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India 2018
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Nikon Fm2 + 50mm 1.4
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The Pushkar Fair (Pushkar Camel Fair) or locally Pushkar ka Mela, is the annual five-day camel and livestock fair, held in the town of Pushkar in the state of Rajasthan, India. It is one of the world's largest camel fairs, and apart from buying and selling of livestock it has become an important tourist attraction and its highlights have become competitions such as the "matka phod", "longest moustache", and "bridal competition" are the main draws for this fair which attracts thousands of tourists. In recent years the fair has also included an exhibition cricket match between the local Pushkar club and a team of random foreign tourists. The Imperial Gazetteer of India, mentions an attendance of 100,000 pilgrims in early 1900s.
PUSHKAR LAKE
According to Hindu scriptures, the sacred Pushkar Lake is described as “Tirtha Raj”, the king of all pilgrimage sites. Legend has it that this lake was consecrated to Lord Brahma, the creator of the universe when a lotus dropped from his hand into the vale and a lake emerged in that place. No pilgrimage is considered to be complete without a dip in in the holy Pushkar Lake. Semi-circular in shape and about 8-10 m deep, Pushkar Lake is surrounded by 52 bathing ghats (a series of steps leading to the lake), where pilgrims throng in large numbers to take a sacred bath, and over 400 temples. Most of these temples and ghats in Pushkar are from the 18th century and later, because many temples were destroyed during Muslim conquests in the area (11th – 13th century). Subsequently, the destroyed temples were rebuilt.
The Pushkar Fair, or Kartik Mela, is a multi-day livestock fair and cultural fête. Animal breeders and buyers descend on the small Northern Indian town of Pushkar, and for five days they display and trade their camels, horses, cows, goats, and sheep.
The rare Marwari horses are the other stars of the Camel Fair. With their distinctive, inward curving ears, these beautiful animals were originally bred by the Rathores, the rulers of Marwar (Jodhpur) up to the 12th century.
For the story, please visit: www.ursulasweeklywanders.com/travel/among-the-camels-and-...
Pushkar is a town bordering the Thar Desert, in the northeastern Indian state of Rajasthan. It's set on Pushkar Lake, a sacred Hindu site with 52 ghats (stone staircases) where pilgrims bathe. The town has hundreds of temples, including 14th-century Jagatpita Brahma Mandir, dedicated to the god of creation, which has a distinctive red spire and walls inlaid with pilgrims’ silver coins.
After monsoon rains the storm clouds lift just in time for this superb sunset over Pushkar Lake.
Pushkar - August 2008
Rajveer, our driver drops us off at the edge of town.
“You walk from here.” he says.
“I am parking here, you are walking, walking. Take photo. Take time. One hour. Two hour. No problem. I am waiting here. You take the photo. No problem.”
The sellers have already swarmed around the car and picked me as the easy target. The ground is just dust covered in litter and the odour of camel urine permeates the air. Sticky flies land on my arms. I push my way past the hawkers... saying “No.”
A man calls out to me. “Do you want to see my Cobra.” I am relieved to see that he has a snake in a basket at his feet and that “cobra” isn’t a euphemism.
“No, no thanks.” I say. “I not really a snake person.”
He plays a few notes on his snake charmer pipe in demonstration, in a futile attempt to lure me in. “No.” I say again, walking past him. “No Cobras.”
Another man approaches me with an armful of odd looking stringed instruments. “No, no musical instruments.” He also plays a little tune to demonstrate the sound. “No.” I say, pushing on.
“Camel ride?” someone calls out to me. The camel sitting nearby chewing nonchalantly, bedecked in colourful tassels. “Nope. No Camel ride.”
“Map? You want to buy a map?”
“No, really. I don’t. I can’t read.” I say. Trying to be funny. I’m not. “No. No maps.”
A gypsy woman approaches me, dressed magnificently in a red sari, a grubby child on her hip. She holds out her hand begging. Pushing the child towards me. She is dirty beautiful. “No.” I say. “I am sorry.” I find the begging the hardest. It tugs on my heartstrings and guilt rises up as a lump in my throat. There but for the grace...
I still haven’t left the car park.
Pushkar is a small town with a web of narrow streets spinning away from its central lake. Pilgrims arrive from all over to dip in its waters. The lake is holy. So they say.
We take our place in the crowd, swept along in a tide of people along car-less streets, lined with colourful shops. Lazy cows roam freely and monkeys jump from rooftop to rooftop. We don’t know where the lake is, but we figure it must be downhill.
A man calls out to me in French and I reply. We have a passable conversation. His French is comparable with mine. i.e.. he can’t really speak French either. I am sure I don’t look French and finally I confess. “Je ne parle Francais. Je suis Australien. Australie... Anglais. English. Parle Anglais. I speak English.” He continues to speak to me in French. Clearly my Francais is more coherent than my Anglais.
I pass a cafe where two middle aged men, at separate tables, stare out into Nirvana with hashish clouded eyes. They look like they have been sitting there since the 60s. I am not sure, but I think I see cobwebs floating from their shoulders. Or perhaps it was just their limp grey ponytails.
Another man falls in-step with me. I look for Stan but he has been swallowed up by the crowd ahead. The man offers me a flower. “No.” I protest.” “No flowers.”
“Why not.” he asks.
“Because I don’t want to pay.” I respond.
“The flower is free.” he offers. He tries to press it into my hand.
“No. I don’t want the flower.” I insist, because I know that very little is free in the streets of India. I can see the orange tag on the back of Stan’s camera bag bobbing in the distance. It is the exact same shade as the marigold the man is holding.
“Take the flower. It is free. You can make a blessing in the lake.”
“The flower is Free?” I ask for confirmation.
“Yes, yes. Take it. You must hurry. There is only 10 minutes left.”
I try and push aside my cynicism. I try to not wonder why the blessings in the lake have a time limit.
“Which way is the lake.” I ask resignedly.
“I will show you. He says. I am going there too.”
“That’s an amazing coincidence.” I say. My sarcasm is lost on him.
Another man approaches me, offering me a flower.
“Got one,” I say smugly, holding up the crumpled offering in my fist.
We pass the man with the pink cow. (You can read about him here.)
I find Stan waiting for me at the back of the Ghats at the lake's edge. The Ghats are simply a series of steps leading down to the lake. Another man pushes a stainless steel dish in front of me. It is covered with flowers.
“You must put your flower here.” he says. I am reluctant to relinquish my free flower.
“Can’t I just throw it in myself?” I ask.
“No. you must do it this way. Come. Come.” he says. urging me down the stairs.
“No shoes.” he adds.
Have I mentioned how much I love my hiking boots? I love my hiking boots. I mean, I love, my hiking boots. They are comfortable and strong and protect my feet from all the nasties on the ground... and I hate taking them off. I hate having to leave them at the entrances of temples. I have separation anxiety... and I just hate having to undo all the laces. I hate having to leave them and worry about whether they will be there when I get back. Invariably they are the best pair of footwear in the pile. I understand that if I am going into a temple, then its shoes off. I respect that. I understand that they want to keep the marble all nice and shiny at the Taj Mahal. But I don’t understand why I have to take my boots off to walk down to the lake.
I pick my be-socked way down the steps between bits of rubbish and pigeon droppings and cow splatters. Holy place, indeed!
At the water’s edge I am led to a Brahmin Priest. He is wearing a T-shirt and Dothi, sporting a bedraggled skunk beard. He is waiting to anoint me. There is a cushion at my feet.
“Sit. sit.” he says.
I look at him. I look at the man with the dish full of flowers. I look at the lake. I look at the cushion. I look at the little bits of pigeon droppings attached to the sides of my hiking socks. And I look back at the Priest.
“I am not doing this." I say flatly, overwhelmed by the conditions imposed upon me. I see the anger flash darkly in his face.
“Why do you disrespect the lake?” he yells at me. I am lost for words. I didn’t expect anger from this man. I thought this was a holy place full of love and acceptance, but clearly I had broken the rules. I did not go to India for a spiritual experience. I want no part of Ashrams or Incense or Chakras or Meditation. I am not Elizabeth Gilbert, I am not seeking enlightenment. I am not after an Eat, Pray, Love experience. Eat yes. Love, yes. Pray... um, I think not. I would like to embark upon a theological debate with this man as to why our beliefs differ so spectacularly, but now is not the time.
I am most angry at myself for not remembering the sage words of Lonely Planet. Pushkar is hassely, the Priests can be aggressive. That’s why I opted to book accommodation a little out of town. That’s why I was less than keen on coming here. That’s why I only really allocated one day to Pushy Pushkar. But I forgot. I was sucked-in, Hook, Line and Sinking feeling.
The man is still yelling at me and I am feeling just a tiny bit afraid. I need to go into damage control.
“I am sorry.” I say humbly. “I made a mistake. I did not intend to disrespect the lake”. Fcuk. I am really saying this. Gah!
“Why do you come here if you are going to disrespect the lake?” he is repeating. I can see a grimy film of oil and ash and dirt on the surface of the lake. Pigeon feathers and decaying flowers in a melange of debris floating in a brown soup.
“I am sorry.” I say again and hurry back up the stairs. The flower man in tow.
“You have to pay a donation to the lake.” he says.
“Of course I do.” I agree, there is no point arguing. “Its not about being holy, its about the money.” I say.
“You will get a donation receipt when you pay.” he says.
I head off to the donation booth to buy my freedom. 100 rupees should do it. At the booth I am pushed out of the way by a knot of people. I give up and head back to Stan and the flower man.
“This is just too hard.” I announce petulantly to them both. “The Pushkarians are just pushing in.”
“You must pay.” says the flower man. He accompanies me back to the booth and makes sure the transaction takes place.
“No receipt.” says the donation man. “Donation only for 200 rupees or more.”
“Thanks.” I say. This means I can’t prove my “I have already donated to the lake” status if I am challenged again.
I sigh heavily. Pushy Pushkar has exhausted me. I retrieve my boots from Stan, flick the pigeon shit off my socks and slide them grittily into my boots, before re-lacing them yet again. We head off around the lake.
Half way down the next ghat a man calls out. “No shoes. no shoes.”
I wave my hand and smile. “Yeah, I know. I am sorry.” I ditch the boots again. Tying the laces together so they can swing heavily across my shoulder. It is then that I remember that I still have a pair of disposable paper overshoes from my visit to the Taj. At least I can protect my socks while I walk around the lake.
I turn to Stan. “How come no-one hassles you. Why didn’t you get yelled at for disrespecting the lake?”
He smiled mischievously, opening up his palm to reveal a crumpled rose. “I don’t know. But I’ve still got my flower.”