was a logical place to build one of India’s most impenetrable and renowned fortresses. He rode up the hill with a few of his best men to lay out plans for the fort. An old scraggly hermit named Cheeria Nathji, the lord of the birds, was the only inhabitant there. When Jodha forced him off his roost, the hermit cursed the fortress with a chronic drought, a prophecy that remains true in Jodhpur to this day. Jodha tried to appease the hermit by building him a house and temple and, when that didn't work, burying a man alive in the fort's foundations.

Thus it was that the great fort of Mehrangarh was founded. Complete with elephant defense spikes, ornate cannons, a pleasure room, an armory, and quarters for queens, mothers, and concubines, Mehrangarh stands as one of India’s proudest and best-preserved fortresses. The cramped, endless city of Jodhpur murmurs below the fort’s towering hulk, a maze of blocky blue houses and flooding sewers that hasn’t changed much since Jodha’s time.

The fort saw his successors to the early 20th century, when it finally lost its primary purpose as a protective citadel. Men with bejeweled shields valiantly fought enemy troops by horse, foot, and elephant. The latter could fling man and horse casually aside with its powerful trunk, with which it also often wielded weapons. Society was equally dramatic: Queens flung themselves on funeral pyres, musicians and dancers kept the royals entertained in special pleasure rooms, and Jodhpur bustled with traveling merchants and spice traders.

We took an audio tour of Jodhpur’s imposing giant today, exploring the intricacies of the flashy and expansive Rathore empire. The kings seemed to be just as devoted to the glitzier elements of warfare as they were to their effectiveness as warriors. Portraits show them as bejeweled, glaring lords surrounded by rose-scented wives. Their swords had lion-headed hilts and blades cast with jasmine vines. Even the cannons were gilded. So much prettier than the spare northern European ruins I saw as a kid. I wonder what would happen if you put the Rathores head-to-head with, say, the Huns. One group would be perfumed, plaited, and shiny; the other coarse, smelly, and rough. It would be like a fistfight between Elton John and Jack Black. I mean, who would win? Impossible to tell, but highly entertaining in the process.

We finished off the day with dinner at the fort’s restaurant. Phenomenal view, but the overpriced food left much to be desired. Think lamb with shards of gristle, chewy chapati, and badly cooked rice. You know that when the rice is off, something’s wrong. Still, it was a nice, touristy day, and perfect introduction to the great forts of Rajasthan, Land of Kings.

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If you’re traveling and get a head cold, you have two options: stay in bed, bored and sick, or tour around like it’s nothing and try to ignore the ever-growing wad of soppy Kleenex in your pants pocket. After three days of hanging out in bed and ordering room service, we felt decent—and brave—enough to start checking out the town in more detail. We rented a motorcycle—err, ok, it was a 30 CC moped with barely enough torque to beat a hungry goat in a dead heat. Correction: We asked for a motorcycle, but the one our hotel owners had was so fast, powerful, and immaculate that we decided it would be better to get something tame. Turns out this steed was just half a step above a bicycle.

So we took it off-roading. There was a rutted dirt road outside of town rumored to contain authentic Indian villages, with authentic-looking villagers, camels, and a smattering of mysterious Shiva temples. Village kids would stick out their hands to high-five us as we whizzed by at a high-pitched 9 miles per hour. Some of their little palms hurt pretty good. I’m sure they felt the same.

We explored a Shiva temple nestled inside of a rocky canyon about four miles into the dirt road. A narrow path led past small, boxy stucco buildings with a scummy set of pools running through the middle. Beautiful fig and bodhi trees grew artfully out of the mountain flank to one side; the inside of the temple, with its silent, dark shrine, contained a powerful, soothing sense of utter peace. Another India contrast: beautiful trees, peaceful temple, pond scum, trash. We passed a herd of billy goats on the way back, swerved around camels pulling loaded camel carts, their necklaces jingling in the sun. We also got stuck in the sand and had a near-miss with a tractor as a result. The moped, which had barely started as we headed out, died in town. The hotel people tried to charge Seth extra for a new spark plug. Sigh.

Another important Pushkar highlight involved flying kites off of Pushkar’s uneven rooftops. Flying kites is hard on every level: getting them up in the air, keeping them from nosediving into a tree, and reeling them back in one piece. Remember how the kids in Kite Runner would fly kites until it was too dark to see? Pushkar was like that, the sky flitting with geometric squares made of tissue paper, kids and adults alike delighting in their nightly ritual.

We also visited a lovely nonprofit called Fior de Loto. They run a school for girls, taking in poor girls from surrounding villages and giving them education, housing, and a chance at a good career. Finally, we discovered the perfect culinary complement to Pushkar’s peaceful and colorful valence. The Rainbow Café serves delectable recipes from around the world with a 360-degree rooftop view of Pushkar. He even serves eggs, which aren’t allowed in the rest of town for religious reasons. We spend many a satisfied hour cultivating our love handles at this sweet locale.

Seth was suffering from The Sinus Thing today, so I took off solo to explore town. About 10 minutes in, a beggar woman walked up to me, her face folded into finely drawn lines. She held up her small silver bowl and smiled at me, speaking in silent and worn Hindi. She patted her soft old belly and said “chapati, chapati.” Something about her eyes reminded me of glazed amber, and the fine wrinkles on her leathery face reminded me of my Oma, my mother’s mother, who, in her old age, also had dark, folded skin. I agreed to buy her some chapati.

One bag of chapati flour, a bottle of soy oil, and a bag of salt cost about $7—roughly what she might make in a week or two. She placed the flour on her head and led me out of town. We walked about a mile through exposed and trash-filled yellow dirt to an encampment strewn with blankets. A fence made of bamboo and twine encircled the place; beds were placed both out in the open and inside of leaf-covered huts. Women in brightly colored saris, with plastic bangle bracelets up to their elbows and multiple silver and beaded necklaces, squatted near a fire. It was a Rajasthani gypsy camp.

About seven women trickled in out of various corners of the camp when we arrived. Some, thankfully, spoke good English. They implored me to sit on a blanket and share a bidi, or small, leaf-wrapped cigarette with them. The bidi was potent little tobacco bomb that left a pleasant buzz inside of my skull.

The gypsies had come from Jaisalmar by mule. Pushkar, with its many tourists, presented good business opportunities, so they settled here. Someone gave them trouble about settling on the land at first, but leaves them alone now. They’re an extended family of married and unmarried women, widows, men, and bejeweled, dusty little kids.

When I asked one woman about her husband, she said he took the drink and left. Every morning, they walk one hour to get water and carry it back in clay pots on their heads. The rest of the day, they go do henna in the market, teach dance, and, as far as I could see, hang out, cook, smoke, and take care of the kids. The camp had a lull to it, especially around midday, and I could easily see myself becoming a squatting, gossiping chain smoker with the rest of them.
After the obligatory questions—how old you? You married? Kids? No kids? Oh…(face falls)—they told me about Puva, the old woman. She’d been widowed years ago and had no family. The big gypsy family allowed her to sleep by their fire, but could not share food with her, as they had to take care of themselves first. Her eyes were failing and her lungs were weak.

“She has two month, then she see no more,” Sanita, a girl roughly my age who spoke the best English, informed me.
“What then?” I asked.
“We give her a stick and tell her which way to walk to town.”

With failing eyesight and no family, Puva cannot make jewelry or do henna, two things that help gypsy women sustain themselves. Nor can she dance, she’s too old. When I asked how old she was, Sanita shook her head and said very, very old. About 40.

The women put mehndi, a marital wedding design, on my hands using henna squeezed from plastic bags. Before the henna was dry, they started dancing, a display complete with drums and a built-in audience. They did a traditional dance with flowing skirts and tricks like bending over backwards and putting a 100-rupee bill inside of her mouth. They continued to smoke like chimneys. I found yet another bindi between my lips as I took pictures. They then took me to their kitchen area, where I shared in throat-burning dahl and homemade chapati.

After buying some jewelry and giving them a kickback for the food and the show, one of them, Shanti, accompanied me back to the market. We sat in the middle of the dirt for a cigarette break halfway there. She informed me that my clothes were mediocre and I had to make myself beautiful. Next thing I knew, she’d stuck a bindi on my forehead and smeared dark lipstick on my lips with her pinky finger. She also gave me a ring to wear. Much better.

It was mid-afternoon when I finally got back to the hotel room, where the food service guy had locked Seth inside. He was a steaming heap of feverish blankets when I found him. He’s better today. Somehow, after smoking 4 bindis yesterday, I’m worse. After visiting an adorable hole-in-the-wall café this morning for breakfast, we’ve both collapsed into the dizzy, snot-ridden world of unending sinus colds.