I have never experienced anything quite like our desert mission. While most other travellers I met were riding romantically off into the sunset on camels to sleep under the stars, I squashed into the back of a 4WD with 8 people, to experience a little of the reality of a Rajasthani musician's life.
An hour early and without warning, Pempo appeared at my guest house and Stephan (the French morchand guy - the correct spelling for the mouth harp, that is not called marjong!) warmly greeted him. It was nice to know that all my new friends in fact know each other, funny how small a world it really is. Even here, amongst untold gazillions of people. Though of course Jaisalmer is a small city in relation to Jaipur and Delhi.
I spent an hour on the Khan rooftop in Kalakar (the artists' colony) with Chugge and Kheta's wives, their and Saleem's mother and a gorgeous gaggle of children being stared and laughed at. The little girls were irresistible and one of them a sharp character, she expertly lead me around the house and suggested a donation at their shrine then sniffed out the pens and books I'd bought for the trip. I relented and there was much delight as they were handed out.
The men were dressed in white, Pempo's kurta was embroidered and he carried a fine white coat with gold buttons, which he fussed over in the car to ensure it wasn't crushed. Rajasthani men take a lot of care with their appearance, all wear studs in their ears (preferably gold and diamonds) and look after their hair with the help of various oils. After a lot of giggling in the back seat with the two dancing girls (Sonam with her tiny baby and sister Indra), the car settled into its motion with local folk music blaring. About an hour into the journey, we detoured to Chandan village where Pempo's family were based (though his wife and children are in another village with her parents) and soon I was drinking tea in a front yard, absolutely surrounded by a small army of kids with entrancing eyes and shy smiles. This was a very basic setting and I wished I knew more Hindi as noone spoke English. Pempo and the men all hung out on the street (well the dusty track) in front of the house, so they could greet everyone who wandered by. There seemed to be no rush at all.
I'm not sure how long I lasted with the kids crawling all over me, but when I went out to get my supply of chocolates and pens, I found that the car had disappeared. So Pempo's brother zoomed us in his jeep and I collected my loot to distribute. Each pen and crayon was whipped out of my hand with ferocity. Luckily Pempo came to my rescue, as it was getting a touch overwhelming, and we continued our journey to Mirvana Resort. The ladies were now in costume, Indra in red and Sonam in back, covered in intricate embroidery, mirrors, shells and jewels.
Post arrival, I found myself in a tiny little back room, watching a young man transform himself into a female dancer with wig, full make-up and jewels galore. Noone spoke English, but I was warmly welcomed as part of the troupe. The men wrapped their heads with coloured scarves that transformed into regal turbans. As we all walked to the event where they were to perform, Pempo told me that I was welcome to sit with the guests or with them. Of course, I wanted to sit with my friends, but the Indian party-goers couldn't believe that a Westerner was happy on a rug with a bunch of musicians. They all came racing over and wanted to take photos and sit with me, talk to me, it was intense as the group were trying to perform. Not for the first time here, I cursed my light-bulb hair and skin.
The music began to take hold in tandem with the huge amounts of whiskey the revellers were guzzling. With Pempo busy singing, Sonam decided now was the time to tell me how hard her life was and that she was in desperate need of money. With her baby suckling in between dances, I could feel the post dance breathlessness when she, her sister or the ladyboy re-joined our crowded mat. They put so much into their dances and had to smile widely while the party-goers tried to join in. I had to fight hard to remain on the mat, so many of the guests invited me (well tried to pull me up) to dance with them. Not something I fancied doing at all. They were getting increasingly belligerent and drunk, banging on the group's drums and ordering more dancing from the girls. The baby was being thrown around between us all at an alarming rate.
Some of the musicians split off to a separate party and with relief, I followed Pempo to where a bunch of westerners were being entertained in a grassy enclave. I had been sitting down for hours, so finally relented and attempted some dodgy dance moves around the fire at this much more sober gathering - definitely more un-co-ordinated than the drunk Indians, but the mellow vibe was welcome.
After the music ended, I was lead into various random rooms where the men were now indulging in rum and whiskey. I was inside the heart of the workers quarters, in places where it felt as though few travellers or indeed women had been. I had no desire to drink hard liquor with the men, so was taken back to help the ladies de-robe. I ended up in the corner of a yard with a gaggle of the hotel workers. A lovely family insisted on building up a fire, pulling a special seat close for me (they all sat on the ground) and served me a very spicy but delicious dinner. I attempted to rinse my hands (had shaken SO many since the journey began) and ate local style as they watched closely, then kept trying to feed me more and more. I gave them chocolates and some cashew nuts, plus the last packet of crayons that were left for their daughter as they wouldn't let me pay, even though it was clear that they were dirt poor. They were proud to be hosts and I hope I made the right decision letting them.
Amidst the snoring, rooster crows and goat scuffling that populated my sleep, I did manage to drift off. But must admit to being seriously relieved when I made it back to my guest house. That delicious moment when you lock the door, collapse on the bed and just bask in the moment, it's something very special. Luckily there were some power outages, (the only solution to the stone-saw), so I did manage to get some more sleep before yet another 12 hour bus journey followed, but this time I had a sleeper.
The bus to Pushkar must have been taking people into the heart of Kumbh Mela as it was packed to the rafters and I could hear people mentioning the name of this holy festival as we made our way across the rough terrain. I was very happy to have a sleeper, as I was somewhat protected from the men (though some felt it their right to push open my door and stare in - they got short shrift I can tell you) and the smoking, farting, burping and loud conversations that populated the trip.
I arrived at 3am in Pushkar and found my hotel by foot as the guy who was supposed to pick me up, didn't materialise on the dusty roadside. Phone calls went unanswered, so I jiggled the locks and made my way inside the Paramount Palace. It took a lot to wake up one of the guys, but I finally managed it and soon entered a brightly painted room and then a bizzare dream land. I won't bore you with the details, but basically there was a very odd bunch of westerners in India for some sort of convention. There were some high profile Australians and what was rumoured was that there was one important person who was going to commit an act of terrorism.
No idea why I was brought into this situation, but I was investigating the various suspects and I wish I could remember all the different characters. But I remember clearly that everyone discounted Paul Hogan (Mr. Crocodile Dundee) because he is so beloved, but I was convinced that he was who we should be targeting. It's all a bit hazy now, but safe to say I was absolutely correct and naughty Paul was caught with a bunch of dodgy people and incriminating evidence.
So Pushkar is a hippie paradise. It surrounds a lake and has a lazy, peaceful pace to it. I feel more relaxed than I have since I left Australia. I am recharging the batteries and am weighing up my next move. There is a place called Rishikesh that is in the north, that I am very tempted to visit. It would mean skipping Bundi and Udaipur, but slightly depends on train availability, as I'm not sure I can handle another bus trip. There is much to see in Pushkar, but I don't want to get stuck here and I've not got long to go for my trip.
Plus Rishikesh is on the Ganges and is full of yoga and meditation places, so it might be the perfect ending to an incredible trip. Also, it was one of the 3 holy cities for the Kumbh Mela last time and isn't too far from Allalahbad, so I can imagine it would be a way of dipping into that incredible gathering if I'm not going to make it all the way to the heart of it. We'll see.
For now, shanti, shanti.
Lx
An hour early and without warning, Pempo appeared at my guest house and Stephan (the French morchand guy - the correct spelling for the mouth harp, that is not called marjong!) warmly greeted him. It was nice to know that all my new friends in fact know each other, funny how small a world it really is. Even here, amongst untold gazillions of people. Though of course Jaisalmer is a small city in relation to Jaipur and Delhi.
I spent an hour on the Khan rooftop in Kalakar (the artists' colony) with Chugge and Kheta's wives, their and Saleem's mother and a gorgeous gaggle of children being stared and laughed at. The little girls were irresistible and one of them a sharp character, she expertly lead me around the house and suggested a donation at their shrine then sniffed out the pens and books I'd bought for the trip. I relented and there was much delight as they were handed out.
The men were dressed in white, Pempo's kurta was embroidered and he carried a fine white coat with gold buttons, which he fussed over in the car to ensure it wasn't crushed. Rajasthani men take a lot of care with their appearance, all wear studs in their ears (preferably gold and diamonds) and look after their hair with the help of various oils. After a lot of giggling in the back seat with the two dancing girls (Sonam with her tiny baby and sister Indra), the car settled into its motion with local folk music blaring. About an hour into the journey, we detoured to Chandan village where Pempo's family were based (though his wife and children are in another village with her parents) and soon I was drinking tea in a front yard, absolutely surrounded by a small army of kids with entrancing eyes and shy smiles. This was a very basic setting and I wished I knew more Hindi as noone spoke English. Pempo and the men all hung out on the street (well the dusty track) in front of the house, so they could greet everyone who wandered by. There seemed to be no rush at all.
I'm not sure how long I lasted with the kids crawling all over me, but when I went out to get my supply of chocolates and pens, I found that the car had disappeared. So Pempo's brother zoomed us in his jeep and I collected my loot to distribute. Each pen and crayon was whipped out of my hand with ferocity. Luckily Pempo came to my rescue, as it was getting a touch overwhelming, and we continued our journey to Mirvana Resort. The ladies were now in costume, Indra in red and Sonam in back, covered in intricate embroidery, mirrors, shells and jewels.
Post arrival, I found myself in a tiny little back room, watching a young man transform himself into a female dancer with wig, full make-up and jewels galore. Noone spoke English, but I was warmly welcomed as part of the troupe. The men wrapped their heads with coloured scarves that transformed into regal turbans. As we all walked to the event where they were to perform, Pempo told me that I was welcome to sit with the guests or with them. Of course, I wanted to sit with my friends, but the Indian party-goers couldn't believe that a Westerner was happy on a rug with a bunch of musicians. They all came racing over and wanted to take photos and sit with me, talk to me, it was intense as the group were trying to perform. Not for the first time here, I cursed my light-bulb hair and skin.
The music began to take hold in tandem with the huge amounts of whiskey the revellers were guzzling. With Pempo busy singing, Sonam decided now was the time to tell me how hard her life was and that she was in desperate need of money. With her baby suckling in between dances, I could feel the post dance breathlessness when she, her sister or the ladyboy re-joined our crowded mat. They put so much into their dances and had to smile widely while the party-goers tried to join in. I had to fight hard to remain on the mat, so many of the guests invited me (well tried to pull me up) to dance with them. Not something I fancied doing at all. They were getting increasingly belligerent and drunk, banging on the group's drums and ordering more dancing from the girls. The baby was being thrown around between us all at an alarming rate.
Some of the musicians split off to a separate party and with relief, I followed Pempo to where a bunch of westerners were being entertained in a grassy enclave. I had been sitting down for hours, so finally relented and attempted some dodgy dance moves around the fire at this much more sober gathering - definitely more un-co-ordinated than the drunk Indians, but the mellow vibe was welcome.
After the music ended, I was lead into various random rooms where the men were now indulging in rum and whiskey. I was inside the heart of the workers quarters, in places where it felt as though few travellers or indeed women had been. I had no desire to drink hard liquor with the men, so was taken back to help the ladies de-robe. I ended up in the corner of a yard with a gaggle of the hotel workers. A lovely family insisted on building up a fire, pulling a special seat close for me (they all sat on the ground) and served me a very spicy but delicious dinner. I attempted to rinse my hands (had shaken SO many since the journey began) and ate local style as they watched closely, then kept trying to feed me more and more. I gave them chocolates and some cashew nuts, plus the last packet of crayons that were left for their daughter as they wouldn't let me pay, even though it was clear that they were dirt poor. They were proud to be hosts and I hope I made the right decision letting them.
Amidst the snoring, rooster crows and goat scuffling that populated my sleep, I did manage to drift off. But must admit to being seriously relieved when I made it back to my guest house. That delicious moment when you lock the door, collapse on the bed and just bask in the moment, it's something very special. Luckily there were some power outages, (the only solution to the stone-saw), so I did manage to get some more sleep before yet another 12 hour bus journey followed, but this time I had a sleeper.
The bus to Pushkar must have been taking people into the heart of Kumbh Mela as it was packed to the rafters and I could hear people mentioning the name of this holy festival as we made our way across the rough terrain. I was very happy to have a sleeper, as I was somewhat protected from the men (though some felt it their right to push open my door and stare in - they got short shrift I can tell you) and the smoking, farting, burping and loud conversations that populated the trip.
I arrived at 3am in Pushkar and found my hotel by foot as the guy who was supposed to pick me up, didn't materialise on the dusty roadside. Phone calls went unanswered, so I jiggled the locks and made my way inside the Paramount Palace. It took a lot to wake up one of the guys, but I finally managed it and soon entered a brightly painted room and then a bizzare dream land. I won't bore you with the details, but basically there was a very odd bunch of westerners in India for some sort of convention. There were some high profile Australians and what was rumoured was that there was one important person who was going to commit an act of terrorism.
No idea why I was brought into this situation, but I was investigating the various suspects and I wish I could remember all the different characters. But I remember clearly that everyone discounted Paul Hogan (Mr. Crocodile Dundee) because he is so beloved, but I was convinced that he was who we should be targeting. It's all a bit hazy now, but safe to say I was absolutely correct and naughty Paul was caught with a bunch of dodgy people and incriminating evidence.
So Pushkar is a hippie paradise. It surrounds a lake and has a lazy, peaceful pace to it. I feel more relaxed than I have since I left Australia. I am recharging the batteries and am weighing up my next move. There is a place called Rishikesh that is in the north, that I am very tempted to visit. It would mean skipping Bundi and Udaipur, but slightly depends on train availability, as I'm not sure I can handle another bus trip. There is much to see in Pushkar, but I don't want to get stuck here and I've not got long to go for my trip.
Plus Rishikesh is on the Ganges and is full of yoga and meditation places, so it might be the perfect ending to an incredible trip. Also, it was one of the 3 holy cities for the Kumbh Mela last time and isn't too far from Allalahbad, so I can imagine it would be a way of dipping into that incredible gathering if I'm not going to make it all the way to the heart of it. We'll see.
For now, shanti, shanti.
Lx
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