From Jaiselmer the three of us--Fish, Lisa and I--moved to a place called Jodhpur. Like Jaiselmer, it has a big burly fort up on a cliffside that looks down on the city. This one somehow looked far more imposing and unconquerable then the one in Jaiselmer, which looked more like a big sand castle. I stared at Jodhpur fort often, trying to imagine how I might invade it. Jodhpur calls itself the 'blue city', on account of a lot of the buildings are painted blue. Why you ask? Well, apparently, long long ago an army was marching on the city with the intention of killing all its inhabitants, as ancient armies have the tendency to do. Now, back then Jodhpur had a large amount of people belonging to the Brahman caste, the spiritual caste which is the one on the top. It was considered bad joo-joo to go around killing Brahmans so the invading army cut a deal: have all the Brahman's paint their house's blue and we won't kill the people inside, the rest we get to kill. Seeing as how the majority of people there were Brahman's they were okay with that, and so they painted the town blue and only those of little importance were thrown to the invading hordes. Neat.
It actually wasn't that blue.
It was a nice place though and the guesthouse we stayed in was owned by an interesting cat that loved himself more than anyone I've known. Mister Prakash! The guy literally had 7 or 8 photos of himself placed all around the guesthouse. There was a few with shades, some with a thinking pose, others sitting down, shirt unbuttoned half-way. He even had someone paint his image on the wall of the rooftop patio. Despite his vanity, or maybe because of it, he was a pretty nice guy and he ended up doing something really cool for me, but more on that later.
It was nearing the end of Mister Fish's time in India, and Jodhpur would be his last stop before heading back to Mumbai. The last few days were spent lounging around, sitting on rooftop cafe's and suggesting ways to conquer Jodhpur Fort. It was nice. On the last day both Fish and I knew it was on; one last drink-off before I another goodbye and see ya later. We found a nice place, one called 'The Blue Room', which was only moderately blue, and hunkered down. We watched cricket and powered Kingfisher's; then came the whiskey; then came the bitter local distilled concoction; then came the drunken-wrestling in the streets on our way back to the guesthouse. There was much merriment and violence. Then, in the blur of the night, two guys on a motorbike stopped in front of me with an object in their hand. Upon close inspection, it turned out to be my ipod, which had somehow fell from my pocket on the bedraggled journey home. I was astonished, not only that they found it, but that they found me too! the rightful owner! He even sat and waited while drunk Fish and drunk Me finished beating the crap out of each other, then quietly placed the Ipod into my intoxicated hands. I hugged them both and they left, smiling and waving and slightly taken aback by these two plastered foreigners.
That is, unfortunately, the end of Mr. Fish, he has returned to colder climes, and will be sorely missed. So long brother! You went to India and killed a goat you crazy bastard!
The next day was a big day. It was nearing the end of the cricket world cup, and India was playing Pakistan, the winner went to the finals--a big deal. Not only is every Pakistan-India cricket match a potential pretense for war, this was the world cup and the winner was in the final. I repeat myself only to stress the importance of the event. Think Canada-US hockey gold medal except this time both countries give a shit, and they wouldn't mind if the other was nuked into oblivion. Long story short, India won. Huge celebration, endless fireworks, people dancing in the streets, it was similar to the red mile, just in a desert town in India, and the whole town was up and out and cheering, I was grateful, because had India lost I would have had to of faced many pissed off/sad/defeated Indians and it wasn't a pleasant thought; who knows how long it would have taken to get over such a defeat.
What else happened? Oh yeah. I was sitting on the roof of my guesthouse, playing my didgeridoo with Lisa when Mr. Prakash came up, drawn by the drone. He sat there listening, smiling. After I had finished he told me he has a friend who works for the local newspaper, and that every so often he puts foreigners in that newspaper. He told me he would call this man and have him come over, he'd interview me and take some photos of me while I played. Nice. The next day we met, shook hands, and he asked me the usual questions (how long? from where? etc.) I told him also of the band I was in, so I got Somethin Sacred some Indian exposure! yah! Unfortunately, I was to leave Jodhpur before the paper would be published, so Mr. Prakash told me he would mail the article back home when it came out, lets hope he comes through.
Afterwards, I was off and on to Bikaner, a little city north of Jodhpur, this time alone in my journeys. What was I to find? Without any tether to my homeland, what would I encounter? Rats. Lots and lots of rats. Holy rats of course, the holiest of all rats; to step on their poo is auspicious, to have them scurry over your feet extremely lucky. What I am talking about is the rat temple of Bikaner, and as the name suggests, it is a temple full of rats. Yeah, it was weird, but it's the kind of weirdness I've come to expect here in India. Indeed it is the only place on earth where a temple devoted to holy rats would seem right at home, and it does. I didn't see a white rat unfortunately, so no extra luck for me.
Other than that, Bikaner was a crazy Desert town not unlike the one I had just left in Jodhpur. I met some cool people, a brit who I convinced to go to China and a Norwegian who I would meet later in the himalaya's. Oh! and it was in Bikaner that I watched the world cup final: India and Sri Lanka. We sat with the whole guesthouse contingent and drank whiskey and beer, cheering India on. The game came down to the very end, but India came out on top. Once again, out came the fireworks. And after we all blew a few things up, we packed into a rickshaw and headed downtown. There were 8 of us crammed in that thing, music blasting, screaming at the top of our lungs, yelling 'IIINNNNDIAA!!'. It was Holi all over again, paint getting thrown around; just madness, pure madness. My poor Norwegian friend got kicked in the balls by an overzealous Indian who clearly could not control his ecstacy. I suppose his only way to express such happiness was to sack one of the only two white guys around. It was all good.
Well that was Bikaner. There was, of course, other things seen and done in Bikaner, like the largest Camel Farm in India and a very interesting Jain temple, but all I can say about that is that Camel Milk ice-cream is good and that Jain priests mumble naughty things in your ear while you're posing with a photo with them. But Camel Ice Cream is actually pretty good though.
Hmm, I think that ought to be enough, I'll end my post here, at the end of my Rajasthanian journey. From here I head north, to Amristar, The Golden Temple, and the Pakistani border. Such adventures will be recounted in greater detail soon. Otherwise,
Intestines still fine.
It actually wasn't that blue.
It was a nice place though and the guesthouse we stayed in was owned by an interesting cat that loved himself more than anyone I've known. Mister Prakash! The guy literally had 7 or 8 photos of himself placed all around the guesthouse. There was a few with shades, some with a thinking pose, others sitting down, shirt unbuttoned half-way. He even had someone paint his image on the wall of the rooftop patio. Despite his vanity, or maybe because of it, he was a pretty nice guy and he ended up doing something really cool for me, but more on that later.
It was nearing the end of Mister Fish's time in India, and Jodhpur would be his last stop before heading back to Mumbai. The last few days were spent lounging around, sitting on rooftop cafe's and suggesting ways to conquer Jodhpur Fort. It was nice. On the last day both Fish and I knew it was on; one last drink-off before I another goodbye and see ya later. We found a nice place, one called 'The Blue Room', which was only moderately blue, and hunkered down. We watched cricket and powered Kingfisher's; then came the whiskey; then came the bitter local distilled concoction; then came the drunken-wrestling in the streets on our way back to the guesthouse. There was much merriment and violence. Then, in the blur of the night, two guys on a motorbike stopped in front of me with an object in their hand. Upon close inspection, it turned out to be my ipod, which had somehow fell from my pocket on the bedraggled journey home. I was astonished, not only that they found it, but that they found me too! the rightful owner! He even sat and waited while drunk Fish and drunk Me finished beating the crap out of each other, then quietly placed the Ipod into my intoxicated hands. I hugged them both and they left, smiling and waving and slightly taken aback by these two plastered foreigners.
That is, unfortunately, the end of Mr. Fish, he has returned to colder climes, and will be sorely missed. So long brother! You went to India and killed a goat you crazy bastard!
The next day was a big day. It was nearing the end of the cricket world cup, and India was playing Pakistan, the winner went to the finals--a big deal. Not only is every Pakistan-India cricket match a potential pretense for war, this was the world cup and the winner was in the final. I repeat myself only to stress the importance of the event. Think Canada-US hockey gold medal except this time both countries give a shit, and they wouldn't mind if the other was nuked into oblivion. Long story short, India won. Huge celebration, endless fireworks, people dancing in the streets, it was similar to the red mile, just in a desert town in India, and the whole town was up and out and cheering, I was grateful, because had India lost I would have had to of faced many pissed off/sad/defeated Indians and it wasn't a pleasant thought; who knows how long it would have taken to get over such a defeat.
What else happened? Oh yeah. I was sitting on the roof of my guesthouse, playing my didgeridoo with Lisa when Mr. Prakash came up, drawn by the drone. He sat there listening, smiling. After I had finished he told me he has a friend who works for the local newspaper, and that every so often he puts foreigners in that newspaper. He told me he would call this man and have him come over, he'd interview me and take some photos of me while I played. Nice. The next day we met, shook hands, and he asked me the usual questions (how long? from where? etc.) I told him also of the band I was in, so I got Somethin Sacred some Indian exposure! yah! Unfortunately, I was to leave Jodhpur before the paper would be published, so Mr. Prakash told me he would mail the article back home when it came out, lets hope he comes through.
Afterwards, I was off and on to Bikaner, a little city north of Jodhpur, this time alone in my journeys. What was I to find? Without any tether to my homeland, what would I encounter? Rats. Lots and lots of rats. Holy rats of course, the holiest of all rats; to step on their poo is auspicious, to have them scurry over your feet extremely lucky. What I am talking about is the rat temple of Bikaner, and as the name suggests, it is a temple full of rats. Yeah, it was weird, but it's the kind of weirdness I've come to expect here in India. Indeed it is the only place on earth where a temple devoted to holy rats would seem right at home, and it does. I didn't see a white rat unfortunately, so no extra luck for me.
Other than that, Bikaner was a crazy Desert town not unlike the one I had just left in Jodhpur. I met some cool people, a brit who I convinced to go to China and a Norwegian who I would meet later in the himalaya's. Oh! and it was in Bikaner that I watched the world cup final: India and Sri Lanka. We sat with the whole guesthouse contingent and drank whiskey and beer, cheering India on. The game came down to the very end, but India came out on top. Once again, out came the fireworks. And after we all blew a few things up, we packed into a rickshaw and headed downtown. There were 8 of us crammed in that thing, music blasting, screaming at the top of our lungs, yelling 'IIINNNNDIAA!!'. It was Holi all over again, paint getting thrown around; just madness, pure madness. My poor Norwegian friend got kicked in the balls by an overzealous Indian who clearly could not control his ecstacy. I suppose his only way to express such happiness was to sack one of the only two white guys around. It was all good.
Well that was Bikaner. There was, of course, other things seen and done in Bikaner, like the largest Camel Farm in India and a very interesting Jain temple, but all I can say about that is that Camel Milk ice-cream is good and that Jain priests mumble naughty things in your ear while you're posing with a photo with them. But Camel Ice Cream is actually pretty good though.
Hmm, I think that ought to be enough, I'll end my post here, at the end of my Rajasthanian journey. From here I head north, to Amristar, The Golden Temple, and the Pakistani border. Such adventures will be recounted in greater detail soon. Otherwise,
Intestines still fine.
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