3.30.2008
India Journal: Part 4
I think I can honestly say that Pushkar is the most bizarre place I have ever been. For us, the weirdness started in nearby Ajmer, where we got off the bus from Bundi and spent a long time wandering with our backpacks on trying to figure out where the onward buses to Pushkar (11 kilometers away) left from. Finally aboard the bus, we were stopped by some kind of officials about 20 minutes into the journey. 20 minutes after that, everyone got off the bus and we were back to wandering around, trying to get over the mountain to Pushkar. A motor rickshaw driver laughed heartily when we told him we would pay him anything if he would just take us. Not allowed.
The entire time we were being repeatedly called by the proprieter of the hotel we had reserved. He called us at least six times in the two hours it took us to move five miles. When we met him, we were sweaty and grouchy, but he was a handsome, smiling man dressed all in white linen with a stripe of color on his forehead. He was like a cool breeze from the shade of the hotel, and David and I drank mango tea and fresh juice on the roof, reading our books and trying to recover from the afternoon’s journey.
The town of Pushkar itself centers around a small and sacred pond (I just can't call it a lake), which has white marble stairs leading down to it and temples and places for pilgrims to bathe in the holy water. Surrounding this is a gaudy bazaar geared mainly towards foreign tourists. In this bazaar, I can’t make this up, there are bookshops selling bootleg novels, juice stalls selling lassis made with marijuana, sword stands, and holy men trying to get you to take a proffered flower or to touch the lumpy growth on a sacred cow festooned with shiny fabric and bells. Traversing the bazaar are non-Indian tourists who are mostly dreadlocked and dressed in billowing genie pants, non-Indian residents dressed all in linen and exuding their peace with the world, Indian pilgrims with their towels and packets of petals, motorcycles, bicycles, camels, cows, and dogs.
I feel like the Hindus have made a mistake in holding both free-roaming cows and bare feet sacred. As dusk fell, we slipped off our shoes in respect and headed down to the edge of the pond. “Good tourists,” an elderly man dressed in a white tunic congratulated us. We picked our way gingerly around cow patties and sat on the white stairs, warm from the sun. We watched flickers of flame light up around the edge of the water. Groups of worshippers clanged bells and beat drums, but they eventually quieted as the darkness claimed the sky.
The entire time we were being repeatedly called by the proprieter of the hotel we had reserved. He called us at least six times in the two hours it took us to move five miles. When we met him, we were sweaty and grouchy, but he was a handsome, smiling man dressed all in white linen with a stripe of color on his forehead. He was like a cool breeze from the shade of the hotel, and David and I drank mango tea and fresh juice on the roof, reading our books and trying to recover from the afternoon’s journey.
The town of Pushkar itself centers around a small and sacred pond (I just can't call it a lake), which has white marble stairs leading down to it and temples and places for pilgrims to bathe in the holy water. Surrounding this is a gaudy bazaar geared mainly towards foreign tourists. In this bazaar, I can’t make this up, there are bookshops selling bootleg novels, juice stalls selling lassis made with marijuana, sword stands, and holy men trying to get you to take a proffered flower or to touch the lumpy growth on a sacred cow festooned with shiny fabric and bells. Traversing the bazaar are non-Indian tourists who are mostly dreadlocked and dressed in billowing genie pants, non-Indian residents dressed all in linen and exuding their peace with the world, Indian pilgrims with their towels and packets of petals, motorcycles, bicycles, camels, cows, and dogs.
I feel like the Hindus have made a mistake in holding both free-roaming cows and bare feet sacred. As dusk fell, we slipped off our shoes in respect and headed down to the edge of the pond. “Good tourists,” an elderly man dressed in a white tunic congratulated us. We picked our way gingerly around cow patties and sat on the white stairs, warm from the sun. We watched flickers of flame light up around the edge of the water. Groups of worshippers clanged bells and beat drums, but they eventually quieted as the darkness claimed the sky.
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