Although it’s a few years since I visited the huge Little Rann of Kutch (staying at The Royal Safari Campwhen it was 18 months old) my memories of staying there are still vivid and I often tell people to put Gujarat on their bucket-list.
We enter the ‘camp’ through a traditional red arch and into the facilities by huge one hundred-year old doors. Among some of the fabulous pieces of furniture is a carved wooden chest which, when I ask, I’m told “this is a family heirloom. It was carved from one piece of wood: my father-in-law gave it to us.” Still having my hand-written notes and notebooks is a great resource!
Covering nearly 5000 sq. km, the Little Rann of Kutch is a unique landscape and includes an official Sanctuary to the beautiful wild ass. Related to the zebra, this is the world’s last population of these ass.
Believed to once been a shallow sea, we take a tour of the bare surface of dark silt, encrusted with salts which evidently transforms into a spectacular coastal wetland after the rains and is considered to be a transitional area between marine and terrestrial ecosystems. In the monsoon, it gets flooded for about a month. With no, or little, vegetation, except on the fringes, the ground-cover which requires little water, is dominated by short-living plants.
The land is so arid, I hope we’re not lost!
the tracks change every year after the floods
the ground is drying fast
lack of water
we ask locals the way, and offer water to them
the land is spongy and featureless
Note: it was while we were here that fellow travel writer Jon Haggins got the tittle for his book, Chasing Wild Ass
Until I went to Gujarat, India, I did not realise how big birding was in the world – as well as birding blogs, see a blog I wrote about Desert Coursers the resort at Zainabad, Gujarat, India where I stayed a few days.
Guards, in crisp khaki uniforms, insist I cannot go into the palace. They do not believe Prince Shivaji Rao Holkar is really expecting someone like me – after all, I’ve arrived on foot, tired and dusty, carrying a backpack. Royal guests usually arrive by private plane and taxi.
Twenty–two generations ago, Maharani Ahilya Bai Holkar of Indore, the celebrated Indian Queen renowned for her piety, charity, and statecraft, built a fort at Maheshwar on the banks of the holy Narmada River. Now her direct descendant, Prince Richard, son of the last Maharaja of Indore, hosts a few people in the restored palace and, when I finally get past the guards, I too become one of those royal guests.
With its whitewashed walls and wooden beams, it is hard to imagine it as he saw it when he returned from France. Several decades of bat droppings and dust covered everything and chipmunks and snakes were living in its decaying walls. Restoring one room at a time, and replanting the gardens in traditional style, has been a long process: the result, fantastic.
Arriving by way of a 36-hour train trip, then two buses and a 2 km walk, has been challenging. Inadvertently leaving my guidebook on the train, when it finally arrived at 5am, I was relying on memory of a quick read to find my way.
On the first bus, an irate, moustached man insists the driver has given me his seat and I should sit in the back. Not wanting to get nauseous, and not able to change his determination that I should move, I move right off the bus and find another where I can sit near the front.
Travelling over a long hilly part of the road, on a hairpin bend, the bus suddenly changes to driving on the right-hand side the road. Luckily so does all the other transport too. Cars, taxis, buses and trucks all display images of the one of the pantheon of Hindu divinities, the amorous Krishna, bloodthirsty Kali, or the elephant-headed Ganesh – they seem to protect the vehicles, and me too, and I’m soon safely in Maheshwar, Madhya Pradesh – the very heart of India – physically and culturally.
Next morning, from the 300-year old Ghats below the palace walls, I hear a steady plop, plop, plopping sound. When I look I see it’s from women washing their clothes, many using wooden paddles to beat them clean. From the breakfast terrace, the views down to the ghats and the river that runs east to west, means the sunrise and sunset are spectacular.
Maheshwar is seeped in rhythms and traditions – its two favourite and biggest festivals are Shivratri and Muharram. Fortuitously I’ve arrived in this small town of some 20,000 in time for Muharram. “It’s the biggest day in our Maheshwar calendar,” the prince tells me.
It has been said that where the holy Narmada flows only Shiva is worshiped – for he is the only god who has the tranquilly to calm her. However once a year, locals, no matter their religion, commemorate the martyrdom of Prophet Mohammed’s grandson Hussein who was killed in the Battle of Karbala in AD 680. The prophet’s son-in-law Ali, and Ali’s elder son Hassan, are also remembered during this period as having suffered and died for righteous causes.
It seemed the entire town turns out watch both Hindu and Muslims carry tazias (replicas of the martyr’s tombs) through the streets before sinking them in the river.
“In most places all over the world this is a time of mourning, but we celebrate them as martyred saints too. They are holy men who died for truth and we mourn their deaths too,” a Hindu man tells me.
It’s taken a month to build the palace tazia: these replicas of the martyr’s tombs take on various shapes and sizes. Many have a pari, an angel, on the front, representing the angel who aided the martyr’s ascent to heaven.
Men cut intricate designs into white paper then paste it over coloured paper before covering the wooden frames. Some tazia have coconuts hanging from them and it seems each nut represents a wish or a prayer.
Shia Muslims in many parts of India (and the world) observe the event in this, the first month of the muslin calendar, the month of mourning. Maheshwar adds an extra day to the remembrance and the night before the carrying of the tazia I fall asleep to the sound of drums throbbing and beating.
Next day I am up very early and walk around this friendly town. While some people are still sleeping on porches beside their tazia, other men and boys are adding last minute touches their works of art, all happy for me to photograph them and explain the festival.
Drums are again beating all over town – round ones, double and single sided – and tazia are carried, on men’s shoulders, through the town to the place where the procession will start.
I return to the palace for breakfast. The guards, now my new best friends (we laugh about them not letting me in when I arrived) salute as I go through the huge gates, then into the peace of one of the palaces five courtyards.
The Ahilya Fort tazia is ready to be sent on its way: the prince, dressed as always in traditional clothes, arrives for the prayers at the tazia before its procession to the river. The few other guests arrive to witness the noisy event. Among the smoke, incense and drumbeats, Hindu and Muslim stand beside the prince as he prays or pays homage in front of the large frame of wood and paper mausoleum. At the end of the small ritual, all are given roats (biscuits made of flour, clarified butter, sugar and dry fruits) which are made especially for the tazia ceremony.
Drummers and young boys carrying smoking incense lead the way. Although the streets have some women, the parade mostly consists of men and boys, their hats are of velvet, satin, or brocade, and, while some are decorated with gold or sequins, many worn by Muslims are white to show they have been on a hajj to Mecca. Young children squat in the centre of the narrow roads so the tazia, carried high on men’s shoulders, will pass over them, believing it will bring them good health.
People place incense in the earthenware containers the young boys are carrying or that sit before each tazia. People pass their hands through or over the smoke, some putting their palms to their face or touch their forehead, the smoke wafting over their heads.
Other men walk ahead of each tazia carrying long poles with wooden triangular shapes on the top, which they use to hold up the countless wires that line, cross, and recross the streets so the tazia isn’t caught in them.
“Yah Hassan, yah Hussein,” they chant as the carry the replica through the streets and down to the ghats on the riverbank where they need to be immersed by sundown – sandhya – a time of transition.
Tazia’s are loaded onto boats that rock alarmingly with the number of men jostling get on too. Traditional boats are poled and paddled to the middle of the river. I am in one too, albeit without a tazia, so I can see the finale up close. Muslim and Hindu men call and wave, happy it seems to have a little boat of westerners watch the rituals.
Tipping the tomb replicas overboard, they make sure they sink immediately by pushing it down with hands or poles while still chanting ‘Yah Hassan, yah Hussein.’
Hindu shrines line this river: pieces of sculpture daubed with orange are propped against trees or walls, and huge temples provide a photographic skyline. I’m glad to watch this juxtaposition of two of the world’s major religions as they combine to observe a major Muslim event, on one of Hindu’s holy rivers.
Chaos, slums, beggars, pollution and poverty: India is so much more than this and I recommend you put one of the least visited states, Gujarat, onto your must-see bucket list.
Birthplace of Mahatma Gandhi, a long coastline, this largely vegetarian area is astonishingly varied with huge cities, national parks, bird sanctuaries, majestic monuments, and temples – as well as locals who are extremely welcoming to travellers.
Ahmedabad (founded in 1411) is the largest city and has some of India’s finest Hindu and Jain temples along with Islamic monuments. The guided heritage tour of the ancient walled city is a necessity to appreciate the old ethnic diversity of the area. Up and down narrow streets we walk, into even narrower lanes and through secret passages these few hours flew by – some of us repeated the tour days later we loved it so much. The volunteers who are the guides are charming and informative – but keep your eye on where they are – turn the wrong corner and you will be lost! When your expedition is over, stay in Manek Chowk to explore the market and taste the food – then jump on a tuk-tuk and leave him to find the way back to your accommodation or next sightseeing destination and adventure.
This huge bustling city is a good base for day trips to explore nearby temples, step-wells and even birding areas: Gujarat has some 40% of India’s bird species and with large numbers of migratory birds also, it’s an excellent venue for bird watchers.
Known for their slow but steady success in protecting the last surviving Asiatic Lions in the wild, Gir National Park is a popular destination. There are some 350 lions now compared to the 20 when the park, their only home, created 100 years ago, and with a reliable water supply, it is also home to many other creatures – this is worth more than one days worth!
Interestingly, the Sasan Gir area, in the south of the state, is also home to village of African migrants who have lived there for generations. As well as living alongside, and in harmony with, the lions and leopards of Gir, they perform wonderfully energetic, traditional dances. People come from all over India to offer their prayers to the Peer (priest) who I understand is contacted through the gymnastic-like Dhamal dance.
One of my favourite areas was a corner of the 5-thousand square km area known as the Little Rann of Kutch, home to the beautiful and endangered Indian Wild Ass (Ghudkhur) of which there are only some 2000. Few other animals can survive this harsh environment, although, as these desert salt flats flood to a depth of a metre every monsoon, it’s also home for over 350 species of birds, and where I saw the rare, and shy, McQueen’s Bustard.
Also endangered, in different ways, are the families who live in this arid setting, eking a subsistence living from harvesting salt for eight-months each year. My small donation for their hospitality seemed meagre despite being told it was appropriate, and enough for a ‘big bag of dhal” according to my guide. Next time I will take a gift of jandals (flip-flops) and milk too. I visited two families on different safaris and was charmed by their friendliness, and their willingness to share stories of generations of being salt-workers. (Agariyas)
The salt is produced by pumping, with small pumps, the underground brine up about 14 metres: it then takes four months to crystallise, a harvesting technique unchanged in centuries.
In their shack, right beside the pump, lives an inter-generational family who serve me tea in the old Indian way, on a saucer.
“Because we work in the saltpans, our feet become septic and they absorb the salt. Nobody lives more than 50 or 60 years,” a grandfather tells me – through my guide.
Locked into a religious and cast system that seems impossible to move out of, he sees no way for his family to escape the cycle of poverty and poor health. Despite the low wages and appalling conditions, they will continue to leave the villages on the edge of the desert to labour all day for eight-months each year.
The history of Gujarat goes back to the times of the Indus Valley Civilisation in 2500BC and the culture, architecture, food and history have amalgamated to create an exciting region.
India is a land of contrasts and colour, of culture, festivals and seductive cuisine and Gujarat has it all: I recommend making a list of places or types of things you want to see, contact a local tour company and ask them to create an itinerary from that list, or make recommendations, and for ease of travel, supply a car and driver for much of your trip.
The Sarawak Tourism Board is this week Introducing musical talent to about 20 world music festival programmers, and media such as me. What a privilege to get up close to such talent and hopefully help music lovers find new talent they would not usually hear or see.
From Germany to New Zealand, Belgium to India, and the UK to Korea, they, and other programmers are attending the Borneo World Music Expo (#BWME2014) at the Hilton in Kuching, Sarawak. (Malaysian Borneo)
Last night it was two Malay groups (Mah Meri, & Madeeh) who took the stage and then an Indian group, The Barmer Boys whose talent – with instruments not seen before by most of the audience – was impressive, and I’ll be happy to see the these three Rajastarian men take the stage at the Rainforest World Music Festival in few days.
Madeeh Emsemble are from a Bidayuh longhouse (Annah Ra’ih) about 60ks from Kuching – one that retains its traditional roots music. The other group, Mah Meri, is from West, or Peninsula, Malaysia and this performance was the first given outside their village. None of them had left their village before, so for them to be ‘picked up’ by one of the foreign programmers would be a huge change for them … flying to Sarawak was a big enough event!