The Blue City

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My Room: Simple, clean bath, hot water.














The bus station in Jodhpur was manic and hordes of rickshaw drivers were screaming at me as I stepped off the bus. In the middle of the parking lot was a phone on a table which I used to call the hotel to come fetch me. All the while the drivers were grabbing at my bag until they finally realized I'd made other plans. The hotel was a let down and the touted balcony "view" was over a telephone pole with a transmitter connected to a mass of wires. Besides that, it wasn't very clean.

The first order of business was to find a new place to stay so I took a rickshaw into the heart of the old city and found the Singhvi Haveli. This guest house is a 600 year old building which has been in the same family for the last 400 years! “Havelis” are grand old estates often intricately carved and this one is four stories high with terraces and courtyards.

In India, extended families almost always live together. The sons stay home with their parents and their wives and children live on the same property—building additions as needed. The guest house was run by the two sons and above it looms the towering fort. The view from the rooftop is enchanting. The cityscape is filled with cubic shaped homes painted in a sky blue color—hence the name “the blue city”. In the past, the indigo dye signified the color of the Brahmans, but today many use this shade.

Jodhpur was founded in the mid 1400’s and was a vital trade route profiting from the sale of opium, sandalwood and dates. Because of the harsh conditions here, it was once known as the land of death.

I like the feel of this city. It’s not as much a tourist town and real people live and shop here. The old city roads are narrow and clogged with fume-emitting rickshaws. Tiny shops line the street selling everything from pots, fried noodles, spices, pastries, incense, ledger books, colorful saris and cloth. There are shops completely filled with stainless steel kitchenware or with gunny sacks containing different colored grains and lentils. Another has large and small trunks—all made of sheet metal. Each shop specializes in one thing only. One store sold string and rope in every size and color—another just rags. In South Africa I had trouble finding small plastic bottles/containers. Here, there was an entire store full of them.

Walking down these crowded windy streets was a feast for the eyes. Out on the road are carts selling fruits, veggies and flowers strung into leis for temple offerings. Along every street and alley are gutters which also serve as sewers. Men squat to pee in them and children straddle them to do the same. Cows stop traffic in the streets and constant honking prevails. Scores of children play in allies where women sweep, cook and wash. Small elephants carry huge piles of greens on their backs and cows gather in what looks to be a bovine parking lot.

Modesty in India is reserved for women only as the men seem to be quite comfortable handling their genitals in public. As one woman put it, “there’s more touching of the male member in India than you’ll find at any hip hop concert”. It’s really quite disconcerting when you first arrive in the country. Like everything else here, you just get used to it.

There are many forts in Rajasthan but everyone raved about this one. It dominates the center of the city and is a formidable feat of construction—growing up out of a 400 ft. rock outcropping. Massive stone walls encircle the compound with entrance points through several huge gates—some damaged from past cannon ball attacks. Begun in 1806, Meherangarh Fort is really a fortified palace. The current maharaja formed a trust years ago to restore and preserve it. The entrance fee includes a great audio tour with wonderful music. It gives an account of the fort's history and is sprinkled with fascinating anecdotes.

In the past, the maharajas ruled large feudal states, amassed much wealth and palatial forts were the result. When the British took over, they allowed the maharajas to retain power and used them to control the region. After independence in 1947, a deal was made with the reigning maharajas whereby they would receive stipends so they could continue the lifestyle they were accustomed to. This all came to an end when Indira Gandhi took over and the Rajas fell on hard times. After years of neglect, many were in a state of disrepair and the forward-thinking opened them to the public to generate revenues. Some, like the one in Jodhpur, have been managed better than others.

Despite how they gained their wealth, these palaces are filled with gorgeous works of art. The craftsmanship and artistry is often astounding. While the women may not have gotten out much, their quarters were lavish. Outside façades are covered with intricate wooden fretwork and stone carvings. Inside there are tile mosaics, geometric painted designs, mirrored mosaics, gold and silver gilding, marble floors, stained glass, finely designed weaponry, silk fabrics and so on.

While taking a break in the palace café, I spotted my Italian friend walking by. She and her companions were just leaving so we arranged to meet later for dinner. The next day the two of us had packages to mail so, after breakfast, we began walking toward the post office. Along the way, the sole on her shoe began coming loose. We stopped at a shoe repair man conveniently located on the shoulder of the road. While traffic buzzed by, he re-glued both her soles, put on new laces and we were on our way in a few minutes. I love how you can get anything done in India.

Posting my package was quite an experience. First I had to take what was to be mailed to a guy who sewed it all up in a cloth. He was quite a character and called himself the “packerman”. Step one was to arrange the items in a neat bundle which he taped up. Then he wrapped a piece of muslin cloth around it and sewed up the seams with a needle and string. On each seam he dribbled wax at various points. Meanwhile, he’s heating a brass seal thing in a cup of hot tea and uses it to seal the wax drippings. He continues to do this about ten times along each seam. Packerman then hands me a marker pen to address the cloth bundle. It’s all very old world.

This all takes place in a little stall out on the street. It’s all been arranged by a guy inside the post office who is helping to “expedite” the process. There’s no charge for this but he lets us know that he would not refuse an expression of our thank you. When we see the lines at the front counter, we figure its well worth it. I pay Packerman for his services and “thank” the expeditor. All in all, it’s been a thoroughly entertaining afternoon in learning how to work within a system unlike anything you know at home.

Valeria and I say our goodbyes, knowing we will likely see each other again. She continues to have difficulties with her companions and isn’t sure how their plans will work out.

The next day, the Brazilian couple and I share a rickshaw to the bus station where we travel on the same bus to Jaisalmer, a city located near Pakistan on the fringe of the Great Thar Desert.

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