After some delirious web searching at Diggi, whilst waiting for my midnight bus and fending off a very strange cardiologist from Jodhpur, I managed to choose the noisiest, dustiest, craziest, cheapest guest house in Jaisalmer. The online reviews were rapturous about the rooftop and food and there’s nothing like that combination to attract interesting people. And Dylan Guest House has not disappointed.
I phoned Rajiv whilst still in Jaipur, and his response to whether they had a spare room for me the next day was, “Why not? No problem mate!” Cripes what a bus trip, I settled into a fabulous seat only to be kicked out by a tiresome young man, but then found a good place next to a female (always a boon in India) who got off at Jodphur, so I stretched out somewhat and fell in and out of a kind of slumber as the bus bumped, grinded, skidded and hooted its way across Rajasthan.
At one point as the sun was threatening to rise, I peeked out from under my moccasin eye shades (Emirates specials care of Dad and Mum's blow up pillow have been a godsend) to sight a temple covered in electric blue peacocks surrounded by cows, goats and desert. It took me a few seconds to realise what planet I was on and why I was getting such a close up, slow motion view – the bus was doing a u-turn. When less than a minute along the road, the bus did another u-turn I simply pulled my shades back over my tired eyes.
As so often happens here, directions and explanations are completely misheard and understood, so Rajiv thought I was at the railway station (I said and texted that we'd just passed it!) and then went to a different bus station, so I battled through the touts and hid under my scarf waiting for him. Following the seventh phone call, I did lose my cool a bit. Turns out there’s more than one bus station in Jaisalmer and we were at the government one, despite being on a private Volvo bus (which sounds much fancier than it is!). Finally Rajiv appeared and I had to balance my bags on the back of his motorbike (thank god I brought my back pack) as we zoomed around hair-pin bends, dodging the usual people, cows, dogs, goats and even some pigs, as well as all manner of vehicles.
It was a steep climb to the roof, but I was met with tea by Abdul who then cooked me a delicious lunch. I think I’d only managed a banana and some cashews on the bus trip, so I was famished. Soon I was washing the dust off and collapsing into a clean bed. Bliss. The simplest pleasurse are amplified here without exception. Just having toilet paper and soap to use, my what luxuries. Hot water, who needs it, I had enough of that in Jaipur!
I woke to what has quickly become a familiar noise – a saw cutting through stone. In fact that noise has woken me every morning. Throw into the mix that it's the peak of wedding season and that hordes of people feel the need to dance past our windows with speakers blaring music at all hours, I must say uninterrupted sleep has been rare, but most of my friends have kids, so hey ho I know I shouldn't complain. I managed to to roll over a few times my first morning and spent some time writing on the rooftop.
The previous night, I had watched the sun set over the fort and had found a lovely restaurant (Om) for dinner where I was sadly the only customer, for them, not for me as I adored the quiet. Well I say quiet, but there were a bunch of very insistent kids shouting at me for ages from above, who I chose to ignore. There’s only so many times a day that you can say your name, your country, whether you’re married, have any children, your occupation etc. I am as polite as I possibly can be, most of the time, but it does wear you down.
Hankering for a swim, as it’s warmer here in the desert, I had been told about an expensive hotel with a nice pool that you can visit for 200rupees (almost AU$4). Rajiv has left the wonderful Abdul in charge of Dylan, having absconded to his cousin's wedding in Jodphur, and Abdul suggested I try another fancy hotel much closer to us. Set in a gorgeous Haveli (old style houses with intricate wood and stone work that are really stunning), I found a rather small pool in a gorgeous setting but with two very snooty looking guests for which a stern Indian wanted to charge me 400rupees. So I set off on foot to find Gorbandh Palace instead. As luck would have it, I wandered in the right direction. It felt so good to stretch my legs and even better when I found the hotel and with the entire swimming pool to myself, (double the size of Mandir Palace), I tingled with delight as I plunged into the water. I didn't even mind that there were bound to have been many pairs of eyes watching my white, wobbly body descend and ascend. I was reborn.
With only a cold shower and no hairdryer to be found back at Dylan, I sought out a tiny little hairdresser where three women were hard at work on a tiny mezzanine above a clothes shop with no windows and piles of boxes everywhere. They were most surprised to see me and had no idea how to deal with my hair. Well, they washed it a-ok (I had to flip my head upside down and squat over a sink), but when I asked for conditioner they were at a loss to find any. One girl ran out and bought some, while another tried to comb my bird's nest, which I explained was impossible to achieve without conditioner. I put it in then combed it myself to show them, then the girl insisted on rinsing it out (only slightly) in cold water. Her hair drying skills were laughable. I had to force myself not to show them how to do it, I reminded myself of the mantra that it's not my country and even though my hair was greasy and sopping wet still, I was sure it would be ok.
Then the girl managed to get a small, wiry little brush so matted into my hair that it then took four different people over half an hour to extract. They had to chop off the teeth of the brush with razor blades while they all giggled and customers stared. I attempted to meditate but finally, when it was clear the brush was really stuck, the rotund owner was called in to help out. Then I really was surrounded. By then, I think there were five customers and five employees all around me in a space smaller than most kitchens. I took lots of deep breaths, smiled and laughed along, as there was nothing for it. But after a while, I felt claustrophobic and my head started hurting, so I pushed it along a bit. When the brush finally came free, my oh my it was so liberating. I had been convinced that they were going to have to cut it out and was preparing for the worst. There was a lot of my hair still on the brush and all over the floor and me, but what's a gal gonna do?
Back at Dylan, Penpo came to pick me up in a rick and take me to the Kalakar district (artist colony) for a music session with Chugge’s little brother Saleem. A brilliant evening where I listened to beautiful music for hours. What a welcome they gave me. The harmonium Saleem played hails from Pakistan and Penpo plucked his traditional guitar, while I attempted to learn the clackers (as I call them) at I was hopeless. Saleem encouraged me though. They sang Sufi, Muslim, Hindu and Pakistani songs with a healthy dose of Rajasthani folk music thrown in. After many hours of this, some delicious dal, chilli curd and chapattis appeared (the women were upstairs?) and I tucked in with my hands, local style.
Chugge (a friend from Jaipur) and Kheta (middle brother) both called from their various locations to check that I was being taken care of. The conversations were hilarious as noone really speaks much English, but music is the perfect communication tool. Penpo’s brother-in-law joined and picked up a drum as I clapped and hummed along as best I could. Music is the soul of any country and I am so honoured to have been invited to a desert village tomorrow for a family musical performance. I rang my English friend Christine today, who manages Chugge and his group of Rajasthani musicians and she urged me to join them. We’re going to meet up in Pushkar next week so I can tell her all about it. She assures me that this sort of invitation and trip to their village is really what India is all about. I have been buying pens and chocolates for the kids on her advice today. I must say I wish she was here, but I know I will be safe. Life is to be lived.
After Saleem and Penpo walked me back to my guest house, I joined an interesting group of Frenchies on the rooftop. There were some Aussie and American kids playing western music on one side, but I sat at a table with Stefan and his friend, while Nathan a Sri Lankan therapist flitted between the two parties. Would you believe that Stefan has known Chugge for 15 years and he is the one who introduced him to this incredible mouth harp, which I keep calling marjong but that is wrong - I'll find out the correct term.
Saleem had not an hour before, been telling me that Chugge was the first person to perform with this harp in India and that only a very select few know about it. It's an ancient instrument that is widespread, apparently in Japan, Asia, Laos, Burma and some other countries. I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I sat down and Stefan had about 15 of them spread on the table in front of him. He’s teaching Nathan to play and was showing him the different types. I enjoyed their demonstrations, but I must say that they had nothing on Saleem. He plays it expertly (as of course does Chugge) but Saleem’s voice blew me away. He is only 19 but is intensely passionate about his music. He is getting married in 2 months to a girl he’s never met. Incredible. Tradition I know, but somehow it’s still a staggering concept.
I was supposed to go back to their house today and learn the clackers a bit more, (Stefan gave me some pointers last night as he also had a pair in his bag), but I woke up feeling slightly dusty, to drums and then the ear-splitting stone saw soundtrack. I felt a strong urge to go to the lake. When I texted Penpo to say this, he insisted that I would feel better if I went to the house and played music. Bless him, he may have been right, but I wanted to see the Gadisar Lake and I made the right choice. The sun broke through the hazy morn and the pale stone sparkled in a golden light. It felt as though I was met by a mini city of Benares. It is an incredibly beautiful lake, very clean for India (it used to be the source of all water for Jaisalmer until wells came along, so it's revered and respected) and full of what look like massive eels which visitors love to feed. The stone carvings and temples are truly stunning. I had to beat off various “guides” and beggars, so made my way around the lake to find some space. I walked on past the stone steps and decided to follow a dusty path towards a temple on the other side. Again, I ignored the shouts of the Indians on pedlos who were trying to follow me, but luckily I am a fast walker and those thing are cumbersome.
At the temple, I found utter peace and serenity. Three men were going about their usual morning routines, one was a priest, another was grinding bhang, while a man who spoke good English welcomed me. He said that the priest had invited to join in his mantras, his prayers, as very few people venture to this temple (particularly tourists) so there must be a reason I had come. I was instructed to think about what it is that I want most in life and he would include me in his daily prayers. I spent a wonderful hour entranced by all that surrounded me. Memories of Benares (Varanassi) came flooding back as I joined in the pooja at Hinhlaj Temple, which is connected with the Sing Temple in Pakistan. I had stepped back in time, the only sign of modern life was one creaky old motorbike that was pootling around dropping an old man off at his home. I will never forget that temple, it resurrected me when I was in need.
So now, to pack, to say goodbye to new friends, to dream of the desert to come tomorrow.
To give thanks to India. To life.
Lx
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