I have grown so lazy. I have to spend an entire day pumping myself up to write e-mails. There are just so many things to tell and so many ways to fail to explain how incredible and incomprehensible my life in India is. Just know that nothing I do or say to relay my information will even come close to portraying the wonder of my ordinary, day-to-day existence in India. I have learned that in order to co-exist here, one must throw out all cultural norms, standards, and expectations. Nothing is ever unsurprising here and now, with just 3 weeks left, I am finally sad to think of leaving. That said, enjoy!
Stories from the Infamous Camel Mela in Pushkar
We left Thursday afternoon via government bus, crowded to what I thought was capacity, and sat for 3.5 hours, sharing sweat with our neighbors and breathing in the noxious fumes of the dusty, polluted Indian highways. What is perhaps the most fascinating about bus travel in India as a foreigner is that, most of the time, one is never 100% sure of where the bus will take them or where it will stop on the way. At the bus station, a chaotic crowd elbows and shoves towards the small ticket window and the man behind the window simply lists of possible cities of destination in quick succession, and you just hope to God that he hears you say “ha!” after the right one. After establishing a city and paying, he usually points in some direction and shouts a number, indicating which bus to climb aboard. Unfortunately, or fortunately for the adventurous, Indians have a tendency to mis-translate numbers, and so one must be vigilant in asking at least 3 more opinions. It is also very important to be quick in the transition from counter, to questioning, to boarding because buses leave very regularly to most big cities and no one is interested in waiting around. On the buses, though they have allotted assigned seats for customers who pay in advance, there really is no one to stop an entire Indian family or a grumpy Brahman man with a superiority complex from situating themselves/himself in your seat. Simply enough, punctuality is the name of the Indian bus game. Once aboard, ask a few of the people on the bus around you where the bus is going, just for good measure, and try not to panic as your bus takes strange dirt roads off the highway, drops off and picks up villagers, and then rejoins freeway traffic by pulling out in front of three camels and a semi truck.
After finally arriving in Pushkar at 7pm, we hopped off the bus at its first stop. Getting off, we were mobbed by holy men and people who wanted to “help” us find our way. Like so often in India, we had no idea where we were, or in which direction to go to reach the “Krishna Inn.” I suppose it was our fault, we were dumb enough to make a reservation at a hotel that has the same name as almost every other place and person in India. Thus, a note to all who travel in India: avoid reserving a room at anything with the name “Krishna” at all costs, because hours later, you will finally discover that it is the “Krishna Guest House,” not the “Krishna Inn”, “Krishna Hotel”, “Krishna Motel,” “Krishna Hostel,” “Krishna Garden House,” or anything else “Krishna.” After we falling victim to yet another false priest (reference my last e-mail,) asked at least five people their suggestions on which direction to go, we somehow ended up at our “guest house.” It was really quite nice—for $13 a night. There was a hybrid Western-Squat toilet that incorporated the needs of the West with the functionality of the East: a toilet seat that was extra wide for standing on, also wide enough to sit on, and stood 3 feet off the ground just like home. I spent most of my time squatting to avoid touching the infrequently cleaned seat, all the time praying for good balance lest I fall 3 feet to my death on the hard marble floor.
After settling in at the Krishna, we left again to explore the city. While exploring, we decided to partake in all activities we were recommended to avoid during our time in Pushkar. We let our cheap traveler sides get the better of us and began by consuming an unhealthy amount of street food. They key to eating street food safely with an American digestive tract is to be sure that the food is recently made, is still hot, and was served without flies on it. Our food was hours old, cold, and had been sitting on a plate in the street, collecting fumes, dust and more insects than I care to remember. Somehow though, it was delicious. We had masala potato soup, pourris (fried chapatis), samosas, naan, and vegetables, and jelebis (a very strange fried dessert,) all for $1.50. For some reason, at the time, spending as little money as possible seemed infinitely more important that staying out of the hospital and since I haven't been sick yet, I felt like testing the waters.
The rest of that evening, and actually much of this weekend, I will have to relate in person, when I am home safely and can’t receive reprimanding e-mails. The next morning, we woke up and made our way down to the camel fairgrounds. The streets had become crowded and hectic over night and it took almost an hour to walk the one-kilometer to the fairground. It was fascinating people-watching though. Because the fair occurs in conjunction with the Hindu pilgrimage to Pushkar Lake, the majority of the crowd was from the rural villages and women wore the brightest color combinations, bangles all the way up their arms, and nose rings that took up most of their faces and were held up to by chains that connected to their ears. The men wore the traditional diaper pants (I don’t know the real name) and brilliantly colored turbans on their heads. Families all traveled in groups, the women in the front and the men at the back, and carried all of their belongings (including bedding, food for a week, and campfire-making gear) on their heads. Interestingly, the young women carried nothing. It seemed that as the women got older, their loads became heavier and I saw women pushing 90 years old carrying bags twice their size on their heads. These old ladies are fighters, let me tell you. When the crowds got too thick to move, elbows start flying and people begin yelling and shoving. Most of the time, I would turn around to see if I was in someone’s way and see a tiny old lady pushing and screaming her way into my kidneys, which were just about level with her eyes. When we did arrive at the fairgrounds, we saw hundreds of camels. Unfortunately, my photos don’t really portray the scene well, but it was amazing. There were black camels, tan camels, reddish camels, hairy camels, shaved camels, all kinds, and all decorated with fancy jewelry in their ears and pierced noses. Some had even had tattoos.
Walking across the fairground, the vendors were adamant, on the verge of violet, and poked, prodded and grabbed at us to buy their products or sign up for a camel ride across the mela. Everywhere there were people cooking, sleeping, smoking, selling things, or just sitting back and relaxing. Unfortunately, we missed many of the big events of the fair because we had gotten the wrong schedule of events. We did however make it in time for the closing ceremonies and one of the evening dances. The dance was held in the fair’s main stadium, which probably sat around 100,000 people in the seats and another few thousand in the arena. When we arrived, the entire place was nearly full and there was a mob of angry Indians outside yelling and pushing, trying to get in. Fighting our way to the front of the crowd at the entrance, a security guard seemed to notice our white skin and grabbed us by the arms to pull us through. He then led us to roped-off section made up of the front rows that was reserved for upper caste Indians and anyone with white skin. As horrifying as it was to allow myself to be segregated, as I looked back at the sea of Indian faces behind me, sitting on each other’s laps, fighting to see, and harassing the police officers that beat them back with sticks, I was thankful for my peaceful seat among the culture-shocked tourists. The next day was the true adventure. The crowds were unbelievable, moving was impossible, and we experienced India in a way few people ever have to opportunity to. BUT, because everyone is complaining about the length of my notes, I will save those stories for the next one. If you are picking and choosing which to read though, read the next one. ☺ I will try my best to write it before I leave for the Himalayas tomorrow!
