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Monday, January 20th – Parbatsar to Pushkar, 16,653 km
Having gone to bed around 9pm last night, I am up and fully rested at sunrise this morning. The Jain priest stops by our tent and summons us to join him on his morning walk. I am not sure where he will be leading me but I am on my own. Frank has found another broken spoke and is silently fuming while taking his rear wheel off. I leave him to do what he needs to do and I follow the priest silently. He leads me along scarcely visible trails that follow the edges of fields and through small thickets. This must be what much of India is like, small trails through rural fields linking close-knot villages. The priest carries with him a small tin pail on a handle.
He is making his rounds to the faithful, offering his services and collection yogurt in his pail as his reward. He stops at a mechanic's shop and at a couple merchants, then at a farmer's house before returning to his temple. Each of the followers he visits eyes me with curiosity and surprise. My presence makes the priest's visit more interesting. I am not sure if he is bringing me along to show me a slice of Indian life or for the added prestige of having a foreign visitor gives him. Whatever the reason, I appreciate participating in his routine.
When we return, I find that Frank has finished fixing his bike and has broken down and packed the tent. He has his camera out and uses mime to offer to take a photograph of the priest on the outdoor meditation veranda of the temple. A few of the boys from yesterday have dropped by and watch the process with delight. The priest poses in a lotus position as though he is really meditating, but he is at the wrong angle for the light. Frank asks the boys if it is all right to interrupt him to suggest he move, wanting not to offend him, but the priest is more than willing to have the best shot possible. The photo shoot serves his vanity.
We thank him for his kindness and he offers a blessing for our travels through the translation services of the boys. We say our goodbyes and leave Parbatsar, following Hwy 7 southwest through the villages of Rupangarh and Sursura, and then south to the city of Kishangarh. It is 1 pm when we arrive in Kishangarh so we here stop for lunch. Kishangarh isn't very large, perhaps 15,000 people, but has a huge fortification. Rajasthan was constantly divided and almost always in a state of war so all major towns have serious fortifications. We don't have time to visit them all.
It is slightly more than an hour's ride to Ajmer, the major town of this region of Rajasthan. Like Kishangarh, it is situated on a pretty lake, with bathing ghats for religious cleansings. There is a lovely Red Fort and a bustling market. I am sure I could find enough to do to spend a day in every larger town we have passed though because there is so much to see. But both of us are anxious to get to Pushkar so we move on after a quick tour of the city.
As we are leaving we witness and a silly piece of drama on the street. One driver cuts off another and horns start blaring. Both drivers get out and have a heated argument over who was in the wrong. Suddenly, James, the impatient, hot-tempered, bossy Brit we met at the tourist camp in New Delhi and again in the youth hostel in Jaipur, is right in the middle of it on his bicycle blowing a gasket. He's screaming at the drivers at the top of his lungs, telling them to stop acting like idiots and tying up traffic. His reaction is totally out of proportion and unnecessary, and embarrassing to me as a Western visitor. The two drivers who were arguing stare at him is disbelief, look back at each other and break out laughing. All the onlookers are watching James, not the drivers, so he rides away in an angry huff. I feel relieved that he hasn't seen or spoken to us.
Pushkar is maybe 8 km from Ajmer as the crow flies but a large ridge of the Aravali Mountains stands between them. It requires us to use a 25 km route that goes around the north end of the ridge. We get lost outside the city at a T-intersection, about half of the way there, not knowing which way to turn to get to Pushkar. Frank leaves me holding his bike while he goes into a store to ask directions. While I am standing there, a heavy set, shirtless man comes out onto his second floor balcony in a house across the road. He stands with his arms braced at the railing like he enjoying the morning air, but then he bends over and starts puking onto the ground below. A dog sees this and runs over to lap it up. The man heaves again, totally covering the head and back of the dog in puke. The dog does not react other than to keep gulping down the puke with zeal.
Frank returns a few seconds later, while I am still queasy from the scene across the street. "We turn left," he informs me. I don't want to talk about what I have seen so I say nothing.
I am thankful for the ridge of mountains between Ajmer and Pushkar. The extra effort to get there increases our anticipation and it sets Pushkar apart in a world of its own. It is quaint town of under 10,000, set around the northern perimeter of a small circular lake. Being a pilgrimage site and the location of one of the largest annual camel fairs in India, Pushkar is full of small hotels and inns. It has the charm of Sagres in Portugal, Goreme in Turkey or Provincetown in Massachusetts, a town built for and its economy based on travelers. Unlike most Indian cities, it is clean and neat, almost pristine. There are dozens of sacred bathing ghats along the edges of the lake, and the buildings are mostly painted white, adding to the illusion of purity. The open Thar Desert to the west comes right up to its door and seems to stretch on forever.
The main street follows the shoreline behind the row of buildings that front onto the lake. We find a pleasant hotel with about forty rooms along here. There are no Hindu religious holidays on at present, or the famous camel fair that runs through November and December, so there are plenty of available rooms. The guests are mostly Western travelers. Frank and I take a walk after our shower. We follow the main street to its end a kilometre later. Most of the town is stretched out on this street so we have seen it all in twenty minutes. From the end of the street where we can see the town wrapping the lake, the sunset looks lovely glowing on the surface of the lake and on the white walls of the buildings.
I meet some of the travelers in our hotel at dinner in the hotel's dining room, which also has a restive outdoor patio with picnic tables. I spend most of the dinner chatting with a tall, handsome youth from Vancouver, named David. He is charming and attractive, full of youthful energy and attitudes. It occurs to me that I am lonely for intimate contact. Due to illness, depression or sharing rooms with Frank and other straights, I haven't masturbated since I was in Iran, about 10 weeks ago. I haven't ever gone anywhere nearly as long since I discovered the magic of beating off when I was a teenager. Gandhi stopped having sex or masturbating when he was 37. That is a comforting thought!
PHOTO 1: Jain priest is a praying pose
PHOTO 2: school children in marching exercise
PHOTO 3: Kishangarh Fort
PHOTO 4: Red Fort in Ajmer
PHOTO 5: bathing ghats on Anasangar Lake, Ajmer
PHOTO 6: Mansingh Palace, Ajmer
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