Postcard from Ahmedabad

After a rock’n’roll overnight train trip from Bhuj I emerged into the early morning chorus of chaos as Ahmedabad rubbed its eyes and blinked awake into a new day. Taxi and auto hustlers vied for my money and I simply took the nearest green and yellow tin can and set off in what I hoped was the right direction. Relief Road, the main transport thoroughfare was already pumping. On one side of the open vehicle I was blasted by the cacophony of temple bells as they rang in the dawn and on the other the call to prayer lured white frocked men pedalling furiously on old fashioned high seated bicycles.

My auto rickshaw squeezed narrowly between painted trucks staggering under great bales of cotton, veered between buses already full at 5 am with workers off to a factory, roadside stall or residence to begin 15 hour days for as little as 100 rupees ($AU2) and scraped alongside large cars with small children being chaffeuredto an elite school. Chai stalls steamed into the crisp air and the overnight sleeping buses variously and incongruously named  Shiv Shakti, Ramdev, The Pink City Sleeper and just plain Patel discharged bleary eyed passengers into the dusty air. As we neared Ellis Bridge camels began unfolding ready for the day's haul and vegetable venders were already trading briskly. It was not yet anywhere near daylight.

Several phone calls to Asif later (nothing changes in the world of auto rickshaws) I was landed at his home and instead of hitting bed I sat and talked until breakfast time and then we headed off to his studio. It is warm here in this desert city and as the locals always say it will remain so until the festival of light in a few days time. Ahmedabad is gripped by Diwali fever; the roads regularly gridlock; I can’t get near the old city to shop for a few essentials and fireworks drive me crazy at night! 

Ahmedabad is also gripped by election fever as Chief Minister Narendra Modi woos its citizens with promises that he mostly seems to keep. He did make the Sarbamati flow again, he has built large scale industries in previously pristine environments and which in turn provide employment not to locals but to outsiders willing to work for lower returns and he may just manage to ruin the White Rann of Kutch with a few more bromine plants.  Myopia is indeed a political disease. We do not mention the fact that Muslims are still not allowed to integrate outside their clearly defined urban boundaries. The city is also hosting fever of another kind due to the late rains and heat – Dengue. The insecticide vans regularly ‘smoke’ the streets at dawn and dusk and we all cover up. If you are heading this way do pack tropical strength Deet laden repellent.

Tonight Mumbai seems an age rather then a week ago and Kutch a month rather than a day! Both were busy times in the life of this traveler. The tour group arrives on Sunday and I’ll decamp to the Cama tomorrow; set the mind to another mode and prepare for the next adventure.

On a final note the Tata Photon dongle that Jabbar bought for me in Bhuj is working a treat and I am now connected! Watch this space. In the meantime Aavjo and Happy Diwali  - may your flame burn brightly for another year.

Tickling the Senses

The idea of being in India is such a tease. The week before I leave she, the idea, repeats her customary monsoon mantra - rumbling, boiling and building up until the crescendo as the plane screams down the runway at full throttle - when suddenly, magically, gracefully we are airborne. We have become featherweights. My tease and I float away - away from life as we think we know it and into life as we can never truly know it. Me? I love these currents that carry me at will, sensing my surrender and waiting in deep shadows for my itchy soul to pass. I cannot speak for the tease! She is simply an idea.

I am leaving behind the usual trail of unfinished deeds, thoughts and intentions. A book here, a new website there, a pile of mending, paintings unstroked, shelves undusted, choruses unsung and last year’s tax buried yet again under more paperwork. But then, I’d hate to surprise my accountant with a set of books presented on time! I have though, with Mike’s technical wizardry, made a video presentation for a friend whom I love and admire. She, who went off to India alone in 1953 and long before the Liverpool lads, the magical mystery tourists and those who sought orange. As I sorted through her great pile of albums and envelopes, cuttings and postcards I became increasingly aware of a life lived fully, richly and deeply; never in the safety zone of western comfort and always on the edges of daring and adventure. Lenore Blackwood is quite a woman. 

Victoria's Memorial, Kolkata

Also In the pile of ‘done’ sits the small book I produce for my journeywomen (all female on this tour), a love job that keeps my research skills honed and my eyes on the lookout for new paths to follow. This time we are doing Diwali dinner at the real Best Exotic Marigold Hotel – I am testing it before my big adventure tour next year. The rooms are booked and the management is on a promise to produce Bill Nighy as a dinner guest even if they can’t manage dud phones, leaking taps and birds in the upper rooms. Thereafter we dip lightly into a little more of Rajasthan and do Delhi - its museums, monuments and mayhem before we head by train to Kolkata and then by road to Shantiniketan, Fulia and other rural villages of West Bengal. Beware the tiger! 

Kantha rendition of traditional game, Chopad by SASHA members. Image M Light 2011

Lucknow is our finale, one of my favourite cities on the eastern seaboard. Its faded elegance, lingering gentility and breathtaking stitches – white on white, glitter on net and precious metal on silk that are still exquisitely worked in squalid lanes where artisans toil day in and day out. Old men with fading eyes and nimble fingers produce work worthy of any court, king or concubine and they remember me and I am flattered. Elsewhere in dim basements cheeky, flirtatious young men work on sparkling wraps for older women to wear on magic nights - I could be flattered. Mostly I look forward to the early morning walk along the banks of the Gomti where dhobi wallahs drag white cloth from filthy water and beat it on worn laundry stones belonging to their forefathers. It emerges from this punishment so pure and white why am I not surprised? Never - this river after all feeds Ma Ganga. 

Whiter than white. Gomti River, Lucknow. Image C Douglas 2010

Back in my own home on the eve of departure the colour of India today is pink as in the floating camellias at my front door; her smell is the cardamom used in last night’s shrikant and still wafts from my fingers; her taste is mango – the first of the season eaten at breakfast; her texture the hand woven scarf I pack for cooler nights - organic cotton and silk dyed in indigo by Chaman whose vats never run, rub or fade; her sound is the camel bell I ring as I enter my work/think/dreaming space – just as I ring the temple bell at Koteshwar while the sun sets over Kori Creek and Pakistan. 

Westernmost edge of India, Koteshwar. Pakistan across Kori Creek. Image C Douglas 2003

Ah she is such a tease is India. I’ll follow her anywhere. Next post from Mumbai.

The Season of Thieves

The violation happened with absolute panache; one moment my wallet lay safely zippered in the innermost pocket of my pack which sat safely right next to me on a leather covered bench in the store; the next moment it was gone. The problem lay in me not knowing exactly which moment. Had I been in possession of that vital piece of information I would still be in possession of my wallet and its contents -– a few hundred Euros and maybe 20 Australian dollars, two credit cards, my bank debit card, a Travelex Cash Passport plus my driver’s license, Medicare card, a few important business cards and a copy of my passport. I learned the hard way (in Spain) long ago to always and without exception leave the original securely ‘at home’.

On Tuesday I was enjoying some time alone in the centre of Palma slowly wandering the streets running off Plaza Major with some serious window shopping and a little actual shopping in mind. The main influx of tourists had departed the week before and the city was pleasantly uncrowded. I was on my way to pick up a pair of sandals that I'd earlier ordered and taking the opportunity to revisit old haunts en route. It is reaffirming to be remembered and warmly greeted by shop owners after a three year absence; the woman who, for five years, sold me brightly coloured fans to give to my tour groups in India gave me a huge hug, summonsed her husband out to meet me and offered the usual discount when I bought several for the group next month; the German woman in the arty clothing store tried once again to sell me clothing that would not quite fit and I managed to escape without trying anything on. I then bought some real lavender soap and a few small items for friends at home before I ran short on cash. At the nearest ATM I withdrew 200 Euros on my Travelex Cash Passport and made my way to the shoe store.

‘Excuse please” said a voice in my ear ‘how much these shoes are?’ The fresh faced young woman who leaned across me held a turquoise and blue walking shoe out for my inspection – it was very chic, very European. The price tag said 45 Euros, which I pointed out to her. She sort of nudged me along on the bench and sat beside me. I asked her where she was from and I believe she said ‘Grecia’ in a thick accent! She then pulled a black and red version of the same shoe off the rack alongside us. ‘Which should I buy’ she said leaning even closer. I was aware of her friend standing behind us and peering with interest at the shoes. ‘The turquoise’ I replied ‘they will match the sea surrounding your country.’ How stupidly romantic can one be in a rush of female camaraderie? In the folly that is hindsight my radar should have been on high alert when she asked the salesgirl, not for her size, but instead what sizes they had in store. Conveniently, of course, they did not have hers and I returned my attention to my own feet and the new sandals. When I looked up the two women had disappeared from the store and when I went to pay so had my wallet. In utter disbelief, rage and anguish and still wearing the new and unpaid for sandals I sprinted to the shop where I had made my last purchase – just in case.

In my brief absence the shop girls had called in the local police who patrol the streets at this time of year – the high season of thieves – those quick handed, well practiced pickpockets and bag snatchers of tourist-infested Spain. Two black-clad, gun-toting young officers promised to go looking immediately; one of the girls escorted me to a taxi in which I fled to the Aquarium and to Mike who was reuniting with his old work buddies. By the time I had made contact with Travelex UK less than 30 minutes later my account had been stripped down to a mere one hundred dollars.  The company had suspended my card due to ‘unusual activity’ but not before $1200 had been removed. The pair had been watching me since my own transaction, had taken ownership of my pin number which, according to the police, is now easily accomplished with digital devices, and then stalked me all the way to the kill.

It is 2 am here in Genova as I write this. A lightning storm is dancing over the bay. I have been to the Oficina de Denuncias at midnight and have just spoken to Travelex via Skype. I now have the times and addresses of the ATMs and shops where the fraudulent transactions took place with and without success. Surveillance cameras may (por favor) help fill some gaps. I have a feeling that this event is far from over and that my love of investigation may yield, if not a positive outcome, then material for some future undertaking. Tomorrow we go face spotting with the local police and in the meantime if you see an attractive young woman of 25 or so, dressed in a white tee shirt, red shorts and red and white walking shoes, her hair drawn into a topknot, her dark eyes peering from behind elegant diamante studded glasses and bearing a purple leather wallet then feel free to make a citizen’s arrest. Her accomplice will be busily studying a local map just like any other tourist! If you are traveling then watch your back, front and sides and your wallet and watch this space for the next instalment. It gets better!

Awakening the Tiger

Some time, and who knows or really cares when ensnared in a metal-clad container moving at 760 kph through the night sky, I was roused from semi sleep by Captain Stephen Young instructing us to return to our seats and buckle up for a rough ride ahead. ‘…to be expected’ his disembodied voice informed us ‘at this time of year over the Bay of Bengal’. Visions of the thunder and lightning, foul winds and sheeting rain of late monsoon playing out underneath us were nothing compared to the turbulent vision of the Bengali tiger lurking in the Sundarbans far below.

The Sundarbans: where the mighty Ganges Delta mingles with the Bay of Bengal.
Image: Landstat 7 NAASA Earth Observatory.

I can so easily conjour up the beast, imagine it stalking the unwary in murky mangrove labyrinths and swimming brackish streams in search of further prey. I too easily conjour up the Bengali tiger of my childhood. The great cat that escaped from the circus and had my brother and I scared witless as we listened at the door separating us from the grown ups listening to the Sunday night serial on the wireless. Our mother scared us even further when she opened the door suddenly and my brother fell forward into the dining room. Her roar was louder at that instant than any man eating tiger in the jungle of nightmares; it chased us all the way into our darkened room; it howled us into our beds and echoed as we scrunched down under the blankets. Some time later my brother whispered loudly ‘What if the Bengali tiger is hiding under the bed?’ Since that moment, even on the hottest of nights, I am never able to drop my arm over the side of the bed without imagining the predatory tiger lying in wait.
 

Royal Bengali Tiger. Image from internet.

I have never seen a Bengali (or any other) tiger in the wild and while I imagine I’d like to, I don’t really expect to. The closest I have come to one was at the circus where a beast far, far larger than life performed under the whip of its trainer, allowed him to place his head in its mouth and playfully swiped its great paws in a mock fight. We were enthralled. Later Dad told us that the tiger was both toothless and clawless and even at my tender age I thought it utterly cruel. But zoos are somehow worse. I could not bear to gaze for too long on the cages that held animal captive and human captivated. The restless pacing back and forth, the glazed eyes yearning for worlds unknown to me and the power rippling just beneath the surface made me sad and terrified all at once. My last encounter was in an erstwhile Maharajah’s palace on the edge of the Arabian Sea. Bengali or not, the sight of this huge stuffed relic with its glassy stare and silenced roar made my heart heavy. To the puzzled concern of my guide, I cried as I walked around its dusty case and studied it closely; its sheer size impossible to imagine as a moving mass – a striped body silently stealing through dappled forests – now you see me now you don’t! And now don’t is almost the operative word. At last count as few as 270 Royal Bengali tigers remain in the Sundarbans where they continue to swim between the islands and hunt for diminishing prey. They are also reported to kill as many as 100 villagers per year. My childhood fears were not totally unfounded.

But fears aside, tigers still figure in my life in curious ways. My Jungle Book sits on dusty shelves where my sympathy for Shere Khan in the face of Mowgli’s guile remains. My son has a tiger’s head tattooed on his right bicep. Faithfully copied from his favourite book of childhood, 'Paper Tiger', Simon says it keeps him safe. I wear a tiger’s eye bracelet for protection when traveling and a pot of talismanic Tiger Balm is never far from reach. And I am married to a tiger – that most auspicious year of birth in the Chinese calendar. But it is my friend Shweta, in Mumbai, who is passionate about saving India’s dwindling population of fewer than 1,500 tigers. She keeps them alive for me in her news of their fate and their survival rates in the wild.

But then, we are all caught in a race for survival. No longer wild, we have chosen instead to tame the jungle, claim top place in the food chain and imagine that we are the centre of the universe. Alas, poor Tiger.

The next time I awoke we were somewhere over Iran, India and turbulence and tigers left far behind. We were on a smooth trajectory to Barcelona. I lifted my window shade and there, on the wing tip, rode the blue moon of September.

I’ll be in Bengal in November. I dream of a boat trip into the Sundarbans. Perhaps like Pi I'll have a striped companion but am I yet brave enough to confront the waiting beast?

Winnie the Pooh was not at all afraid when he met Tigger!

Tiger Tiger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake

Finding Marigolds

 

My grandfather grew marigolds in amongst his vegetables to keep pests at bay; I pressed marigold petals into mud pies and used them to decorate sand-saucers for school gala days and later grew them in my first organic garden. These simple flowers occupy a special place in my adult heart. Their spicy perfume takes me straight back to childhood, to sticky fingers and to helping Didi (as we called our grandfather) pick grub–free vegetables although sometimes fat, green boiled caterpillars appeared on our plates amongst the equally boiled cabbage. But it is the colour of marigolds – that indescribable luminescence that stirs my soul especially on monsoonal days in India when wet grey sidewalks magnify the sight of nimble fingers threading garlands for the gods. Such a vision for jet lagged eyes! 

Mumbai monsoon © CDouglas 2011

At Temple Old City Ahmedabad © CDouglas 2008

Although I yearn to I can’t take the real thing home with me but there is a vendor in the old city markets of Ahmedabad who gives me a such a good deal on his artificial garlands that I collect a few on every visit. I imagine I will put them aside for a rainy day in Sydney and besides, they weigh little, pack down to almost nothing and whatever material they are made of it is indestructible. The garlands that hang around our garden have survived several wet winters and blazing summers and show no signs of fading or falling apart. Their loud exuberance makes me smile and takes me straight back to India, to chaotic streets, to busy temples and to helping Jabbar spread marigolds out to dry on his rooftop in Bhuj. 

Vendor, Old city Ahmedabad © CDouglas 2008

Master bandhani artisan, friend and Muslim *Khatri by name and occupation, Jabbar collects dead garlands from Hindu temples and turns them into dye. He creates marigold scarves for me based on my stylised interpretation of the flowers. His highly skilled artisans tie minute knots that faithfully follow my design and Jabbar then boils the silk in the marigold solution. The miracle of the first batch, of watching the colour develop in the steaming vessel, opening the knots and seeing the lacelike tracery of dots emerge – an intricate floral garden on glowing silk is a golden memory. Alchemy in action! When we hung them out to dry on the terrace we marvelled at the colour flowing against a deep blue sky. I love the significance of these scarves; I love the way they cut a swathe through creed and I love the way that the dead blooms give new life to the silk and pass their spirit onto the wearer. Reincarnation is a truth and I wear my scarf with gratitude.

Dried blooms © CDouglas 2009

Alchemy in Action © CDouglas 2009

Banners for the heaven © CDouglas 2009

And while all of India venerates the humble marigold, in my view it is Rajasthan that takes it to a higher plane. This place is orange at heart – Marigold to the core and the perfect setting for a movie and if you are reading this then I am sure you have already seen Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. After several viewings I can almost quote it word for word – and I’ll watch it again and probably again. The film is a finely grained version of the India I know intimately; the utter thrill of the traffic, the cacophony, the chaos, the colours and the constant flowing river of humanity. In a sudden revelation after the third viewing I realised that I could recognise myself in each of the characters – each one symbolising a stage in my own journey and each stage ultimately inspiring the best in me. I last watched it in July while flying home from Mumbai and by the time the flight landed in Sydney I had created the Best Exotic Indian Adventure. After eight years of organising special tours to the subcontinent this is the one that inspires me to new heights. I too need to rediscover marigolds.

Marigolds found © CDouglas 2007

There is a time in life to partake of marigolds … watch this space.

• Khatri is the surname that denotes the occupation of dyer.  Kutch Khatris migrated to Kutch from Sindh from 17^th century onwards. The name is ascribed to Muslim and Hindu dyers.

Please contact me directly for further information on the tour. 

Wisdom at my Feet

Whenever I arrive and depart from Mumbai I have a one stop ‘makeover’ at the Taj Hotel's salon in Colaba. After passing the security check, a grim reminder of the events of 2008, I enter the rarified air of Mumbai’s finest hotel and, without a sideways glance, I pass the discretely expensive stores lining white marbled corridors and welcome the blast of cold air that greets me as I go down the stairs into the surprisingly understated salon. I cannot remember how I discovered this oasis amidst Colaba’s bedlam but I would not go past it. Nobody does feet the way that Kailash does. More than one hour of washing, soaking, skin removal (with a new blade unwrapped in my presence), filing, massaging, buffing and polishing and his promise is more than met. I have feet with skin as ‘soft as a baby’ and nails, that seemed beyond salvation, now worthy of any hand-made golden sandal from Pioneer Footwear on the Causeway! Kailash is my hero – since my first pedicure ten years ago an insipient and sometimes nagging ingrown nail is banished from my right big toe! My newly burnished feet then float me into a traditional, all natural, Indian facial, threading and waxing with Margaret or Lily whom I alternate to avoid any hint of favouritism. But it is the wisdom gained, the gossip whispered and the insights into the lives of everyday Mumbaikers that I love the most. I learn about the public transport system, wages, the gap between rich and poor and the latest about various family members.

On this last visit I learned about the ‘God Particles’ from my Hindu friend Kailash (news of this did not reach me in Bhuj - the subject of lack of rain was uppermost). He gazed dreamily as he massaged the sore points on my right sole (and maybe soul) and waxed on vaguely about dark matter and a machine in Europe. ‘This is nothing new’ he almost whispered ‘all knowledge is written into the Vedas’. Qantam physics and the ‘Dancing Wu Li Masters’, God and science, the human condition and the eternal question and he flatters me when he tells me I understand such things. Meanwhile the large Saudi Arabian gentleman in the next chair complains constantly about trifles and his aching feet, and the shouting from a nearby cubicle is attributed to another having his back waxed. Saudis come in droves during monsoon – for the rain. At the Godwin Hotel where I normally stay, I love this time of year, sharing a crowded lift with unsmiling white robed men and burqa–clad women whose eyes I cannot quite read. Later, when the men have gone off to do whatever it is they do, I am invited by burqaless women into rooms crowded with shopping and extra beds where I am plied with sweets and tea and quizzed about my life in Australia. We are complicit – women sharing whispered intimacies in the best possible way.

Margaret, on the other hand, is strictly Roman Catholic and has an equally strict hand as she deftly removes the long hairs from my legs. I save them up because she is so good, fast, efficient and painless and her treatment somehow lasts. She gossips in the kindest way and with some envy tells me that Kailash is ‘very rich’ for he is soon off to Ireland for three months where his son manages a salon. I do not disillusion her with tales of global economic woe. She then tells me in one long sentence that Tom Cruise is in the hotel, that the ‘God Particles’ are merely made by mortals and not by God’s hand, that her ninety year old client recently had her eyes ‘done’ and that she herself will soon retire. I drift off as yet another layer of jasmine scented oil soaks into my Kachchh parched skin. Bliss. Whenever my tour groups finish or begin in Mumbai I recommend a treatment or two – booked well ahead before we travel and at half the cost of the Australian version.

My last stop for this final day in Mumbai is the GPO and after an argument with a fractious taxi driver I head for Shakil’s wrapping stand. He is another hero who rescues me from the insanity of the postal system and is a truly good man from his unruly beard to his large, gnarled, flat feet. He once posted a package on my behalf due to the sudden closure of the GPO; he estimated Rs4000/- and the next time I landed in Mumbai and switched sim cards in my phone there was a message informing me to collect Rs1800 as he had guessed wrongly. The Karmic spirit indeed flows across creed. This time we efficiently wrap, fill in and photo copy customs forms and he leads me to counter 3 to avoid the queue. The clerk is sitting sipping chai, fiddling with papers and studiously avoiding our presence. Shakil Pir Mohamed raps sharply on the dirty glass partition and demands service.

‘This post office staff’ he tells me loudly enough for all to hear  ‘once they have the government chair they do as they wish to do. They never cares about the customer!’ His own chair is a rickety stool on an uneven pavement on one of the busiest corners in Mumbai  and from which he conducts his business – demystifying the postal system. He rarely sits except to stitch. He does care about the customer.

Pressure Rising

The blooming

Mumbai sizzled on the edge of monsoon. The sea wall along the waterfront a solid line of the young and old, men, women and children sitting, watching, waiting and catching the breeze. Turgid water lunged at the rocks, spray rose, people squealed, saris fluttered and then a few drops of rain and the wall suddenly blossomed, umbrellas snapped open, catching the light and fluoresced. Umbrellas in India? Any shade you desire. Couples huddled under plastic, umbrellas, jackets – no longer clandestine – love is in the open! Overnight the city became green, lush, damp and steaming. I find new energy in this weather change. Barometer rises, barometer falls along with the blood!

Haji Ali Mosque Mumbai

Ahmedabad a few days later suffocated the lungs. Caught as it is in its own desert climate, intensified by concrete and relentless sun. I ran helter skelter for my life dodging traffic and seeking shade where I could. Clouds did not gather only gloom. On the day I left for Bhuj a few drops reluctantly fell, squeezed from a sudden passing bank of clouds like blood from a stone. The drive was forlorn. A pair of wild ass far from their sanctuary wandered in search of fodder – risking death on this truck-laden highway. I made up some lines:

‘On the seventh mile of highway, my driver said to me, nine toppled trucks, eight dead dogs, seven autos racing, six horns abeeping, five goats ableating, four sweeping nuns, three  camel carts, two wild ass and a peahen in a neem tree!’

The silliness kept me occupied for a while and I did get to the twelfth mile. At Bachau I swapped cars and drivers. Umar was waiting and the exchange ensures a safe return for both drivers. I always feel at home in his presence, slip easily into this ten year relationship and quickly catch up on the gossip as we drive into the dusk. More factories and more slums line the entry into Bhuj and now Umar tells me development is good. He has changed his tune and I reprimand him. He who has sat with me during discussions with those whose livelihoods are threatened by the industrial juggernauts! But it's all a matter of checks and balances in the heavily weighted game of development! Pockets bulge in some quarters while others suffer as traditional grazing lands disappear, Chinese imports undercut the work of artisans, coal fired power stations destroy coastlines and fishing and villages get swallowed into new towns. He of course has plenty of business.

Kachchh in this July month simply shrivelled, seared by the sun and parched from lack of rain and coated in dust. The omnipresent dust of eons. Thousands of plastic bags caught in trees along the roadsides do nothing to enhance the view. They fluoresce ominously in the setting sun - unlike the umbrellas of a few days back. In Bhuj I was the only guest at the Hotel Prince – now officially closed (shades of being the only guest in the Gangaram soon after the earthquake!). I enjoyed the solitude of my usual room, 220, on the second floor although the corridor is now windowless and I put a towel along the bottom of the door to keep the dust at bay. The whole place is stripped out. A large foreman seemed to spend most of his time horizontal in the rubble as his lethargic workforce moved from one task to another without quite finishing anything. Young men plastered, painted and sanded amidst the usual tangles of electrical wiring. The lift worked (it still sang to me between all two floors), the telephone did not! The downstairs restaurant remained open to the public and a greatly reduced staff served thali three times a day. The owner’s son assures me they will be open by October and I am only thankful that I do not have a tour booked for then!

The golden moment in this flying visit was the late surfeit of mangos – organic, frozen, fresh, whole, juiced or pulped they sustained me until Mumbai and rain a few days later. I do not like flying visits such as this one, I neglect friendships although I did accomplish my mission albeit with dogged determination and sheer bloodymindedness. ‘Only crazy girls come to Kachchh in July’ I sent the text to Andrea from San Francisco also in Bhuj on her own dedicated mission. She agreed and we met for a quick meal in memory of Ranju. But more of missions next time, local wisdom and the beginnings of a story of a mansion in Mumbai.

I do note that I’ve been away and off the air for some time now. Me the blogger who promised herself that she would feed the words every week! Bear with me!

Regrouping - the new journey begins

I can’t begin to recount where the past five weeks have gone since I walked in the door from India and began the real work. They certainly disappeared down the chute of time so rapidly that I woke up one morning to the realisation that Markers for the Journey had opened the previous night. I was still wired – I mean how can the energy required to mount a major exhibition suddenly turn off? How can the unleashed creativity be abruptly reigned in and how can one face the space that held me captive while I cut, stitched, placed, sorted, pressed, printed and let my ideas run riot? I opened that door today and shut it again promptly. The clean up will wait for another time.  Instead I open up my computer and clean up the desktop – this activity takes less brainpower and certainly requires less physical energy although I do get caught up in images let loose on the screen. I sit absorbed into the memories of camels at sunset in the wide flat landscape near Chari Dhandh wetlands, the small giggling girls from Hodko carrying their water pots bright and new from the wedding the previous night and the seamed face of Ayub, camel trader from far away, as he wrote his name and number in my journal with such pride in his ability.

Girls with shiny new water pots the night after a wedding at Hodko.           © Carole Douglas 20912

If I were honest I’d say I was tired but I am afraid to give in because it is ten years since I accepted the invitation to exhibit at the Manly Art Gallery and Museum and now that I have done it I simply want to keep following the inspirations that were waiting for me in boxes – out of sight and out of mind and now in full vision and full frontal lobe! And it is much more than ten years since I exhibited my own work – funny how an earthquake changed my direction and lead me on a circuitous route to this.

Markers for the Journey is a reflection on my first15 years in Kachchh, a journey that is echoed in the narrative imagery of those who journey in the landscape of that most magnetic of places and it is a tribute to the people who have enriched my life in so many ways. And if you are in Kachchh and reading this then you know you are one of them! Thank you.

Kuldip Gadhvi and Sumar's brother share a yarn over early morning chai. © Carole Douglas 2011.           

I use three large screens onto which we project glimpses of the lives of wandering pastoral people – Maldhari, Fakirani Jats  and Rabari. While I know that in reality the divisions are not quite that cut and dried I use them as a framework from which to hang the details – the shelters, textiles, adornment, land use and ritual, and to uncover the patterns of life and the complex codes of tradition. The fourth screen, a 2m diameter circle of salt crystals on the gallery floor, carries circular symbols of heritage, beliefs and local iconography. The soundscape that accompanies the imagery was recorded over an extended period of time. It carries the ambient sounds of Kachchh and gives voice to the people and their animals who wander this resilient land. 

3 large screens and a circle of salt on the floor show images that reflect the wandering life. © Carole Douglas 2012

 The gallery space is divided (and thus darkened) by a ‘wall’ of floor to ceiling black woollen shawls found just in time (March) in Bharat’s shop in Bhuj. Brand new, 3.8 m in length and subtly tie dyed they are the answer to this artist’s prayers. On the wall facing the screens is a 3m length of heavy wooden dowel over which is draped the everyday textile items of pastoral communities – shawls, quilts, jackets, skirts, scarves – oudni, kanjiris, dadkis, choliyas – made not by any NGO or craft cooperative but by the people themselves. And like the people these items are honest, strong and enduring. 

Items of the everyday kind. Original pieces from Kachchh. © Carole Douglas 2012

Just two weeks before we set up the gallery, Mike and I went scavenging for branches to interpret the ‘markers’ pastoral communities place along roadsides to indicate a nearby camp. We looked far and wide and then found exactly what we needed close to home in the yard of the local ambulance station. They had cut down a mature gum tree – perfect branches, straight enough and forked in just the right places to hold the needs for journey – cloth covered water bottles, animal bells, bags and other necessary items. We finished off this darkened space with randomly placed round mirrors to catch the light in much the same way as a mud mirror wall or an embroidered bodice glints seductively and elusively. I now sit in this space – a piece of Kachchh within the walls of Manly Art Gallery and Museum - and watch the still and moving images as they morph one into another – a mirror becomes the sun becomes a shepherd’s eye … and I am ‘home’ again. And on the other side of this intimate space is another story for next time. 

Random mirrors and a 'marker' for the journey. © Carole Douglas 2012

Markers for the Journey is on at the Manly Art Gallery and Museum in Sydney until June 3^rd so if you are in the vicinity do drop in and become part of the magic of Kachchh. If not, then I will bring it to you – Inshallah.

Small Worlds

Surprising who you meet in unexpected places. Today I went shopping for fabric - of the kind worn by the shepherding communities of Kachchh – in particular the northern Banni/Pacham area. You may well wonder why I shop for such an unusual item here on the Northern Beaches of Sydney - a world or three away from the land of sheep, goats, camels, cows and buffalo. Indeed, all I saw today of animals on the busy roads leading to Belrose were recent road-kills – several possums and a wallaby. Not a loping camel in sight – but here's the real story. 

Camels on the Banni © Carole Douglas 2012

I am making a Toran (at least my interpretation) to welcome visitors into my exhibition space at Manly Art Gallery next month. Each ‘leaf’ is a tribute to certain people, communities and events that have ‘marked’ my own journey. Of great personal significance are the shepherds, the wanderers who criss-cross the rugged landscape with their herds. I spent one of my most memorable moments drinking chai with camel herders in 1995 during an early foray into remote areas. The camel milk brew was rich and satisfying and my hosts curious and hospitable. I have not since lost my fascination for this land and those who are so deeply connected to its essence.

Fakirani Jat shepherd boys at Chari Dhandh © Carole Douglas 2012

So when it came to the ‘leaf’ representing the various herding groups – Sumara, Raysepotra, Halepotra, Jat and others - I needed colours. Kuldip, bless him, sent me the six I requested and when I finally resolved the design, I knew I needed to complete the palette! By some quirk of fate, the self same poly-cotton from India is carried locally and it was not hard to source the various shades of red, purple, green, blue, grey and brown. I had a bag of scraps collected a few years back from a tailor’s floor in Khavda (the last service town before the Great Rann of Kachchh and the Pakistan border) and I carefully matched each colour. I apologised to the salesgirl for the effort required to carry and cut from several rolls of fabric when I only required a sliver of each. The young woman who so patiently served me had observed me matching the small remnants and asked what I was making. 

Khavda, the 'wild west' of Kachchh © Carole Douglas 2006

Men of Colour at Rann festival © Carole Douglas 2004

She, it turns out, is from Punjab and had done her masters in textiles and her thesis on Jute. We began a deep discussion on textiles until it was abruptly cut by the sharp look of an older salesperson. We exchanged email ids and I will contact Shuki. She believes there is no application for her knowledge; I believe there is. India, Spotlight and shepherds. It's a small world.

Then I went to Bunnings Warehouse to choose the paint sample for the words that will spell out on the gallery wall, the names of many herders and their wives and children met along the way. In the dimly lit cavernous space and with my glasses in the car, I picked out a couple of paint chips that seemed to be the right shades and drove home. The names revealed on the chips? Camel Cord and Buffalo Brown. I could not have chosen better with my specs on! Small world interconnected at the very core! 

Buffalo. Not Northern Beaches but Nhakatrana © Carole Douglas 2009

Tourist not Terrorist

The last time I used this phrase was in 2002 when the Indian-Pakistan border was flaring again and Stealth bombers vied with the local crows for dominance of the bleached skies over Kachchh. I was woken at 2 am by heavy banging on the door of my room at the Lakeview Hotel – a seedy establishment opposite Harmisar Lake which belies its name. The lake is merely a pond fed by the sky and, depending on the latest monsoon, varies from being a fetid muddy puddle to a vast, overflowing water body. The intruders were the police checking up on itinerants and I was only concerned that they would find my bottle of whisky stashed under a pile of clothes in the closet. After checking my papers - which they could not read - and casting their eyes over my room (and semi clothed body) they departed. They did not comprehend my early morning play on words and they did not find the bottle!

A few days back - although the way I keep dropping in and out of shifting time zones it is rapidly disappearing into weeks - I was summonsed from the Lufthansa Lounge where I was calmly recovering my mislaid wits and ordered to follow a young man into the nether reaches of Mumbai’s unpronouncable International airport. It was a long journey downwards in creaking lifts and across vast spaces filled with baggage handling equipment, scanning devices and luggage of all shapes and sizes. It was hot, airless and fume laden. And I was tired. The offending items were in my small overnight bag and I was instructed to locate and remove them while the authorities stood behind a metal partition. I duly removed all the plugs, cables, adaptors and camera bits and pieces. I had not removed the rechargeable batteries from the charger and I had not wound and tied the leads and cables in an orderly fashion. They showed me the x-rayed jumble on the screen and I have to admit it did not look good.  After a lecture on keeping my accessories in neatly wound bundles I was escorted back to the lounge by the young man, who managed a smile at my old joke, just in time to gather my carry on bags and catch the flight home. I have not yet recovered my wits or my mislaid property. I did have Laksmi in my wallet so I hope she will find her way back to me along with the contents of said item intact. Mumbai is a city of the ‘great distraction’ and taxis seem to have a way of disengaging the mind while swallowing loose stuff. No blame.

More than a month has passed since my last posting. A month of dust, mud and cold winds (it snowed in Kashmir hence Kachchh was icy);  a month of hot breathed camels, high stepping goats and steaming buffalo; a month of sitting in circles  drinking scalding smoky chai made from various milks and a month of recording the sounds and images of those who wander the land in charge of flocks and herds – the Jats, Sumara, Maldhari, Rabari and shepherds of many remote communities. The call of morning birdsong is a miracle of the wakening world; the shrill cries of camel herders a ululation in the wild; the passing of goats in the dust a chattering cacophony of hoofs, bells, clicks and bleats. I recorded the makings of a symphony of the land and the challenge to turn it into the music it deserves to be lies ahead.

Bleating cacophony of sheep goats and shepherd. Lakhpat area. © Carole Douglas 2012

Pattern of movement. Dhebireya Rabari group (Kachchh) heading  for Saurashtra. © Carole Douglas 2009

I now move into the production phase of editing and shaping the impressions of a wandering life via four projection surfaces including salt, several speakers and an installation of ‘markers’ to map territory and identify place in the ‘jungli’ - local term for wilderness and wildness.  I hope you will join me, in heart if not in body, at the opening of 'Markers for the Journey' on April 27^th  6pm, at Manly Art Gallery and Museum, Sydney.