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Thursday, January 23rd – Masuda to Devgarh, 16,833 km
With nothing much to shop for in the village of Masuda, Frank and I set off early, around 9 am, heading westward on another narrow, twisty side road towards Beawar. There is next to no traffic, a blessing in India, but he has a slight headwind. Half an hour out of Masuda the road switchbacks up 180 m to get over a rocky ridge, and then drops down again. Half an hour later we are on the outskirts of Beawar.
Beawar is a relatively new town, built by the British as a cotton and wool processing centre about 156 years ago. It has the well-planned, wider streets and streamlined look of a planned city. It is the largest city we have passed through since Jaipur. The name Beawar, which looks Indian, actually came from signs set up at the edge of town when it was created, warning locals to "Be Aware" of vehicles moving cotton.
We stop here for breakfast and to buy snacks for the road, then set out again heading south. The new road is larger, but not the main truck route. It takes us another six hours at a steady pace to reach our objective, the town of Devgarh. The road follows the flow of the Aravali Mountains south-west, passing through the villages of Bali and Barar along the way.
At one point we encounter a group of villagers gathered around a truck that has run into a small ditch. They have built a diversion to direct traffic around it, complete with a carefully-constructed rock wall with a "Diversion ->" sign on it. The ditch is very shallow and it doesn't look like it would take much to get the truck out of it, while they have probably spent hours building the diversion. Perhaps there is something else wrong with the truck preventing it from working, but Frank and I concur that it would not be unusual here to see so much energy being spent inefficiently, sometimes for no other reason but to provide employment for workers.
We also come across a team of women digging a ditch through the rocky soil with pick axes and shovels. The ditch will be used to bury optic cables for telecommunications between Delhi and Mumbai, we are told when we ask. It is hard labour, considered men's work back home, but here the men stand around and watch the women do the heavy work. It's about status, not chivalry, here.
It's our afternoon break in Barar. We stop to adjust our bags beside a school where a teacher is teaching his class in a covered area outside. The teacher pauses to speak with us in English, asking about our travels. The young boys in his class seem to be mesmerized by us so Frank snaps a picture. They don't smile or ham it up like children in Canada would. They stare transfixed as though they are trying to make sense of us.
We continue on to Devgarh, a modest-sized town, but there is plenty of traffic and a confusing street pattern. There is a campground in the vicinity but we cannot find it. I stop to ask a man on the street who gives us directions and engages us in conversation for a few minutes. His name is Gurdev and his English is excellent. He seems anxious to be an intimate friend. He tells me he is a hair salon operator and points out his shop to us. Out of politeness, I tell him that if we have enough energy we will return to visit with him.
As soon as we set up the tent, Frank inspects his rear wheel and finds two more broken spokes. He is more frustrated than I have ever seen him before, and I know well enough to leave him alone. I take a walk to the centre of town and locate Gurdev in his shop, which is empty when I arrive. "Would you like a haircut?" he asks me. I need one so I say yes. Half a dozen men of varying ages come into the shop to watch the White man get his hair cut.
Gurdev says I would look better if he dyed my hair to get rid of the grey. Oh no, I think I better not, I tell him, but he asks my viewing audience if I should have my hair dyed and they all agree I should. I laugh and give in. One should try new things when traveling, I decide, but when Gurdev starts applying black dye to my light brown hair I freak out. Not black dye! That will look terrible, I exclaim, but Gurdev explains that black is the only colour they have in India. I should insist he rinse it out right away, but I give in again, hoping that it will not look as bad as I fear it will.
It looks worse than I feared it would. Gurdev even managed to dye the top edge of my right ear black. The black colour makes my skin look so sallow, so anemic. I leave his salon regretting the whole experience, as though I have just wet my pants and there is no way to hide my accident. It will pass, but for the coming weeks I will suffer the consequences of my stupid choice.
It is pitch black (like my hair) when I get back to the campground. Frank is in his sleeping bag in the tent when I arrive. I am relieved that he won't see my hair until morning. But I don't want to shock him either. I have something to confess, I tell him. I have had my hair dyed black. Why did you do that? he asks me. I will be asking myself that question for years to come, I reply.
PHOTO 1: Hanumann Temple in Beawar
PHOTO 2: the diversion
PHOTO 3: men supervising women digging a ditch
PHOTO 4: the outdoor school room
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