Let's find out whether the first of Rajasthan's coloured cities is indeed as blue as it is claimed.
Jodhpur - the blue city.
Or is it once again a trick to attract more tourists?
I am curious to see if the euphoric eulogy of my friends is correct. Rajasthan is supposed to be very different from the rest of India, more so than any other state except Ladakh, as we have found out. So more quiet, fewer people, more relaxed, more leisurely?
We will see …
Rajasthan - colored spots in the middle of desolate desert
When you set out on a journey, you disappear in one place on the map and appear in another. In between you're somewhere or nowhere, sometimes on a plane, on the road, on a river, at sea. The point on the map that I'm heading for is big and wide and empty and yet full of wonder. So I'm on the way there on the night train from Delhi to Jodhpur.
The name itself sounds mystical, it contains, like many other things in India, secrets, wonders, the unseen, the unheard of.
It will be a trip to the heart of the desert Thar. Where no huge worms live as in Dune, but camels, donkeys, snakes, lizards, Nilgau antelopes ... And also a few million people, an almost negligible number compared to the rest of the country. Most of them live in the cities. Jaipur. Bikaner. Jodhpur. Udaipur …
Their names cause a tightening in the chest. One senses the mysterious. The ancient stories. Colored houses appear before the mind's eye, blue, red, yellow, brown … And sand, endless desolate plains and no life. Or perhaps there is? Life takes place everywhere.
Even in the Thar desert.
Stupid Foreigners!
The only thing that bothers me about rail travel is the imposition of having to get off somewhere because the journey is over. (Sten Nadolny)
And if you don't believe that, I refer to the wonderful train books by Paul Theroux. (The great Railway Bazaar or The old Patagonian Express as examples)
So the night train from Delhi to Jodhpur will take me to the promised land. I am at the station in time, looking for carriage number, people all around with the same intention. Everybody's rushing, impatient. Stress.
Usually you can assume that the ticket shows the correct car and seat number. But we are in India, and so I indeed manage to get the right car and the right seat number, but the wrong compartment.
Just the worried face of the corpulent Indian, standing before my bed with a look of anger and doubt, indicates that something is wrong. His family stands behind him with fearful looks, two girls and the equally corpulent lady of his heart.
As much as I hate to admit it, he's right. Surprisingly, there is a first and a second class in the same car with the exact same seat numbers. The conductor shakes his head looking at my ticket and compliments me with a reproachful expression to the right place, that is to say to the second class, where I actually find my seat number again.
In his eyes I can see what is going on behind his forehead, but remains unsaid.
"Stupid Foreigners!"
A possible armada of living things
After these initial frictions, I happily prepare for a wonderful journey through pitch-dark India.
Since I am travelling with light luggage and therefore do not have a sleeping bag with me, I have to make do with the woollen blanket which the Indian railway company generously provides me with.
The idea of what armada of very small and less small creatures might be hiding in there would have spurred my imagination to galloping jumps until recently, but now, after a few weeks in India, I don't care.
I will have to undergo an integral cleansing and disinfection cure at home.
The train actually departs on time, the knocking of the wheels on the rails and switches gets louder and louder until it slowly turns into a monotonous chant and drives away any kind of insomnia in no time.
Outside, the nocturnal India rushes by once more, the last look out of the window shows shadowy shapes, some still and immobile, others in a strange way alive.
Singhvi's Haveli Hotel
On arrival in Jodhpur it's half past eight in the morning, a TukTuk driver takes me to Singhvi's Haveli Hotel.
The drive through the narrow alleyways between mostly blue painted houses provides a first impression of this city. At first sight as sad and hard and bleak as similar cities in the rest of India. A lot of rubbish on the road, holes and ditches on the surface, which forces the TukTuk driver to make breakneck maneuvers. But there is something that makes me doubt the first impression. Maybe it's the happy voices coming out of the houses, a bit hollow and distorted, but still showing an infectious joy of life.
The houses make a run-down impression, but the old splendour from times long past still shines through. Artful decorations on the crumbling walls, windows that look more like air-permeable grilles, perhaps once serving quite different purposes. And above all, as everywhere else, cables for electricity and telephone and other things …
Havelis
Havelis used to be trading posts, equipped with all kinds of riches, and also Singhvi's Haveli Hotel still shows the beauties of that time. Nothing on the trip indicated that I would spend the next night in an extraordinary building, a hotel like from Thousand and One Nights.
You enter the property through a metal gate into a courtyard, the TukTuk driver unloads me and disappears with a roaring engine. The greeting is short and friendly, they have reserved for me – as they proudly announce – one of the most beautiful rooms and wish me a pleasant stay.
Yes, it should be like this always and everywhere.
Over two steep stairs I find a chamber, which I have to cross on the way to my room. The living rooms of the havelis are usually located on the upper floors and are mainly furnished with boxes, chests and pillows. Singhvi's Haveli is a great example of this unique combination of different objects whose function is not apparent at first glance.
But I am touched, impressed and feel a strange grief over the end of past glory.
One thousand and one nights in Jodhpur - and my room, lovingly furnished, you feel good
I can't complain about my room, on the contrary! It's exactly what I imagine a thousand and one nights. They have taken great care in decorating the walls, the bedstead is painted, I would personally pay a beer to the artist in charge for his efforts.
I am quite sure - I will spend a wonderful night in this room.
The Meherangarh Fort
It is very hot here at the edge of the Thar Desert; aircon and ventilator are just able to compensate a little for the heat. But this shall not bother me, so after breakfast I set off to discover the real jewel of Jodhpur, the Meherangarh Fort, a fortress that dwarfs everything I've seen so far.
You can reach it either by a road or in my case through the alleys of the old town, among the blue-white houses. I start sweating before you even reach the entrance, where the usual fee, this time also for the audio support, has to be paid.
The ascent to the stone colossus - at the same time massive and dangerous, but also playful and easy
Miss India wiping
As soon as I pass the main gate, my gaze falls on the cleaning crew, which is represented for once by two exceptionally beautiful young ladies. I cannot imagine that anywhere in the world the sweeping of the courtyard is carried out by two such attractive beauties.
The younger one looks up, mustering me with a look I can't read. At the same time it is open, curious, but there is something else in it – suffering, sadness, reproach, but also accepting the fact that it will never get better.
Miss India wiping - what is her look supposed to mean?
A stone matron
The fortress is gigantic, bigger than any castle in Europe. It towers over the city like a huge red stone matron. It reminds me of the scenery from Game of Thrones, somehow surreal in its power, almost kitschy. It is located at an altitude of 123 meters on a single rock. A five-kilometer long road winds its way up the hill.
Powerful, powerful, overwhelming
The very old and the very young India together - matching the blue sky - heaven on earth
A lesson in humility
And then I follow the numbered audio points, 33 in total, let myself be lulled along in the voice of the commentator. I enter stone courtyards where the concubines gathered, and the Maharaja's shady room. Then, already a little breathless, I climb further steep steps up to the upper floors, where I forget to breathe in view of the treasures, the paintings, the immense wealth displayed here.
It is always impressive how quickly we compare. Is this building bigger than any other in Europe? Are the works of art in these palaces as beautiful and unique as the paintings of Monet, Picasso, Van Gogh or Jackson Pollock? What do we instinctively aim for with it? Do we want to reassure ourselves that we are better or at least not worse? Of course it is pure narcissism. It cannot and must not be the case that artists from these supposedly underdeveloped countries can do something at least as well as we can. Otherwise our view of the world would get huge cracks.
Fact is, you can hardly resist these thoughts.
So what I encounter inside the fort is putting my pathetic self-esteem in dire straits.
It is worth remembering that at the time when these works of art were created, people in Europe still liked to bash their skulls in (the same ones who still proudly claim to be the crown of creation).
Living witnesses from the past
The dignified, white-bearded gentleman with the strange turban on his head sits motionless, you think for a moment of a stuffed artefact, which is of course complete nonsense. Only his eyes are moving, they are looking at the strange creatures from abroad, admiring the works of art of his ancestors, then he looks to the side, somehow cautiously mocking. It's not the first time I've wished to be somewhere else. Although I might miss so much.
And there, barely recognizable through the narrow window – a lady with a golden bracelet on her arm, her eyes closed, the pink cape like a silken breath over her shoulders. This is how I imagine the concubines of the Maharajah, waiting in the cool afternoon wind. Always waiting …
He just sits there, hookah in hand - and she by the window, sleepy, out of this world
Back to the present
There is still a lot to tell, to describe, but at some point your head is full, your senses are overwhelmed.
Then you give up, return to the present with slow, tired steps. Through the poor alleys, where the rubbish piles up, where cows search in the dirt for something to eat. Where every step should be mindful, not to step into a cow dung or break a foot in a pit.
But the view from the very top proved that the city is indeed blue. Blue in all shades. The reason for this remains unknown to me.
P.S. Matching Song: Chris Isaak - Blue Hotel
And here the journey continues ... to Bikaner on the edge of the Thar desert
