Monday, January 26, 2009

Bhuj - An Antidote To Real Life

Kutch, and especially the wild-west regional capital Bhuj, may well be my favourite place in India so far. It didn't start off too comfortably - after a few days running on empty, I crashed out so hard on the overnight train west from Ahmedabad that I completely failed to wake up when we arrived, and it wasn't until a policeman came through half an hour later and poked me awake with his lathi stick that I realised where we were. After an hour spent trudging through the early morning streets looking for a hotel (or even someone who spoke enough English to tell me where the hell I was), I found a small place called the City Guest House that seems to be pretty much the only cheap hotel in town. Fortunately, it's a friendly place and the room price didn't take the piss too much.

Bhuj itself is small by Indian standards, with a population somewhere in the area of 150,000. Perched between the Little and Great Ranns of Kutch (or Kachchh, to give it the proper unpronounceable transliteration), it sits in an area of dubious agricultural quality and is prone to natural disasters - in 2001, on 26th January (Indian Republic Day) an earthquake devastated the area, killing a staggering 10% of the city's inhabitants. It recovers, and has recovered quickly, though - apart from comments by the locals, you almost wouldn't know that a catastrophe of such magnitude occurred here. The people are friendly to the point of fierceness, and the local children are absolutely charming; everyone I've met on the street seems genuinely happy to see a foreigner, and I've spent a lot of pleasant time trading a few words of butchered Gujurati for a few words of butchered English.


Night Cauliflowers!


I spent a day looking around the city, taking in the old (and now earthquake-ruined) Aina Mahal and Prag Mahal. These half-palace-half-mansion residences are eerie as all get up, with cracked, broken chandeliers dangling from the ceiling and unsteady gilt-skirted statues leaning out from the walls. The buildings have a kind of Italianate architecture, which is unusual in India (to say the least).


Prag Mahal (2)

Prag Mahal (1)


The day after, I had a day off - unintentionally, since although I'd booked an autorickshaw to tour around the countryside, a message got lost in the pipeline and no-one turned up. This was for the best - I lay around in the sun, went for a walk, read a book, at lunch, did some laundry, and basically chilled out. The next day, I sorted out the mess with the rickshaw, and proceeded to take a tiki-tour around some small villages near Bhuj (I would have liked to go further, but it seemed like the rickshaw was one of the dodgy ones with a top speed around 25kmph).

The villages proved to be a photographic goldmine. I got some local kids on my side, who hauled me around the small villages of Dhori and Kotay, persuading all and sundry to get in front of my lens. I've put together a set on Flickr called Village Faces, of which here are some of my favourites:


Village Faces (2)

Water Carriers (1)

Water Carriers (3)

Village Faces (7)

Village Faces (10)

Village Faces (13)

Village Faces (15)


And now, I must continue moving - this time to Diu, an old Portuguese enclave in the south of the state. Photos of beaches and beers to come soon!

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Ahmedabad To Worse

Actually, that's an unkind title. Ahmedabad, the bustling capital city of Gujurat, is relatively pleasant compared to many of the massive urban sprawls I've passed through. Still, whenever you cram four million-odd people together into a small area on the banks of a river, you're going to have problems, and for some reason I found it difficult to look past those of Ahmedabad during the twenty-four stopover hours I spent in the city.

First off, the traffic is horrendous, snarling through the city like animate tendrils of metal. Crossing any road, or even walking along one, requires stainless steel nerves and a certain disregard for both the safety of oneself and (especially!) other people. Even the traffic in Delhi, fabled for its insanity, seemed mild compared to this.

Secondly, and most importantly, is the poverty evident throughout the city. Ahmedabad is a city that has fought its way through numerous economic down-times, and there are many people visible who have fallen along the wayside. Slum areas squat wretchedly next to the river, hemmed in by polluted water on one side and ugly concrete office blocks on the other. Most street corners are populated by beggars, and street kids are everywhere.

I normally avoid taking photos of people living in poverty, but as I walked down the street in the middle of the day, I ran across a scene that has burnt itself into my mind. Two ragged street kids lay sprawled on a concrete island amidst the manic traffic, occasionally raising themselves to stretch out filthy hands on stick-thin arms to the cars that drove pass. I watched them for a while, and not once did I see anyone in a vehicle give them anything, or even acknowledge their existence. Eventually I walked them off the middle of the road, and gave them the change from my pocket for food - although it's likely to be stolen by a bigger child or appropriated by one of the so-called "beggar pimps", I couldn't just walk away without doing something, and I couldn't see anywhere around to even buy them food (by far my preferred form of charity, since it is so much more direct than giving money).


Street Kids (1)

Street Kids (2)

Urchin


The worst thing is that this is not at all unusual - I have seen similar things all across India and Nepal, and I fully expect to see worse in Mumbai. As a human being from a wealthy country, the poverty in India is something I struggle with everyday; the worst thing is that I can't even come up with a fraction of a bad solution, let alone a good one.

But Ahmedabad did leave me with a couple of better memories, and some less heartbreaking photos. At sunset, I went to the local Jama Masjid, a beautiful courtyarded area amidst the downtown chaos, and found an island of peace. As I walked around enjoying the afternoon sunlight, Muslim men began filing in and crowding around a pool in the middle of the courtyard, washing in preparation from prayer. As the azan sounded, no-one paid me any mind, content to let me sit quietly and watch (an unusual event in Islamic India - generally, non-Muslims are kicked out as soon as the muezzin opens his mouth). Although I don't like Islam as a moral (and especially legal) framework, I find the rituals and sounds of the religion deeply moving, and it was a great pleasure to enjoy it without feeling like I was intruding.


Bathing At The Jama Masjid

Calligraphy

Afternoon Prayers


As the sun finished setting, I walked back to my cheap hotel room near the station, fingering the ticket in my pocket. Another overnight train, second class sleeper of course, to Bhuj, the regional capital of Kutch. I didn't even really know why I was going there, but I was ready to escape the touristy bustle of the big city. As it turns out, Kutch may well be my favourite area of India so far - stay tuned for the next post to find out why.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Rajasthan (Part The Second)

After Jaisalmer, I trained it to Jodhpur, home of riding breeches, open sewers, and one of the biggest damn castles I've seen yet in India. Mehrangarh Fort is a massive, imposing monument to the Rajput warriors, and it broods over Jodhpur like an angry grandparent. Unfortunately, the clouds brooded over Jodhpur as well, for the whole period of my visit, so the photographic opportunities were limited.

I stayed in a very friendly guest house just below the fort, and spent a couple of days doing absolutely nothing: lying on the roof, drinking chai, and watching the world go by. Finally I summoned up the energy to climb to the fort, and was rewarded with a staggering view from the ramparts.


The City Below

Cannon

Indian OH&S


After achieving very little in Jodhpur, I boarded a bus to Udaipur, which I found quite disappointing. All through my trip, I'd heard Udaipur referred to as a fairytale city, and more than a couple of travellers told me it had been one of their favourite experiences. I didn't really get either vibe.

For one thing, Udaipur is really, really touristy. After Rajasthan, you'd think I'd be used to that, but I wasn't. I think it might have been the type of tourism; Udaipur is aimed at rich Westerners rather than backpackers. The all-bells-and-whistles ticket for the City Palace was 800 rupees, a ridiculous figure by anyone's measure, especially when one considers that the Taj freaking Mahal costs 750 (and is in much better condition).


Monsoon Silhouette

Monsoon Palace View


It's also not, on the face of it, all that pretty. The drought-stricken lake is full of green slime, and the haze was prohibitive - to the point that you almost can't even see the city from the infamous Monsoon Palace (look at the pictures above to see what I mean). But, when the sun sets, almost anywhere can look decent, and Udaipur is no exception.


Overlook

Udaipur Lake View

Monkey Business

Shave And A Trim, Thanks


Anyway, I definitely didn't have a bad time in Udaipur, but it wasn't stunningly good. So, there wasn't much regret when I boarded a metre-gauge stopping-all-stations train down through the Rajasthan trible area into Gujurat (a beautiful journey that, like almost everything in India, would be even better if you could see the sky).


Winding Train Journey

Stopping All Stations

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Rajasthan (Part 1)

And so I realise that I have completely failed to write on this blog for almost three weeks. What a poor effort! I have no excuses, but I do have a reason: Rajasthan.

Rajasthan is the most touristed state in India, and appropriately so. Desert for the most part, it's an absolute riot of colours, smells, and experiences. This is the India you see in the tourism posters, and although the hordes of bumbag-wearing middle-aged rich Westerners (where I use "rich" to mean "those who can afford to eat more than twice a day") got wearisome quickly, it proved relatively easy to escape them and get lost in the place.

I woke up on New Year's Day, kicked open the train carriage door for some fresh air, and was greeted by a clear blue sky, desert green fields, and hills with rocks in them. After a dodgy experience in Chandigarh, this was soothing, to say the least. My impression of the state only improved from there, helped along by (relatively) friendly locals, fascinating desert scenery, and conditions that were much more amenable to photography. So, rather than try and do full justice to each of the places I've been to, I will do my best to summarise them in a few words and my favourite photos. Let's start with Jaipur.

Jaipur: the last in the unholy trinity of the Golden Triangle (Agra, Delhi, Jaipur - the India-in-ten-days trail), Jaipur swarms with tourists, touts, more touts, scammers, beggars, and thieves - and manages to remain a pretty cool place despite them. The City Palace is beautiful, the Royal Observatory (Jantar Mantar) fascinating, and Amber Fort stunningly imposing. Colours, colours, and more colours.


Peacock

Reflection

Zodiac (2)

Ranis (1)

Amber


Next, we move (via overnight metre-gauge train) to Bikaner. Lying at the northern edge of the Great Thar Desert, this thriving frontier town can be summed up in three words: fun with camels. My first couple of days here saw me leaving on a camel safari through the dunes and some outlying settlements, and returning with serious saddlesores but great memories.


Guide

Game Face

Morning Chai

Desert Eyes (1)

Camelplay


The day after, I managed to scam myself press access to the 2009 Bikaner Camel Festival. This meant three days of various camel-related activities: camel dancing, camel dressing, camel racing, even camel milking(!). Additionally, the local beauty/masculinity competitions provided plenty of lens fodder: beautiful Rajasthani girls and imposing, turbaned men with some of the biggest moustaches I have seen anywhere. Actually, I'm lying - they were the biggest moustaches I have seen anywhere.


Camel Racing (1)

Killing Time

Mr. Rajasthan (2)

Miss Bikaner (3)

Miss Bikaner (2)

Haughty

Seats With A View


After another overnight train ride, this time made in a hideously drunken state, I wound up in Jaisalmer. One of the big tourist favourites, Jaisalmer is a sandstone fort rising stolidly from the dunes. It's charming, beautiful (especially at the sunset), and alive - the fort is still entirely inhabited and heavily populated, a situation that is causing slow decay among the foundations due to inadequate water infrastructure. Unfortunately, Jaisalmer is one of the most unpleasantly tout-ridden places I've yet encountered in India. That's not necessarily a problem, since most of them don't have the hard-sell chutzpah to harass you more than once, but it became a problem when a disagreement with a camel-safari tout led to me being unceremoniously ejected from my hotel.

It's still a lot of fun, though. Noisy fun - relations between India and Pakistan being what they are, it's a rare half-hour when at least one IAF jet doesn't scream up or down the border, only a few kilometres away.


Dark Fort

Musician (2)

Offer

Jaisalmer Sunset

Overlook (2)


Now, in the interest of not destroying everyone's download quota all at once, I'm going to pause and go and pack my bags. I'm in Udaipur currently, ready for a morning train to Ahmadabad, in Gujurat. More Rajasthani photos will follow soon.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Down And Out In Chandigarh

As I trudged out of the Chandigarh train station into another foggy North Indian night, I was struck by an array of bizarre sculptures erected outside. Long, stick-like limbs and understated faces, they were obviously the creation of Nek Chand, the man responsible for Chandigarh's most famous attraction, the Rock Garden. Clutching an address, I started doing the rounds of the autorickshaws, trying to find one who seemed to offer a reasonable chance of getting me where I wanted to be.

An hour later, life seemed much more difficult. I had travelled well into the suburbs of Chandigarh, but the guy whose couch I had arranged to surf on was nowhere to be found - his apartment was locked tight and no-one seemed to know where he was. After trying in vain to contact him, I wandered around looking for an autorickshaw or a taxi, wondering where I might be able to get a hotel for the night. The answer turned out to be, Almost nowhere. I spent well over an hour tooling around in the fog, getting increasingly concerned as each successive hotel told me, "Sorry sir, fully booked." The idea of spending a night curled up in a corner on the street seemed more and more inevitable. Eventually, well after midnight, I found a small, rat-infested room in Sector-45, and shelled out over a thousand rupees for the privilege. Although I was in a bad mood, I resolved to give Chandigarh another chance in the daytime.

It didn't score too well then, either. First, some background about the city. Chandigarh is in a so-called Union Territory, and is both the capital city of the Punjab and Haryana at once. It is a totally planned city, (re)constructed from the ground up after Indian independence to fit the schemes of a mad Frenchman known as Le Corbusier. The roads and suburbs are laid out in neat geometric patterns, areas are carefully designated for purpose, and the overall impression is one of deliberate design rather than the chaotic evolution that seems to have shaped all the other Indian cities.

Sounds familiar? Basically, Chandigarh is the Indian version of Canberra. This sounded interesting on paper, but in reality I found it to be deeply depressing. The roads are straight and wide, and the areas neatly divided, but it doesn't manage to escape the standard Indian realities of poverty, pollution, and overpopulation. Everything is resolutely constructed from concrete, augmented frequently by small lean-tos. I didn't take any photos because the fog was so thick (which, admittedly, may have contributed to my opinion of the place), but imagine a third-world version of Canberra and you have a pretty close analogue. The final straw was the names - Chandigarh is divided into numbered sectors, so an address might be given as: Hotel Green, Sector-17, Chandigarh. The overall impression is that of an Eastern Bloc city before the fall, and I didn't like it one bit.

It's important to understand that this was on New Year's Eve. Although I considered finding another hotel and maybe a party, I stumbled across a cheap train ticket overnight to Jaipur, and made the executive decision to get the hell out before the city sucked out all my will for travelling, even if it meant ringing in the New Year in a sleeper carriage. So, to pass time before I left, I went to check out the aforementioned Rock Garden.

I have to say, this place almost restored Chandigarh in my eyes. It's amazing - twelve acres of gullies and tunnels, all filled with the surreal sculptures of Nek Chand. The man was working as a labourer during the construction of Chandigarh, and appalled by the waste, started assembling small collections of roughly-made sculptures in the woods behind the city. When his by-then huge assortment was discovered some fifteen years later(!), it was recognised as the work of eccentric genius that it was, and was converted into a national monument (and monumental tourist attraction, if the number of screaming Indian sightseers is anything to go by).


Junkyard Animals (1)

Junkyard Animals (2)

Higher!


Before leaving, I visited the other Famous Thing in Chandigarh, Le Corbusier's massive Open Hand statue. Although this appears in every tourist brochure for the city, it is remarkably difficult to access. I had to deal with two different sets of armed guards, and eventually located the sculpture sprouting from a pit behind some deserted soccer fields.


Self-Portrait with Open Hand


Apparently the sculpture is symbolic (of what, I'm not entirely sure). I thought, well, two can play at that game, so I took a symbolic piss at the base of the sculpture, went back for my bag, and bailed for the train station. After watching an apparently suicidal kid hauled off the tracks by his shouting friends, I boarded my train and settled in for the trip. The following is a direct extract from my diary, as written that evening:

The Chandigarh-Jaipur Special
31st December 2008, 10:10PM IST

The khaana- and chai-wallahs are traversing the train. We've pulled into Ambala Cantt. Junction, after a quick journey south from Chandigarh.

I'm sitting writing this in an upper berth, two compartments into the carriage, pausing to take the occasional nip from a small bottle of McDowell's Celebration No. 1 XXX Rum. Two shawl-wrapped labourers are playing cards and smoking
beedies below me, and a pair of young, poor-looking guys are sandwiched into two of the three berths across the aisle.

This train is reasonably well-maintained, and the carriage is clean (at least, by 2nd Class Sleeper standards). I haven't seen a single cockroach yet, and only evidence of mice. It's full to the brim, too, but that won't be a problem until after the lights-out consensus is reached. My guess is ten to fifteen adenoidal snorers in this half of the carriage alone.

The whistle sounds somewhere up ahead of me, and the atmosphere suddenly changes. The
wallahs scramble to complete their transactions and get back onto the platform, colliding with the latecomers who are sprinting down the platform and jumping frantically for the footboards. Within a few moments the turbulence subsides, and we sway onwards into the night.

The blue vinyl of the seats glares beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. Somewhere, a mobile phone shrills loudly. I close my eyes and wonder where my friends are, so many miles away and so much nearer the dawn. I take another swig of the rum; it is spicy, sickly sweet, and brazenly potent. It tastes like adventure; it tastes like loneliness. It tastes like India.

I clamber down and gently ease my sleeping bag from under the head of one of the young men. He grunts and curls up against the wall, pulling his shawl tighter against the cold. I lay the bag out in the berth, and lock my daypack to the steel mesh separating me from the next compartment. It's awkward to sleep curled around it, but it would be more awkward to have it disappear into the night.

I curl up in the bag as the train slows for another station. I mime a lights-out? to one of the labourers. He grins at me, showing teeth stained red by
paan, and says something like "One more game, brother," in rapid-fire Hindi. I don't mind; the lights will go out soon enough. The rum I've drunk guarantees that I'll have no problems sleeping, even though the snoring has already begun. In ten hours, on the other side of darkness, I'll be in Jaipur.