I seem to be moving further towards the rim of the sub-continent, sliding south into the sea. I began in Rajasthan, central, not the centre but close enough to the centre of the western part of this vast country to be landlocked; sea, massive mountain ranges and desert of sand or salt are it's boundaries. I'm due to arrive on the watery rim sometime tomorrow after nine hours couped up in a box on a sleeper coach not long enough to stretch out in.
By the time I arrive in Dwarka, birthplace of Gandhi and the more recently discovered site of Krishna's city before it was consumed by the sea. On record the town have been consumed by the sea five times. I hope my luck lasts. Once again a chapter ends and another begins.
Bhuj is a most interesting place and now Im departing I feel I should have stayed longer. I came to see for myself the astonishingly beautiful handiwork of the weavers and embroiderers of rural Kutchch, tribes of farmers and goat herders, fiercely proud of the design and workwomanship that defines a tribe. Some of this work, particularly of the Rabari tribe is astonishing in its conception. When talking to an 'expert (a man) he confirmed what I suspected that Rabari women imbibe substances when the embroiderer embroiders a narrative, otherwise how else could she so creatively interpret everyday tasks and objects like flowers, carrying goods on their heads and sweeping the floor. I suspect the 'song-lines' of their work has a relative in Aboriginal cultures
Together with travel friends, Anna and Vittor from Lisbon and Anie from Lyon we travelled north by car to visit the villages of Sumerasa, Bhirendiara, Kavda. We were never far from a military checkpoint, a reminder of the continuing tensions between India and Pakistan, which is just a few km's away to the north and east.
In the villages we were following a now established routine of being invited into the conical thatched roof houses with abstract painted walls and then to the 'shop' where some pretty aggressive selling went on; the women very much in control. We didn't buy and the charm was turned off, but we were encouraged to photograph at will. It's an inevitable sign of the times and by no means the case that the villagers have been totally commercialised; they continue to wear traditional costumes going about their daily work and are fiercely proud of their traditions.
In the far north of Kutchch we noticed a distinct change in the dress of men; not confined to boring shirts and trousers of the mainstream, most of the men in this area wear deep blue, green, lime, chocolate coloured tunics, long cortas, with matching pyjama pants and dashingly coloured loose scarves to protect against the dust and sand of this arid region. We were going too fast to photograph from the car. Policemen at the control points sport wicked moustaches; it's the law.
Before retracing our steps, we visited Kalo Dungar, an imposing mountain of 500m giving us a breathtaking panoramic view of the Great Rann of Kutchch, which for me ranks with the Straights of Hormoos in Oman as one of the works most exotic names. For zillions of square km this massive sea of salt stretches to infinity, home to Great Bustards, flamingos, wild assess and rare vultures.
Bhuj, the town is, unbelievably scruffy but honest. Its a working town of trucks and bazaars. There are two excellent museums, the quirky and precious Palace of Mirrors and the Museum of Kutchch, small yet displaying the full breadth of craft skills, particularly textiles, which make this area so fascinating.
In contrast to our freelance visit to the villages, on my last day I discovered a 'walled city' of craft. Twenty years or so ago, the Gujarati Government built a town of houses, parks and temples on the outskirts of Bhuj and persuaded traditional knife makers, carvers, weavers and of course embroiderere to establish communities based on tribe and craft. It's a bit prescriptive but it works. My unofficial guide, an auto-rickshaw driver, did his best to tell me about the experiment. We stopped a couple if times, had chai and chatted but his English was so difficult to grasp and his enthusiasm so irrepressible that I got no more than 10% of his information, said OK to 40% and gave up on the rest. But, the experience was well worth the effort. Such was his generous spirit, that he stopped to give a lift to the sweetest old woman wearing several kilos of gold who needed to get to her temple in a hurry. (see her visage below)
Here's a thought.
I had expected to be overwhelmed by the smells of India, yet when I reflect on many experiences, smell doesn't feature at all. This has been confirmed by several other travels I have chatted with. Yes, you can smell both sweet and foul, but it's a rare experience. Within 100m of where I sit, around the corner from the bazaar, is a farmyard about a big as my living room at home, where 6 cows munch cast-off veg, shit and get milked. This stinks for obvious reasons. Drains, piles of litter, outdoor latrines and clogged drains by and large do not register up my nose. It's just an idea that this might be because most of the India I have experienced, including dogs and cows, is vegetarian. Mmmmm, there's a thought.
