3 December, Dungarpur to
Himatnagar/Ahmedabad, 99km (a)Last night Peter Lorre advised us not to take the
shortcut back to the main highway, even though it would save us fifty kilometers of
riding. "It is a broken road, and the people are hostile peasants, not good people.
They will see your white skin and think bad things." Of course we ignored his adamant
advice, which was spot-on accurate regarding the road but totally off vis-à-vis the
locals, who couldnt have been more friendly or gracious.
Practically everyone we passed smiled and waved at us. Many peasants tilling the soil
dropped their tools when they saw us, pressed their hands together, bowed and emitted
gracious "namaste"s. When we reached a closed railway crossing the many
people waiting patiently on either side for a train to pass insisted we go through (the
train was nowhere in sight), going so far as to hold the gate up for us. Further down the
road a whole crowd of villagers screamed "Stop!" at me. Taking them for
over-friendly voyeurs, I smiled at them and continued on. But when their shouts grew more
plaintive I stopped at a safe distance, at which point a wizened old man sprinted up to
hand me a bungee cord that had fallen from Freds bike.
As friendly as the people, and as beautiful the scenery on this forbidden shortcut, it
was nevertheless a relief rejoining scary highway 8, since our butts had just about had it
after 25 kilometers on a miserably bumpy road. The traffic was mysteriously much lighter
today at least, but the surface was nowhere near as good as yesterdays butt-candy.
The remaining 20 kilometers to the Gujarat border were mostly downhill, twisting down an
endless series of curves, yet not nearly as fast as they could have been due to the rough
surface.
We had lunch at an RTDC (Rajasthan Tourist Development Corporation) place at the border
hamlet of Ratanpur. A pair of Indians at the table next to us horrified us by guzzling
down four one-liter bottles of beer in less than fifteen minutes. Gujarat, you see, is
famous for being a fanatically dry state (folks attribute this to Mahatma Gandhi, a native
son and fervent teetotaler). We only hoped that our boozing friends were headed in the
opposite direction
Our first hours in Gujarat were terrific cycling. The mostly quiet road gently
descended through verdant hills, and a healthy tailwind pushed us along. My first
impression of Gujarat was how green it looked compared to dusty brown Rajasthan. After an
hour and a half of ultra-swift pedaling we stopped at the fanciest dhaba wed
ever seen sparkling clean, with a vast array of goods for sale, an attractively
landscaped lawn and Vadilal ice cream (a delicious Jain-made treat that would quickly
become a BikeBrats staple).
When the green valleys and hills softened to an undulating plain, camel carts suddenly
reappeared. Wed hardly seen any since Sawai Madhopur (Indias camel capital?)
and I was overjoyed to see them again, since I associate them with everything I love about
this country.
With the wind at our backs we felt strong enough to make it all the way to Ahmedabad,
but it would soon be dark. At Himatnagar we looked around for acceptable accommodation,
and when none was found we hastily decided to commandeer a Commander a cheap
Jeep-like substance of Indian manufacture. This was pretty easily arranged, though the
masses of onlookers we attracted made it a bit trying on the nerves. Our driver quoted a
reasonable price of 400 rupees to take us to a hotel in the center of town and we agreed
without haggling.
We knew from experience that Commanders are the blight of the Indian highway network,
and it was unsettling to see how they operate from the inside. Two assistants sat in back
with the bikes, watching the heavy flow of traffic for holes to dart through and
instructing the driver pressed against the door for the best viewaccordingly.
It was a white-knuckle ride, to say the least; we held our breaths most of the way.
At a small crossroads we came to an abrupt stop. "Here Ahmedabad, Nehru
Bridge," croaked our driver and his two minions, rather feebly. Dumbfounded by the
lameness of their attempt to swindle us, I vowed not to tip them a paise and curtly
instructed them to drive on. The formerly amicable feeling in the car (or so I had
thought) soured. Ahmedabad was still 25 kilometers away. Once we began to penetrate the
vast city it became clear that our bumpkin escorts hadnt a clue as to where the
Nehru Bridge was. They asked everyone in sight for directions, and without our assistance
in the matter theyd probably never have found it.
When we pulled up in front of the hotel the driver and his pals pulled yet another
stunt. He told us that the price was now 500 rupees (Ironic, since that was what Id
planned to tip him before his first attempt to deceive us), but we held firm at 400
rupees. Of course the commotion it stirred up attracted the entire hotel staff, plus half
the surrounding neighborhood. In the end Fred had to place the 400 rupees on the ground
since the Himatnagarians refused to accept it.
Princessing out for dinner at the Holiday Inn next door seemed an appropriate way to
end the long day. We ordered Mughal and Jain dishes, all delicious and served with just
the right amount of obsequiousness. A stroll around the neighborhood afterwards yielded
the usual verdict: Fred thought Ahmedabad was a filth-smeared dump, while I found it
charming, funky and steeped in mystery.
The next day we were tourists. We had been told that the Calico Museum of Textiles was
not to be missed, so we headed there first thing for their morning tour. Quite an amazing
place it was, too, housed in the magnificent residence and garden of a wealthy family of
fabric dealers. Our guide (you cant wander around on your own in this museum as you
could very easily get lost) rushed us through various folk exhibits, describing different
types of worship and pointing out details on perfectly reconstructed temples and houses
all integrated into the massive palace. There were precious bronze objects, ancient
texts and maps and exquisitely detailed miniature paintings. Best of all, though, was the
textiles portion of the museum, which is probably the best of its kind assembled anywhere.
Most impressive was Shah Jahans ornately decorated hunting tent, hanging from the
ceiling of a massive room housing countless other treasures. We saw costumes of kings and
queens, ancient ikats from Indonesia, as well as batiks, shawls woven from
precious metals and mind-bogglingly intricate tie-dyed and embroidery work from the tribal
people in Kachchh (I swear that this is the way its spelled on my map), the
westernmost part of Gujarat state.
Our plan had been to proceed directly from the museum to the days only screening
of "Fire" in English. Wed been reading about the brouhaha over the film in
the newspapers every day since arriving in India, usually on the front page. Treating the
story of two married women who develop a lesbian relationship and leave their husbands,
the movie is deemed "obscene" by the more conservative Hindu groups most
notably the Shiv Sena political party. All across India cinemas showing the film have been
picketed or even burnt down in protest. We figured we had to see it, but missed our chance
in Ahmedabad while we oohed and ahhed over fabulous fabrics. Little did we
know that we wouldnt have another chance in India, since the film was ordered to be
sent back to the censors the very next day.
The remainder of our day in Abad was very busy. First stop was the Gujarat
Tourist Bureau, where we tried to squeeze information out of an elderly ignoramus,
followed by a first-rate lunch at the elegant Hotel Cama and a peek into the amazing
textile-oriented gift shop downstairs. From here we proceeded to the train station to book
train tickets, locking us into an itinerary for the next two weeks, then on to the best
Internet café weve been to anywhere, called Random Access, in the obviously wealthy
part of town across the river from where we were staying.
We made it back just in time for our rendezvous with Satya and his extended Jain family,
the ones wed met in Sawai Madhopur. They arrived late looking very elegant indeed,
just back from a wedding. Satyas perpetually smiling and radiant aunt (whose name
Ive unfortunately forgotten) was wearing a gorgeous tie-dyed sari like the ones
wed seen earlier in the museum. Biren, Satyas skinny, hyper-energetic uncle,
told us that everyone was waiting for us back at his place, but he wanted to give us a
little tour of Ahmedabad by car first.
It was terrifying, since Biren is perhaps the worst driver in all of India (no small
claim). He swerved through the dense traffic as if oblivious to everything around him,
placidly chatting all the while. Somehow we made it back to his family compound (across
the river, of course), where we met up with all the same people wed seen in Sawai
Madhopur. We sat on a huge pillow-covered dais with male members of the family and looked
at blurry photos of tigers. Biren also showed us pictures of Palitana where he was
delighted to learn we were headingand told us that their whole family goes there in
pilgrimage every year. In fact, we could stay at his cousins guest house there.
After a while we all trundled into three or four cars and headed off into the night for
ice cream. The place they took us was a riot, an Indian version of a strip mall lined with
ice cream shops. Fifties-style carhops compete for business and bring the orders to
peoples cars while the customers put all their energy into checking each other out,
trying to figure out how they fit into the societal hierarchy. The ice cream was good,
too. Satya scoped out some of the female patrons and claimed breathily that "women
are the spice of life" thus dispelling our suspicions that he might be family.
We had hoped that he might provide us with entree into the Gujarat homo scene, as well as
insights as to how upper-class Indian (and Jain) gays cope, but retired to our beds as
clueless as ever.