Colourful, characterful, cheerful, chockfull of history
Disadvantages:
Dry and dusty, dirty too
Recommend to potential buyers:
yes
Full review
It was, I think, at Chhatra Sagar that we were told about the seven uses of the turban, which seemed to me to illustrate so much that is of interest in this part of India.
Unlike its Sikh equivalent, the Rajasthani turban - properly known as the safa - has no religious role, though it can have social significance. But it is first and foremost a practical garment. Among its practical applications are that it can:
* 1. Be worn as a hat. *
No surprises there, you may be thinking, but the vividly decorative quality of the Rajasthani safa does come as a surprise. It is strikingly colourful, in marked contrast to the otherwise drab and dusty clothing worn by most local males, whether trousered or clad about their loins in dhotis, all murky off-white, brown and grey.
The womenfolk, of course, are radiant from head to toe in brightly dyed saris, elaborately patterned or embroidered. Somehow, too, they contrive to keep the flowing folds clean even while they toil in brickworks and building sites, or in the fields among the crops. But the men look dull, only in their turbans displaying any peacock tendencies.
Like the sari, the safa is fashioned from a much greater length of cloth than is apparent at first glance - anything from five metres up to nine, usually of fine muslin. The style of tying varies as much as the colours. Some men wear them loose and bulging unevenly, others tightly wrapped; such details can reveal the wearer's caste and birthplace. The hues range through the rainbow, and also carry clues for the initiated, so that saffron and flame may proclaim a young man making his way in life, whilst predominantly white or cream with understated patterning betokens an elderly man content with domesticated quietude. Plain white denotes mourning, as is usual in India. Colours can also vary in accordance with the season, or to celebrate a festival.
Not everyone wears one, and certainly not all the time. They are most often seen in rural parts, on the men who tend the water-buffalo or drive the camel-carts, or ply their trades - as barbers, cobblers, metal-workers or food-sellers - on what would be the pavement if there were pavements, or squat on their haunches in clusters to talk.
In the bustle of the busier towns - like Jaipur, the state capital with some two million inhabitants, or Jodhpur or Udaipur - safas are relatively rare, and sometimes looked down on as rustic or old-fashioned. "In the city the safa is associated with country bumpkins, unless, of course, you are the Maharajah," I have heard it said.
All the same, the safa is still the region's defining male attire. A safa draws one's eye as compellingly as a cherry on a cake, standing out even in the most hectic street-scene or gaudiest bazaar, reminding one that one is not only in India, but in Rajasthan. This large, arid state - half as big again as the UK - pressed up against the Pakistani border in the north-west of India, is very much possessed of its own history and character.
Surprising as it may seem, this is very necessary in Rajasthan, hot though its climate is. Deserts - and much of the state north-west of the spinal Aravelli Hills is desert or near-desert - can be notoriously chilly at night. An unwrapped or partially unwrapped safa can help warm the shoulders after dark or before the sun is up in the morning. Rajasthanis often wear shawl-like garments or scarves as well during the "cold" months of December-March, when daytime temperatures can fall below 20°C (or lower - there was an unprecedented frost in January of this year). Unlike the shawl or scarf, though, the safa can always be conveniently returned to the head as the day warms up.
In the hot weather, April-July, when temperatures soar into the forties, you'd want to wear as little as possible, but the dangling end of the safa wrapped round the face helps to keep the dust out of the mouth. Rajasthan is undeniably dusty, and not just in the desert or during the summer months. In the absence of pavements and often of paving, feet and wheels kick up dust from the road, as do the hooves of the numerous animals - loose cows, herded goats and sheep, donkeys and camels used for load-carrying. It clings to clothing and hangs in the air like a haze to clog the nostrils, especially in narrow, busy town streets suffused with traffic fumes and nameless stenches. And yes, many of the town streets are even worse-paved than the country roads.
Piles of garbage also add to the dust, as does the animals' dung, though that of the buffalo is prized for its combustible qualities, and is quickly gathered, patted by hand into flat round discs about a foot in diameter, and left out to dry until it can be used as fuel.
The monsoon, arriving in July or August will clear the dust, but only by turning it to mud, and temperatures stay high, so this is not the time to go to find out how safas fare in the downpour. Then the weather stays hot and humid into the autumn. So December-March is definitely the favoured season for visiting.
* 3. Act as a pillow. *
You often see Rajasthanis sleeping out in the open during the day, on the ground or on rudimentary bedsteads in some corner shaded from the scorching sun, so you can understand where a portable pillow might come in handy.
Many of the poorer dwellings are the simplest of shacks, thrown together from whatever materials come to hand, with few amenities. The towns and villages have a tumbledown, derelict look; often one would think the buildings unfinished except that they are so evidently old. Rajasthan is one of the poorest states of India, and even more than most encompasses extremes of poverty and wealth.
These are not, of course, as extreme as they once were, when there was little between the opulent palaces of the Rajputs ("Sons of Princes" - the feudal aristocracy) and the hovels of the peasantry. In the cities there is now a middle class of businessmen, officials and professionals, who are presumably somewhere comfortably housed, although the visitor sees little sign of it. Travelling through the countryside, the overwhelming impression is of overcrowding, primitive facilities and what can only be described as squalour.
Places for visitors to stay are equally extreme in their range. At the luxurious end are converted palaces. We saw, but did not stay in, the two most famously exorbitant of these: the Lake Palace at Udaipur, which shimmered whitely in postcard perfection as if afloat on the lake, filled by the last monsoon after two years of muddy drought; and the Umaid Bhawan Mahal at Jodhpur, grandiose and vast, 347 rooms built of marble and sandstone blocks chiselled to interlock so precisely as to require no mortar to bind them, swarming with flunkeys in tunics and ceremonial safas, with loose ends dangling down their backs to signify their place in the royal retinue.
We did stay in some of the lesser (or, at least, less expensive; indeed quite modestly priced by Western standards) palace hotels - Neemrana, Samode and Deogarh - and an exciting and extraordinary experience it proved to be, so much so that I propose to write a separate review on at least one of them. Then there are havelis - converted urban residences of the older style - which are also of great architectural interest, as well as numerous less characterful hotels.
Needless to say, the international chains have infiltrated their usual faceless clones into the best-known tourist sites, and equally needless to say, I didn't stay at any of them. Nor, at my time of life, did I stay in any of the backpacker hostels, many of which looked basic, to put it mildly, and of negative cleanliness, but which are undeniably cheap. To judge from the Lonely Planet guide, it is perfectly possible to find a bed for the night for 50 rupees (65p) or even less. I did, however, stay at a campsite, albeit a luxurious one, but that too will be the subject of a separate review.
* 4. Be used to carry things. *
Much of Rajasthan seems to be constantly on the move, and usually well-laden. If we didn't see many loads slung across men's backs in unwrapped safas, it is because women rather than men seem to bear a lot of the burdens, usually on their heads. In the villages it is commonplace for women to carry two or even three large earthenware pots in this manner, one atop another. Bundles of firewood are borne in same way, and, where a wall of Ranakpur temple was being repaired, we watched while a line of women in graceful saris balanced heavy rocks on their heads to keep the builders supplied with materials.
There are beasts of burden everywhere: teams of donkeys with panniers of rubble slung across their backs; camels piled high with bales of hay; carts pulled by horses or oxen. Cows, of course, being sacred, wander free and often settle in the roadway to add to the havoc created by the traffic. If there is room for a bicycle to pass, three mopeds vie to fill it; if there is room for a motorbike, three hand-carts or rickshaws are manoeuvred into it; if there is room for a rickshaw, three cars; if there is room for a car, three tractors or trucks.
The trucks (or perhaps I should say lorries, which somehow better conveys their lumbering quality) are usually Tatas of archaic design and brightly painted, sometimes even with tinsel streamers blowing in the wind. "Shocking Pink is the Navy Blue of India" a friend told us before we went, but we saw few lorries in so subdued a shade as Shocking Pink. Their rear ends are daubed with instructions to would-be overtakers: "Wait for Side", "Dip at Night", "Sound Horn". The last of these is entirely redundant, since the horn seems to be every driver's most frequently used control, and a chorus of horns is always to be heard above the cacophony of city noises.
Priority, after that accorded to cows, goes to the most reckless, and accidents inevitably occur. Within an hour of setting out from Delhi airport we came upon the aftermath of a crash, with a motorcyclist's mangled body in the road. As if to prove it wasn't a coincidence, two days later we saw a similar incident.
This makes it all the more alarming that the motorbike often seems to be the family vehicle, and it is not uncommon to see three, four or even five passengers aboard, perhaps a young son perched between his father and the handlebars, while women sit side-saddle on the pillion, sometimes holding babies on their laps. Most human transport is filled to bursting, or beyond. Buses carry excess passengers on the roof; one only hopes there are not too many low bridges on Indian roads.
On the trains, in the cheaper class carriages at least, people hang onto rails and out of doorways. On one of two train rides we took, on a narrow-gauge mountain track near Deogarh, I was able to sit in a open doorway, and a very good position it was for keeping cool in the breeze, taking photographs and seeing the scenery, albeit a bit hair-raising when we crossed viaducts without safety rails or parapets. On the other, by main-line 'Shatabdi Express' between Jaipur and Ajmer, we went to the other extreme and travelled in the 'Executive Chair Car', like an antiquated aircraft interior, though quite comfortable, only mildly messy and, at the equivalent of £6 each for the two-hour journey, hardly expensive. But then, the almost equally long bumpy, jarring ride through the mountains only cost us 10p each, so maybe it depends on your scale of values.
Whatever the difference in their fares, neither train ran to time. Hanging around in the waiting room on Jaipur station we listened to the announcements for arrivals and departures, most of which seemed to be late. Just occasionally, one would be declared to be expected "Right Time" in a tone less of pride than of surprise. There is a local joke about IST meaning not Indian Standard Time but Indian Stretchable Time, but I'd feel more comfortable repeating it if trains on our British lines were anything like 100% reliable for their vastly greater cost. If you're not too bothered about the odd hour here or there, the railways could be an excellent and very economical way to see India.
* 5. Keep small articles of value. *
Amid the complex folds of the safa, all sorts of small objects can be concealed: combs, pens, confectionary and tobacco. And, of course, money. This may help explain why safas are so often worn by waiters in tourist hotels and restaurants, providing a discreet repository for tips.
In truth in rural Rajasthan we did not see many restaurants apart from those within the hotels. They exist more in the cities, and along the main highways ("Midways", a bit like service areas, often run by the RTDC - Rajasthan Tourist Development Corporation - which are excellent value if you can find them). Those restaurants where we did eat we found to be clean with good food available, but we probably erred on the side of upmarket caution. In any case, there does not appear to be much available in the middle range between pricey (by Indian standards, less so by British, say £5 or so per head for a full meal), and dirt-cheap market stalls (where you can buy curried lentils, rice and chapatti for a few rupees, but dirt may be the operative word). Or maybe we simply didn't know where to look.
We enjoyed the food, though we began to find it a bit monotonous after a couple of weeks. Essentially, it was not much different from what one might find in Indian restaurants in Britain. This being the North-West of India, there were many tandoori specialities, and the naan were particularly delicious. Many Indians are vegetarians, and the vegetable dishes were generally very tasty, which came as no surprise after seeing the wonderfully fresh cauliflowers, greens and bright red carrots for sale on market stalls. My wife, who likes yoghurt, loved the local curds, known as raita; I'm not so keen personally. We had no difficulty coping with the heat of the spices, and no trouble with stomach upsets, but we were fairly assiduous in avoiding salads and pre-peeled fruit, and very assiduous in drinking water only from bottles. The local tea, known as Chai Masala, is served infused with hot milk, spices and - unless you are very persuasive - an excess of sugar, but is remarkably refreshing and usually cheap.
Except in upmarket restaurants, booze is not much in evidence and is certainly not cheap. I drank the bottled Kingfisher lager, subtly different it seemed to me from that of the same brand in Britain, and less appetising, with a slightly glutinous taste and a tendency to go flat quickly. There are few other brands available, and none that I preferred. Where wine is concerned, Sula white goes well enough with curry, but inspired no desire in me to become a serious connoisseur of Indian vintages. So the bottled water came in more than its usual share of consumption on a Torr holiday.
Talking of which, the safa can also….
* 6. Help draw water from a well. *
And strain it for drinking too, we were told, although somehow we still stuck with the bottled variety despite this reassurance.
Wells are a major source of water in rural Rajasthan. They are vital for irrigation, and are sometimes very elaborate in their construction. At Neemrana we saw an ancient "step-well", with an enormous stone-lined stairway - ten metres wide and many times that deep - excavated to enable people to walk down to the bottom of the well. This was a rarity, but many wells are wide (perhaps three or four metres in diameter) and deep enough for it to be hard to see how even nine metres of turban with which to lower a bucket would suffice. Often there are chugging diesel pumps in operation but one also sees primitive pulley mechanisms worked by ox-power.
Apart from the open wells, there are capped bore-holes, with simple hand-pumps, in many cases a village's only source of supply. You see people washing clothes, or themselves, under the spouts. In those lucky communities beside rivers or lakes, of course, there are usually steps beside the water from which these activities can be undertaken. Even in a substantial town like Udaipur, this seemed to be quite commonplace.
The scarcity of water shows in the landscape. Even the fertile plain to the south-east of the state, with wheat, millet and yellow mustard-seed flourishing, looked parched under the January sun. The Aravellis are impressive hills, craggy and raw; after the monsoon, we were told, they would be green, but while we were there the trees and shrubs seemed skeletal, barely masking the rocky ground beneath. And the further you travel beyond the Aravellis, the more arid everything become. Unless you like deserts, you wouldn't go to Rajasthan for the scenery.
Deforestation and overgrazing have depleted such greenery as this landscape used to have, and this is turn has depleted the wildlife. We saw lots of monkeys - they even find there way into city centres, a bit like urban foxes in London - and quite a few antelope of various kinds, but tigers are now only to be seen in the reserve at Ranthambore, and even there not very frequently.
The cobras and kraits, I'm glad to say, were hibernating, but we did stare one rock python in his cold unblinking eye as he hid in his burrow. This was at Bharatpur, which is primarily a bird watching sanctuary, a watery labyrinth of overhung pools and creeks where some spectacular storks, cranes, egrets and kingfishers can be observed. Go early on a misty morning, while the cool haze slowly succumbs to the sun, when a boatman will punt you silently round to the best spotting spots.
* 7. Be deployed as a weapon. *
Unfortunately, it was not described to me exactly how the safa was so used, nor have I been able to track it down in any reference source since. One would guess as a garrotte for strangulation, after the manner of the Thugee - a religious sect that murdered travellers in India until suppressed by the British in the early 19th century. Perhaps as a sling, for hurling rocks. Certainly, one of the more voluminous safas could be used to conceal a short stiletto or similar weapon. And legend tells how, in the 15th Century, a treacherous concubine at the court of Deogarh kept one royal claimant tied to his bedstead by means of his turban, while she unlocked the door to admit assassins sent by his rival, both for her affections and the throne.
Rajasthan has a long history of warfare, mainly between its own local feuding dynasties. In former times the region was segmented into a mosaic of petty kingdoms, each ruled by a Rajah or Maharajah. These fought not just among themselves, but to resist domination first by the Mughal emperors then by the British Raj, sometimes gaining or losing in the extent of their domains and independence, but never being completely subjugated. Under the British, they were ultimately allowed to keep their roles as figurehead rulers and their revenues, although deprived of real power. This left them with little to do except collect concubines, tiger-pelts, polo ponies, palaces, Rolls-Royces or whatever took their whim. Only since independence have their subsidies been curtailed, and their lifestyles circumscribed.
This history explains the two great glories of Rajasthan, which are among the main reasons for paying it a visit: the historic forts and palaces. The forts include some of the world's most formidable strongholds. You only need to glance up at Meherangarh Fort, darkening the sky above Jodhpur (see photo below) to understand that it must have been virtually impregnable in the days before bombs and heavy artillery. Chittourgarh and Kumbhalgarh, which guard the northern approaches to the lake city of Udaipur, are equally forbidding in their fortifications; the outer curtain wall of the latter is wide enough to allow six cavalrymen to ride abreast atop it around all 36km of its circumference, the longest continuous wall in the world still standing, apart from the odd stretch of the Great Wall of China. And hardly a hilltop around Jaipur is uncapped by battlements.
These are great places to visit for anyone with the remotest interest in military relics, and impressive I would imagine even to those without. Meherangarh is busy but well-organised, boasting the first audio-guide system in India (included in the tourist entry price of 250 rupees, about £3.30, the highest we paid to see any ancient monument; if you can pass yourself as local you'll get in for about the tenth of the price). Kumbhalgarh, on a remote peak in the Aravellis, is cheaper to enter (100 rupees to tourists) and better to wander round unescorted, since it is free from the hawkers, would-be guides and beggars who infest city centre tourist attractions.
Where palaces are concerned, most highly recommended is the majestic Amber Palace just outside Jaipur. You can ride up to its gates on the back of an elephant, but we preferred to walk, since there are gardens to be seen on the way. This turned out to be a good ploy since the touts assume you're too poor to afford the ride and target those who take it. Once inside you ascend through a series of courtyards and staircases, to see the royal quarters, ornately decorated in carved marble symmetrically inlaid with shards of mirror and semi-precious stones. White marble and red sandstone are both quarried locally, and their contrasting colours and textures are put to clever use in many of the region's ancient monuments.
The City Palace in Jaipur is also worth a visit, but more fascinating still I found to be the adjacent astronomical observatory. Constructed as long ago 1716, it looks like a monumental adventure playground strewn with huge pieces of hewn masonry, like a variety of giant sundials. They are laid out in an open park with such precision that, by sighting along them to sun or stars they can still be used accurately to determine not just the exact date and time, and the position of longitudes and latitudes, but also the state of the heavens for astronomical purposes.
Another City Palace, that at Udaipur, is rather nondescript from the outside, but contains some dazzlingly decorated courtyards and interiors, as well as collections of interesting artefacts. Nearby, the Sahelion ki Bari gardens were my wife's favourite among those we visited in Rajasthan.
Temples? We saw only that of the Jain sect at Ranakpur, an extraordinary building held up by 1444 individually carved marble columns, which was rather beautiful.
* Even more practical stuff *
Do I recommend a visit? Yes, of course I do, especially for those who, like us, have not previously experienced India. Anyone will tell you that the country hits you in the face on arrival, with an assault of heat, dust, noise, and teeming humanity. "How's Delhi?" we picked up in a text message on arrival from our younger son, perhaps proud of his prior knowledge; "Does it still stink of piss and petroleum?" to which the only honest answer would have been: "Yes, and many other things besides, not all of them savoury." But once one's recovered from the initial impact, the country pays great dividends in human and historical interest. The people, when you get to know them, are mostly helpful and unthreatening, even if some are understandably out to make a few rupees. You should not, though, whatever you have been told, expect those in rural parts to be able to communicate in English.
You will probably see the most, and at much the lowest cost, if you buy cheap flights on the internet, grab your backpack, travel by train and bus once there and seek out your own accommodation. You could, though, be in for some uncomfortable and unhygienic experiences. More comfortably, numerous tour operators organise guided tours. Voyages Jules Verne, for example, do a 15-day coach tour ("Royal Cities of Rajasthan") similar to our itinerary, for around £1000 per person, depending on dates and options. We paid a bit more to avoid the coach party and have our own route tailor-made with the help of Asian specialists Audley Travel.
What else? Shopping, I suppose, since I know some people like that kind of thing. There are a few fixed price outlets run by the RTDC and other organisations that offer good value. More riskily, bargains are to be had in the bazaars, provided you're prepared to haggle hard. You will be faced with a widespread assumption that all Western tourists have more money than sense, an assumption that may well be right.
But even if you end up paying twice the price that locals would pay for textiles, jewellery, ceramics and other ornaments, it will probably be half what you would pay at home. I thought the fabrics were particularly attractive, with richly dyed and intricately decorated scarves, shawls, saris and soft furnishings.
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