Jaisalmer: Laxmi and the Thar Heritage Museum

March 2007

Like so many other tourists in Jaisalmer, we spent a fair bit of time looking at the distinctly Rajasthani bed-spreads, wall-hangings, rugs and pillow coverings  – veritable works of art – patchwork quilted, embroidered, and sequined.  The term ‘patchwork’ refers to the fact that the quilts are made from patches cut from old dresses and fabrics and then pieced together with embroidery thread.  While many of the patchwork quilts are works of art in their own right, I wonder if some the dresses that are being cut up might have more value if left whole.   

 

We ventured into many shops, often having to make hasty exits after being pounced upon by over-eager shop-keepers who insisted on showing us all of their merchandise, pulling apart the floor-to-ceiling stacks of fabrics, expertly snapping and shaking out the folds so we could see the bedspreads and hangings in their entirety, quickly appraising our reaction which, if not appreciative enough to indicate a possible sale, tossing them into a great discard heap on the floor even as they were grabbing another item from the pile.  We felt pressured by this frenzied sales approach; it was just too much.

 

But one of the shops we went into was different, primarily because the shop-keeper, Laxmi, was different.  He was much more relaxed and calmer.  He didn’t hassle us at all as we looked not only at his fabrics, but also at the many old artifacts – brass statues, wooden masks and carvings, metal and wood boxes – each artfully displayed, rather than crowded and jumbled together in overwhelming arrays as we’d seen in other shops.  It was clear that many of the artifacts were genuinely old, not the imitation stuff we’d seen in so many other stores.  The Indian people have mastered the craft of making cheap knock-offs that look so like the ‘real thing’ that gullible tourists pay big prices for what shop-keepers know is worthless junk.

 

It was when we sat down to have tea with Laxmi that we learned more about him.  He was a professor of Rajasthani culture and architecture, and has written a book about it.  He told us that during his years of collecting old artifacts he had amassed quite an impressive array, and decided to start a private “museum,” the ‘Thar Heritage Museum’, dedicated to the people of Jaisalmer and the Thar Desert region.  He proudly showed us a photo album of the opening of the recent opening museum.  Because it was on the outskirts of town, and not in “any of the books,” Laxmi told us that the museum received very few visitors, and even fewer paying visitors, but he was determined to keep it going.  

 

Laxmi's staff, including Amit, on Doug's left

We were keen to see Laxmi’s museum and agreed to meet him at the museum the next day at 3 pm.  Unfortunately, we miscalculated the distance we had to walk, and then got lost, so at 3:30 we were still wandering aimlessly along the road we thought might take us to the museum.  Fortunately one of Laxmi’s staff members found us, and suggested, given how much further we still had to walk, that we hire a rickshaw to get there.  

At the museum, a young man named Amit guided us through the many ‘treasures’ that Laxmi had collected.  Although Amit struggled a bit with his English, he did a good job explaining the various displays.  We were particularly taken with the very old manuscripts, the religious figures, and the ingenious desert ‘refrigerators’ made of dried mud.  Amit was a very good guide who exuded a quiet joy and pride in the things he was showing us.  It was clear the museum was in its infancy, and had a long way to go to be able to compete with the much larger museums in the fort and the various havelis in Jaisalmer.  But its artifacts were genuine and unique, and so, hoping the museum would survive, we made a contribution to it.  And gave Amit 50 rupees (about $1.50 Canadian) for the guided tour, and to encourage him in his work.  He was absolutely thrilled, thanking us again and again.  We were just happy to support such truly lovely young man.  

The next day, having bought so many, and such heavy, bedspreads that our bags were bursting, we decided that it was time to divest ourselves of any items that were not absolutely necessary.  We’d been traveling with towels, which we seldom used, and decided to give them to Amit.  So we took them, along with a little complementary bag from Singapore Airlines containing cozy socks and a traveling toothbrush, to the shop, where Amit received them as though they were the most precious things he had ever received.  

We were later told, by Laxmi, that Amit was so happy because he had never before been given a gift.  Imagine!  His first ‘presents’ were 50 rupees, a couple of used towels, and a complementary airline kit.

 

While we were there Laxmi invited us to come to lunch with him and his family, at their home, in a couple of days.  As it happened, it was the day we were leaving Jaisalmer.  We met him at his shop, where we found him showing bedspreads and wall-hangings to a mother and daughter, both Indian, now resident in London.  For a while I sat with them and admired the many colourful and finely worked pieces of fabric.  After a while I rejoined Doug in the front room of the shop, where we nervously eyed our watches and wondered if Laxmi would finish in time for us to have lunch with him.  Our train to Jodhpur, for which we had reserved seats, left at 4 pm.  A little while later an older man came into the shop, followed by a younger fellow, both Indian.  I assumed the older man was the husband of the older woman, who she had mentioned was traveling with them, and guessed that the younger man might be either the younger woman’s husband or brother, although neither of them had mentioned anyone else.  Within a minute or two there was a terrible ruckus in the back room, clearly a shouting match between Laxmi and the young man.  As it was almost all in Hindi (or Rajasthani) I couldn’t understand what it was about, but then there were a couple of phrases in English that provided some insight.   

 

We gathered that the young man was the women’s ‘guide’, and he wanted them to stop shopping and come on a camel safari he had planned.  He went on to tell the women that the quality of the fabrics they were looking at was low, and they shouldn’t be wasting their time in this shop.  We knew this was not true, as we’d been looking at fabrics all over Jaisalmer.  Laxmi’s fabrics were of very good quality.  But the women couldn’t have known that.  Anyway they did leave, giving us a “what can you do?” look as they departed.  For his part Laxmi was visibly upset, and collapsed into a chair once they’d gone.  He then explained that the young man was a not so much a ‘guide’ as a tout, who had attached himself to the family, looking to make money off them not just in direct payments, but from the commissions that shop-keepers gave him for bringing customers into their stores.  Laxmi, like the Jodhpur M.V. Spices owners, refuses to pay the touts a commission as he sees it for what it is - an underhanded racket, aimed at squeezing ever more dollars out of foreign tourists, and shop-keepers.  Unfortunately this racket is on the increase in India, and is equally prevalent among hotels and guest-houses.  Rickshaw drivers will out and out refuse to take tourists to hotels that don’t pay commission, will tell tourists that the hotel is full, or closed, or will spread nasty rumours about it, all in an attempt to ruin their business.  Our hotel owner in Jodhpur, Mr. Govind had also talked to us about this aspect of business as he too refuses to pay the touts’ commission.  

 

What had upset Laxmi most was that the tout had threatened to come back and kill him.  While he realized that this was likely said in the heat of the moment, shop-keepers have been beaten up, and their premises ransacked or burned, for not “playing the game.”  He said he felt like it was time for him to get out of the business altogether.  He was most discouraged and dispirited.  Unfortunately the episode put a little bit of a damper on our lunch engagement, but off we went anyway, all three of us in an auto-rickshaw, towards Laxmi’s house.  

 

Laxmi’s house, a little three room plaster-covered brick and mortar building, was on the outskirts of town.  The road to get there was very rough.  Inside his front wall and gate there was a little garden with flowering shrubs and plants which someone was obviously tending.  There was also a fine stone relief sculpture along one wall.  We were met outside by Laxmi’s two small boys and his wife.  We all went into Laxmi and his wife’s bedroom to eat on a little patch of floor in front of the TV (which thankfully was off).  The boys put down four pieces of cloth, one for each of us to sit on, and Laxmi brought in a little wooden table.  While all this was going on we took some photos of the boys, and asked them how old they were, if they were in school, and what they liked to do.  Although they were shy, they spoke enough English to answer our questions, smiling all the while.

Lunch was a wonderful thali meal with the traditional fried dahl, veg, rice and chapattis, as well as a plate of tomatoes and cucumbers.  After lunch we took some more photos, of Laxmi and his wife, and of the whole family.  We were lucky to be able to convince them to smile, and even to laugh, when the pictures were taken.  Normally Indian people look very grave, almost hostile, when their photos are taken.  Presumably they feel that the serious look is more formal and appropriate.  

Laxmi and his wife - such big smiles!

After the photos it was time to be off, but before we went Laxmi’s wife gave me a cloth purse with Rajasthani embroidery as a gift.  

 

We got to the railway station in good time, and were especially touched when Amit showed up there to bid us farewell.  We had told him about a little photo album we had with pictures of our kids, grand-daughter, house, and a few shots of the Gulf Islands and B.C., and he wanted to see it.  He sat on the train with us looking at all of the pictures.  He particularly liked the ones of the snow – a sight he’d never seen – and of our little blond grand-daughter, now just two years old.  Before Amit left we gave him a couple of American $1 bills.  If we could spirit this lovely young man over the ocean to visit us in Canada we surely would.  Then he could see the snow for himself!

Jules with Laxmi's staff; the ever-smiling Amit just behind and to the left of Jules

 

For more information on the Thar Desert go to: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thar_Desert

 

For more information about the Thar Heritage Museum go to: https://www.museumsofindia.org/museum/1757/the-thar-heritage-museum-jaisalmer

 

Note: We were some of the first visitors to the Thar Heritage Museum, in March 2007.  We are very happy to see that the museum is still there, and doing well.

In 2018 a visitor to the Thar Heritage Museum had this to say: 

“LN Khatri is the most hospitable and knowledgable person about Jaisalmer that I have met in this city. This museum started out as a hobby of his and now it is home to thousands of Jaisalmer artifacts from centuries old tools and cookware to fossils dating back millions of years. PhD students and researchers have done extensive work with some of these pieces to give a sense of how relevant they are to the culture and herritage of Rajasthan. The best part is that Mr. Khatri brings these pieces to life with his detailed explanations and stories. Make sure to ask lots of questions from religious figures to the geological past as he is a fabulous resource, not to mention a warm and welcoming host. As I visited in the hot summer he even lugged an electric fan from section to section of the three room museum to keep us cool. This museum has been awarded prizes from the Rajasthani and Indian government. Easily worth the donation of Rs. 40-100.”  

https://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g297667-d1210928-Reviews-or30-The_Thar_Heritage_Museum-Jaisalmer_Jaisalmer_District_Rajasthan.html

 

Jaisalmer and the Singing Sari Seller

March 2007

 

From Jodhpur, the ‘Blue City’, to Jaipur, the ‘Pink City’, and now finally to Jaisalmer, the ‘Golden City’.  And golden it is, not just because almost every building in the city is made of gold-coloured sandstone, but also because the sun is always shining here.  It’s the furthest west we’re planning to go on this trip, and it’s close enough to the border with Pakistan that a special permit is required for tourists and Indian nationals alike to go any further.  The Indian military has a large base near Jaisalmer, and on many of the days we are bombarded by the sound of jets taking off or landing, or screaming low overhead.  The jet noise seemed particularly incongruous here in Jaisalmer where cows are the primary pedestrians on the dirt and dung streets.  

 

There are so many cows in Jaisalmer that we’ve renamed it “cow town.”   Our hotel manager has warned us to give the Jaisalmer cows a wide berth: they’ve been known to butt people who get too close.  As it turned out his advice was not just good, it was potentially life-saving: we’ve just read and article in the Jaisalmer paper about a pushcart man who was killed by a cow: talk about workplace hazards!  This is the first time we’ve be warned about cows in India, which we’ve generally found to be very placid, not responding to honking cars, loud motorbikes or people brandishing sticks.  The cows in Jaisalmer, as in the rest of India, go where they want when they want, and lie down where they want, often right in the middle of the road. As India’s most sacred animal, they are the undisputed rulers of the road.  Indeed when we were coming here our tuk-tuk driver had to get out of his rickshaw to push and prod a cow that was lying in the middle of his path.  It refused to get up, despite the fact that the front wheel of the rickshaw was pressing into its flank.  (It did finally, and ever so slowly, arise and amble off...)

 

This tuk-tuk driver was not the one we had started out with at the train station.  It’s a bit of a long story... .  When we arrived at the station we found a tuk-tuk, bargained a fair fare to our hotel with the driver, and piled ourselves and our stuff in.  As we were just about to leave, a scruffy guy in a dirty white t-shirt and jeans, who looked like he had neither shaved nor washed in several days, commanded our tuk-tuk driver to stop, and demanded a 20 rupee “tourist tax” from each of us.  We figured this was yet another scam, and refused to pay, pointing out that he had neither uniform nor identification card to prove that he was carrying out any kind of official duty.  He didn’t even have a “ticket” or “receipt” to give us to show that we’d paid.  And in India, ‘chits’ are the done thing. 

 

Our refusal to pay angered him, and he began shouting and threatening us, saying that if we did not pay we could not enter Jaisalmer and would have to go back to the train.  The tuk-tuk driver, who seemed thoroughly cowed by this lout, agreed that we should pay.  With that we got out of the tuk-tuk and began removing our bags, saying we’d find another tuk-tuk, but we weren’t going to pay any “tourist tax” to a surly ununiformed bully.  The bully’s tune then changed, and he waved his hand in dismissal, saying “o.k., o.k., you go, you go.”  But by then I was angry enough that I had no intention of going with that tuk-tuk driver, who seemed to be in cahoots with the ‘tax-collector’.  I was already marching, with my bag, towards to the gaggle of tuk-tuks and taxis outside the station.  We had often found that tuk-tuks and taxis were much cheaper if we walked the few steps out of the train station.  As luck would have it,  I found a jeep belonging to our hotel, and piled my bags into it.  Doug joined me a few minutes later, and we were about to leave when I spied a police officer.  Angry bee that I was, I made a bee-line for him, and told him about the aggressive and threatening behaviour of the “tax collecting” lout.  The policeman listened politely, and when I pointed the miscreant out, went over and berated him in Hindi.  At least, that’s what it looked like he did... .

 

When we recounted our story to our hotel manager he told us that the city of Jaisalmer had, just three months ago, inaugurated this “tourist tax.”  This despite opposition from hotel owners and shop-keepers who, like us, felt that it was an unnecessary deterrent to tourism and that furthermore the city had done nothing to see to it that there was some official way of collecting and accounting for the tax.  For all anyone knew, most of the “taxes” collected went straight into the pockets of the loutish collectors.  Our hotel manager was happy we had refused to pay the tax, and hoped that more tourists would do so, although most of the ones we’ve talked to so far paid the ‘tax’ without thinking, as I am afraid the majority of tourists, everywhere in the world, are wont to do.  We’re such easy marks.

 

The Singing Sari-Seller

 

Group of tourists being shown Rajasthani bed covers

Jaisalmer is a beautiful city.  It is also a city chock full of tourist shops.  Most of the handicrafts sold in India are made in Rajasthan, and Jaisalmer seems to the place that many tourists come to buy them.  For their part, the shop-keepers work hard to garner their share of the tourist trade.  Walking down any street there’s a constant chorus of pleas: “come look my shop”, “why not coming into my shop”, “promise to come my shop after lunch.”  

For the most part we ignore them, but every once in a while there’s something that catches one of our sets of eyes, and we venture into a shop.  This is what happened when we were visiting the Golden Fort, where the most expensive tourist shops are located, and I spied an old doorway hung with brightly coloured scarves and shawls.  I stopped to take a closer look.  There is a very wide variation in the quality of items like this, and I could tell that these were good quality, beautifully woven, with interesting patterns, including some tie-dyed designs that I hadn’t seen before.

 

As I was fingering the merchandize, a little surprised that I was doing so unhounded by a shop-keeper,  a beautiful 30-ish year old woman came out and joined me.  She was much lower key than many shop-owners, and decidedly more charming, with a lovely smile.  After some time of admiring her shawls and scarves together, she did invite us to come into her shop.  It was jam packed with incredibly colourful (some even day-glow colours) saris, shawls and scarves.  And it was clearly also her home.  As is often done by shop-owners, she offered us tea.  They do this primarily, I believe, as a way of keeping potential buyers in their shop, perhaps partly as a way of indebting potential buyers to them (“but you drank my tea!”), but most likely, I believe, because tea is offered to all guests who enter Indian homes.  And how could we refus?  Amazingly, the tea was made and served by her husband, who she said was “fully supportive” of her and her business.  In India, and especially in Rajasthan, that made her a most unusual, and very lucky (or more likely smart) woman.

 

We sat and chatted with Sita for some time.  Her English was excellent.  She was university educated and had an MBA (a very popular degree here in India).  When she started her little shop she was selling saris to Indian women, but inevitably tourists stopped to look, and many of them bought saris.  She realized there was great potential – especially because her home, and her shop, were located in the Old Fort, a major tourist destination in Jaisalmer – and decided to take advantage of it.  

Sita encouraged other local women to make tie-dyed scarves and shawls which she would sell for them.  The response was rapid, and almost overwhelming.  The women of Jaisalmer soon filled her home with scarves and shawls, which sold quickly enough and well enough that most of them were well rewarded for their work.  And this extra income changed their lives, for the better.  Furthermore, they could do this work in their own homes, so neither their husbands nor their interfering relatives could object.  It was and is a true win-win for all.  Partly because of that, and partly because I liked and respected Sita so much, I did buy several scarves.  And I didn’t bargain for them.  I knew the money was going to a good cause, and I was happy to contribute.  

As we continued chatting, we found out that Sita’s real love was singing, and that both she and her husband were musicians.  He played the harmonium, as well as several other instruments.  She invited us to a musical evening at one of the temples in the fort where they would both be performing that night.  We promised we’d be there.  

 

So that night after dinner we went looking for the temple in the fort.  We asked for directions from several people, and wound up at a very small temple, in the fort, in which were gathered perhaps 20 people.  They were all sitting on the floor gazing at an inner chamber towards the front of the temple.  The chamber was very ornate, with much gold decoration.  In the chamber a ‘priest’ in a white t-shirt and dhoti (skirt) was swinging a little gold bed, filigreed and studded with gems, that was hanging from the ceiling by some gold chains. 

 

We couldn’t see anything in the little bed, but the ‘priest’ acted as though he was putting a very special baby to bed, singing and chanting to it, gazing lovingly at it, and swinging it more and more slowly as, presumably, it fell asleep.  At one point he covered the chamber portal with an old sheet, so we could no longer see what he was doing.  I expected, when he removed the sheet about ten minutes later, that we would see the idol or deity that was being put to bed.  But no: the bed was still empty.  The ‘priest’, his duty apparently done, then snuffed the candles, removed various bits and pieces of ceremonial paraphernalia from the chamber, and carefully closed the chamber doors.  As Doug later commented, what we had witnessed was a ceremony best described as “putting the dream to bed.”  

 

Much of Hinduism is illusion and chimera – one has to have faith, to believe in the illusion, in order to make sense of what is going on.  The group then sang a little, but by this time we had already realized that we were at the wrong temple.  Sita and her husband were nowhere to be seen, and no one was playing any musical instruments.  Still it was wonderful to watch this intimate little religious ritual, and to be included, at the end of it, in the distribution of sweets, which we ate, and sandal paste, which we spread on our foreheads and cheeks, enjoying both its aroma and its cooling sensation.  No one seemed the least bit perturbed by the presence of us foreigners, however Hindus do believe that everyone is a Hindu - some of us just don’t realize it yet!

 

Walking back down towards town from the fort, just before we reached the last of the seven gates in the fort, we heard the sound of amplified music and looked up to see a crowd of people sitting inside a much bigger temple, listening to the music.  Dropping our shoes at the entry, we wormed our way through the crowds and shoe-horned ourselves into a couple of spaces on the floor.  The audience was almost entirely Indian.  Sita was singing when we came in.  Her voice was rich and melodious.  

Sita had the wonderful ability to make the Indian religious songs, which often sound somewhat grating and off-key, instead sound melodious and sweet.  She spied us shortly after we arrived, and smiled and waved.  I was glad we had come, and very glad of the opportunity to hear her sing.  Following her song, several other women sang, accompanied by two harmonium players (one of them Sita’s husband), two drum players, and a few people banging tambourines and clashing symbols.  

We stayed and enjoyed the performance for perhaps two hours, at which point Sita sang another sweet song, which ended the performance.  We got back just in time for our 11 pm ‘curfew’ at the hotel.  After 11 they close the main gate.  We never did find out what would happen if we were late.

The Paradox of Our Age

March 2007

Traveling in India I came across this 'poem' by the Dalai Lama.  It truly hits home here.

The Paradox of Our Age

 

We have bigger houses, but smaller families;  

more conveniences, but less time;

We have more degrees, but less sense; 

more knowledge, but less judgement;

more experts, but more problems;  

more medicines, but less healthiness;

We’ve been all the way to the moon and back,

but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbour.

We build more computers to hold more information to produce more copies than ever,

but have less communication;

We have become long on quantity, but short on quality.

These are times of fast foods, but slow digestion;

Tall man but short character;  

Steep profits, but shallow relationships.

This is a time when there is much in the window,  

But nothing in the room.

His Holiness the 14^th Dalai Lama 

Jodhpur - 'The Blue City': Trinkets and Turbans

March 2007

 

Jodhpur is called “the blue city” because of the many plastered homes that have been painted blue.  It’s a deep sky blue, almost Wedgewood blue, and when seen from the vantage point of the fort on the hill, the areas of blue-painted houses look strikingly beautiful.  There are various theories around the reasons for the blue colour, but the one that makes the most sense to me is that the Brahmins, who are the highest caste people in India, painted their houses blue to differentiate themselves from the other lower castes.  I am not sure of the significance of blue in the Hindu religion, but Krishna, the highest god and the god of “all creation,” is always painted a similar blue colour.  Apparently the blue colour also repels insects, but I think this is more likely a fortunate coincidence than a primary reason for the choice of blue as a colour.  Now of course anyone can paint their house blue, and many do, which is a nice change from the natural mud-colour of the plaster, or the more usual dirty and stained white-wash.

The Temple Trinket Shop

 

We spent a good deal of time in the central market of Jodhpur, as always the liveliest spot in any Indian town.  On one occasion we happened upon a chai and snack stall where a young man was mixing a cauldron of chai by dipping a large brass jug into the pot, and then pouring it, from a considerable height, back into the cauldron. The steam and froth thus produced was very effective, and the aroma was irresistible.  So we ordered a couple of chais, in glasses please (the least dirty of the various containers available) and stood outside on the filthy littered street dodging the motorcycles, rickshaws, bicycles and cows because that seemed preferable to the even dirtier inside of the chai shop.  What a place!   

 

As I was standing pressed with my back against the wall of one of the adjacent shops, I noticed many brightly coloured goo-gas hanging from the door of one of the shops.  Looking inside, I saw two men, one middle-aged and one much older (his father?) sitting in the only available space in the tiny shop, amidst a veritable sea of what looked like gaudy Christmas tree decorations.  As it turned out, they were temple decorations.  

 

The shop sold all manner of temple decorations which Hindus buy before going to the temple to give to their favourite god or goddess.  In addition to many streamers and trinkets and baubles and bangles, there were also tiny costumes - dresses and suits - in many colours, and all liberally trimmed with gold and silver, for the idols.  Some of the dresses were too small even for a Barbie doll.  Others were large enough for a big teddy bear.  I was entranced by the whole lot, amazed at the work that had gone into the making of these “holy suits.”  I picked out several “for my grandchildren,” while Doug snapped photos of the boxes and bags of colourful items that the men pulled out of drawers and bags for us to see.  Again we ended up sitting down to chat, although the two men spoke little to no English, so our “discussion” was primarily in sign language with the odd word thrown in.  “Good” and “very nice” seem to be universally understood.

Typical decorations - colourful and glittery with lots of frills, beads and pompoms

At one point the older of the two men pulled a candy-cane shaped golden decoration out of a drawer and, unwinding a golden thread around its “middle,” demonstrated how that released a spray of thin golden streamers that turned the candy-cane into a “flower.”  When we asked who made these delightful ornaments, the younger of the two men pointed to the older and said “my father.”  The father beamed, and showed us a drawer full of the things, as well as another drawer full of larger ones.  Of course we had to buy at least one, and now I wish we had bought more.  They’re delightful!  

Having bought one little suit for a male idol, the younger man started showing me mini-turbans, again for the idols, but none of them were small enough for a doll, so I declined, although I did admire the workmanship in the little caps.  

 

And our Turban Tying Demo

 

With that, the younger man suggested that his father was the best turban wrapper in all of India, and could show us all manner of turbans.  He called to a young boy at a shop across the street that sold the 5-9 meter strips of many coloured cloths that are used to fashion the wide variety of turbans we have seen here in India.  The colour of a turban and the way it is wrapped tell what caste a man is from, what area of India he is from, and what is happening in his life (birth, marriage, death, etc.).  It is a whole code that can be used to identify someone as precisely as our clothes, cars and addresses.

Holding the 9 meter cloth in both his hands, and first straightening it out and then twisting it carefully as he went, the older man wound the turban around his head, pulling it tight with each wrap.  

He happily posed for a picture of the finished product, then lifted it from his own head and put it on Doug’s for another photo op.  

Then he made a special one for me.  He did three different wraps, clearly enjoying his prowess and the opportunity to show it off to appreciative foreigners.  We all had a good time laughing and joking, especially at the “silly hats” on the white folks.  

Even the shop keepers across the way were amused, one of them taking a few pictures with his cell-phone which, to his chagrin, were too blurry to make out.  

It’s hard to say who provided who with more entertainment, but when we left we were all laughing, and we promised to send them the photos we had taken to be put on the walls of their shop. 

The 'Spice Girls' of Jodhpur

March 2007

Seems like we spend a lot of our time here at the clock tower market.  Not buying anything, just gawking.  Today we were on a mission though.  We were looking for spices, and were keen to get good ones.  It’s pretty easy to adulterate spices with a range of edible powders, sand or just plain dirt.  Many shops do this, all the while decrying the “absolute purity” and “quality” of their product.  But we'd read in our guidebook that the best place to buy reliably good quality spices, in Jodhpur, was from M.V. Spices.  Our hotel owner, the ever helpful Mr. Govind, also recommended M.V. Spices.  But he warned us that there were many shops that had adopted names and logos similar M.V. Spices, including M.G., M.M. and M.R. Spices.  Mr. Govind had been an acquaintance of the original Mr. M.V., who he clearly respected as an honest businessman.  But Mr. M.V. had died, leaving his wife and seven daughters (and no sons!) behind. The wife and two of the eldest daughters were now running the business.  So he said that we would know if we found the right shop, because there would be a young woman in it who spoke excellent English with a British accent.

But our first stop at the market, as usual, was at the Omelette Man.  A great guy who made a mean omelette.  We'd perch on little stools as he fried them up, to our specifications - onions? yes, tomatoes? yes, cheese? no thanks.  

Across the way from him was a chai shop where the guys ladled steaming cups of chai from a huge kettle.  When we'd go over for our after-omelette chai they'd make a big production out of holding the ladle up high and letting the chai stream into the - small - waiting glass, without spilling a drop, and ensuring the chai was enhanced by the aeration and frothiness of their technique.  It is in fact an old and venerable way of serving chai, but seldom seen these days.  This shop also used glass, rather than paper or plastic cups.  We hoped they were clean.

We asked the chai guys if they knew were M.V. Spices was, and in typical Indian fashion, they swept their arms in a wide circle, indicating the entire market, and said "just over there".  Of course a couple of ever present and always crafty market touts had heard our question, and immediately accosted us with promises that they would take us to “the best spice shop, the one in the Lonely Planet.” They flashed business cards with names like M.G., M.R., and M.M, 

but no M.V.s  We waved them away, knowing full well they'd take us to their uncle's, or brother's, or friend's shop and collect a commission from the owner for having delivered customers to his door.  We later learned that no touts would take us to M.V. Spices because the women who run that shop refuse to encourage the touts by paying them the extortionate commissions they demand.  Touts are a serious problem in many parts of India, where the business is associated with Mafia-like undercurrents, including all manner of threats against non-compliant shop-keepers.

 

So it took us a while, snaking our way through the narrow pathways between market shops and stalls, but we finally came across M.V. Spices.   It was here that we met, and were served by “the M.V. Spice Girl.”  She's a 24-year-old modern, well-educated and aware young woman (itself unusual in India) struggling to run a business in a traditional India market place (ie. male dominated to the point of marked discrimination against women, corrupt business practices, deceitful employees, etc.).  She asked how we had come to find her shop, and when we told her that our hotel manager had recommended her shop, she said that she could guess who that was, as there were only two men in all of Jodhpur who were willing to work with women.  With that she mentioned two names, one of which was our hotel owner, Mr. Govind.  

 Doug and Mr. Govind, our hotel owner

She said that in India men will not shake hands with women, so it is difficult for her to transact any business as there is no means of signifying agreement.  Furthermore, a father’s, brother’s or husband’s assent is required, or more importantly thought to be required, in so many situations that it takes her and her mother much longer to get anything accomplished because of the many roadblocks put in their way by male bank managers, male building owners, male delivery men, male workers and male touts.  Despite all of this, the spice girl was managing to maintain her femininity, although she did not wear a sari, and her poise, laughing and smiling even as she was detailing her trials and tribulations.

 

A different all girl family

We chatted with her for some time about her business, her personal life, and the problems endemic to India.  She desperately wants to leave India, but as one of the three bread-winners in a household of nine women, she knows she is trapped.  She and her younger sisters need to be housed and fed, and she wants to make sure that they receive good educations, which in India requires that they attend schools with moderate to high tuition fees.  

Despite her antipathy towards the tradition of arranged marriages, and her hope that she and her sisters will be able to choose whom they wish to marry, she knows that all of the girls will also still require dowries.  These can amount to really quite fantastic sums of money - up to $5000 - $10,000 - an absolute fortune for anyone here, and ruinous for many many families with only one daughter whose husband must be “purchased.”  She sees no change in the traditions and institutions of India that, in her view, are crippling the people and the country and in particular the women, who are disproportionately affected.

 

The spice girl offered to make us each a special tea, using a variety of blends from her shop.  Doug chose a mellow saffron, cinnamon and green tea blend; I had a traditional chai; both were exceptionally good.  Our discussion continued as we were treated to the aromatic scents of several bags full of spice blends, choosing more than a dozen that we wanted to take back home with us.  

 

One of the most interesting aspects of the visit was her demonstration of how one can tell real saffron from the fake “saffrons” made in India (and likely elsewhere in Asia).  One of the fakes is made from dyed coconut fibres; one is made from finely shredded newspapers.  Both of the fakes use red dyes that approximate the colour of real saffron to the extent that, even when wetted with a few drops of water, they produce the same yellow colour that real saffron produces when wetted.  Based on this test alone, unscrupulous spice-shop owners will tell that the fake product is “pure saffron.”  But - both of the fakes disintegrate into a mushy mess when wet, whereas real saffron retains its thread-like consistency.  

 

Once again we were impressed by the lengths that Indians will go to to cheat unsuspecting buyers.  They put a lot of effort into it!

 

We left the spice girl's shop with two big bags of mixed spices, some Darjeeling and Assam tea, and yet another perspective on the lives of women here in India.  These interactions and discussions with the people of India, whether they be shop-keepers, Indian tourists and business men, rickshaw drivers or hotel staff, are among the most rewarding aspects of our travels.  It is wonderful not to be on a “program” or “tour” where we feel rushed to get from one attraction to the next, unable to take the time to sit for an hour or two and just chat over chai.

Before You Complain about Your Dentist: My Jodhpur Dental Adventure

Before You Complain about Your Dentist

March 2007

 

I seem to share my father’s luck with teeth.  I will never forget the night his denture broke.  We were all at dinner – five kids, two parents – and my eldest brother’s fiancé, whose father just happened to be a dentist.  

We’d polished off a roast beef dinner, and as a treat were having do-nuts for dessert.   As dad bit into his donut we all heard a loud crack.  His jaw went rigid, and his neck and face flushed an angry red.  Glaring pointedly at my fiancé, he cursed all dentists, then got up and left the table.   Too young yet to have had such problems ourselves, we all laughed hilariously.

 

When it comes to my teeth, the problem is gold crowns and onlays.  First of all there’s the pain and expense of getting them, which is surely enough.  But just to make matters worse, it seems that one of them insists on coming loose and falling off when I’m traveling in some far-away country, nowhere near my dentist.  

 

This time, it happened in Jaipur India.  We were at an old and rather tired, but once elegant theatre, watching a Bollywood movie.  We’d bought pop-corn, which I was enjoying until I bit down on something bigger, and more jagged, than an unpopped kernel.  My tongue separated and pushed out the little golden nugget.  I spent the rest of the movie exploring what was left of my tooth with my tongue, holding the onlay in my sweaty palm, and wondering what I was going to do.  

 

As we had tickets to go to Jodhpur the next day, I decided to wait.  As soon as we arrived at our hotel in Jodhpur we asked our host, the ever-helpful Mr. Govind, if he could recommend a dentist.  He said there was one just below the hotel, but that he was “very costly, too costly I think.”  He volunteered to make an appointment for me with his own dentist, who was a 15-20 minute rickshaw ride away.  We decided we’d try the “costly” man first.  Naively I hoped that “costly” might also mean “good.”  I was hoping he could just glue the only back on, with temporary cement.  Then I’d have it done properly when I got home.

 

When we arrived at the dentist’s office, we found the dentist, dressed in an almost white cotton shirt and pants, standing in his little “waiting room” (waiting for customers?). The waiting room was open to the street, as almost all shops and offices are, and contained a few old chairs and a small rickety table.  I explained my problem, and showed him my onlay, which I had removed and cleaned with my toothbrush as well as I could.  He pounced on me like a hungry cat on a helpless mouse, and insisted that of course he could fix the onlay: “no problem madam, no problem at all!  Come and sit down!”  

 

He evaded my question about cost, instead making a great show of washing his hands in a very old enamel sink with only one (cold) tap.  He pumped the soap dispenser vigourously, but no soap came out, and there was no lather.  Nevertheless, having gone through the motions for MY benefit, HE was satisfied.   

 

 

While he was doing that, I lowered myself gingerly into his decrepit black vinyl dental chair and surveyed the fixtures and equipment around me.  It was exactly the sort of place that I had just finished telling my husband that I was dreading.  The drill, which thankfully I did not anticipate being used, was ancient, and so completely covered in dust that I could not imagine that it had been used for a very very long time.  The old cables that ran up and down the arm of the drill looked dry and brittle, like they would snap and break if they were engaged at anything other than a painfully slow crawl.  And I hated to think of the awful dust-storm that would be raised if it were engaged. 

 

The chair side sink on my left was of once-white enamel, very stained, and very dirty.  Clearly it wasn’t the dentist’s job to clean it (no upper caste Indian cleans up after themselves - that’s what servants do).  It looked thoroughly disgusting, so I shifted my attention to the metal tray before me, which was littered with an array of dirty, dulled metal dental instruments.  I don’t suppose they had ever seen the inside of an autoclave, and wondered if they were even cleaned.   Although there was a good selection of them, there wasn’t one that I wanted anywhere near my mouth.  Directly across from me was a wall with three open shelves on which were arranged a few old boxes, some papers, some bottles and other dental debris.  The certificates on the wall, which he pointed out to me with great pride, indicated that he had graduated from the Bombay University some 40 years ago.  I presumed that his chair, drill and equipment dated from that time.  It was quite possible that none of them had ever been cleaned!  

 

The certificates on the wall, which he pointed out to me with great pride, indicated that he had graduated from the Bombay University some 40 years ago.  I presumed that his chair, drill and equipment dated from that time.  It was quite possible that none of them had ever been cleaned!

 

After washing his hands, and drying them with a singular piece of tissue, the dentist asked if he could inspect my onlay. Holding it like a precious gem (which in fact it was), he voiced his admiration – “very fine work, very nice” – and then asked me to show him the tooth on which it should fit.

 

The moment of tooth – as it were – had come.  Would he want to poke at my tooth with one of his dirty instruments?  Would he put his hands in my mouth? Thankfully, he just looked, pronounced that it looked “very fine, no problem,” and asked me to put the onlay on my tooth so he could see how it fit.  I did this two or three times until he was satisfied he’d gotten the hang of how to do it.  

 

Then it was his turn.  Working of course without gloves (I doubt he had any), he put the onlay on the tooth three more times himself, marveling at the very good fit.  “Oh, this is very fine.  They are doing such very fine work in Canada.  Too fine, too fine!”

 

We were ready to cement the onlay.  I reminded him that I wanted him to use a temporary cement.  “Yes, yes, I am understanding what you want, no problem, no problem at all!” he replied.  But of course there was a problem. 

 

After some rummaging through a cupboard filled with dusty old boxed he found a particularly old and battered box of cement.  He presented it to me with a flourish: “Principal cement,” he exclaimed, “the very best, from America, the very best!”  

 

It was clearly the only box of cement he had.  It was a complementary “starter kit” that had been sent to him in 01/06, either January of 2006 or June of 2001, depending on how the expiry dates were written (why can’t they use letters for the months?).  Furthermore, it was definitely a permanent cement.  I had no idea if it would hold, but tried to look suitably impressed, and nodded my weak assent to its use.  I felt like I had little option.

 

The dentist then made a show of pouring some alcohol over my onlay, “cleaning” it with one of his dirty metal picks, and then putting a cotton ball, held with some equally dirty tweezers right into the bottle (how many times has he done that before?) and swabbing the onlay more carefully, mixing all the germs around quite nicely, I’m sure. 

 

Once that was done, he got out an old slab of marble and started mixing the cement, a white powder which he measured carefully with the enclosed plastic spoon.  He then put three drops of liquid from the little bottle onto the slab, and using one of his dirty dental spatulas began to mix the two together. 

 

I watched with a mixture of fascination and horror.  I hoped that the cement would be powerful enough to kill any bacteria that might be lurking on my onlay, the spatula or the marble slab.  By the time he was finished, the cement was a drab gray and distinctly unhygienic looking colour.

 

The dentist asked me to open my mouth again, and before I realized what was happening, he liberally flooded my tooth with whatever water flows through his antiquated sprayer.  He didn’t need to tell me to spit.  Indeed I was in such a hurry to get that water out of my mouth that I didn’t stop to think about the dirty sink, until it was staring me right in the face.  I closed my eyes and spat.  

 

Then he sprayed some air at the tooth, and told me to keep my mouth open.  He was preparing to cement the onlay.  I hoped he would get it right.  The fit was a little tricky, as it looked like the onlay should fit one way, but it actually fit another.

 

Just before he cemented the onlay, as I was dutifully keeping my mouth open, he brandished a pick towards my mouth and started to poke at the tooth.  I recoiled in real fear, visions of swarms of Hep B, HIV and AIDS viruses trapped under my “very fine” onlay, and made a noise something between a scream and a burp.  He only got one brief touch in, but that appeared to satisfy him, or else he was afraid to do more, lest he upset me and I refused to pay.  

 

He managed to place the onlay onto the tooth without any difficulty, although where the glue had come in contact with my lip it stung fiercely, and I could feel a burning sensation on the tooth, under the onlay.  This actually gave me considerable comfort, as I figured the cement might just be strong enough to kill any unwanted intruders in my mouth. 

 

Once the onlay was in place, the dentist exhorted me to “bite down, bite down as hard as you can.”  I tried to ask for a wad of cotton to put between my teeth to increase the pressure on the onlay and decrease the effort needed by my jaw muscles, which after even a short time were starting to protest.  I had to do this by sign language, as any attempt to talk was most vehemently discouraged.  Finally he got the message and quickly rolled me a wad of loose cotton balls to put between my teeth.  And then we sat, and waited.

 

The dentist suggested that we wait ten minutes for the cement to set up.  He tested the cement that remained on the marble slab several times.  Each time, it looked the same to me – gooey like thick honey. 

 

After fifteen or twenty minutes, the dentist declared he was satisfied, although the cement looked about the same consistency to me.  Certainly it had not “hardened.”  At this point I was not too optimistic about its holding at all, let alone holding for the three weeks I needed to get home.   

 

The fee for all this was a whopping 500 rupees ($15), which though expensive by Indian standards I gladly paid, just wanting to get out of his ‘care.’  At my request, he wrote out a receipt on a piece of his letterhead, carefully ripping the Hindi version of his name and address off of the bottom of the sheet.   Perhaps to justify his exorbitant fee, he then gave me four little hand-rolled paper tubes of some sort of powder.  He very carefully and patiently instructed me on how they were to be used.  

I was to dissolve one packet in warm water and rinse my tooth in it, spitting out the mixture, NOT SWALLOWING IT!  I was to do this that night, tomorrow morning, and tomorrow night.  The extra packet was precautionary, in case I made a mistake.  He even wrote out the instructions in diagram form, in case I could not read (as many of his patients cannot).  Then, coming out into the waiting room with me, he repeated the instructions to my husband, who was to make sure that I followed his instructions to the letter.  He then went on at some length about what good cement he had used, and how this repair would last me for years, not just mere weeks, and how if I had any problems, “any problems at all,” I was to come back and see him straight away.

 

Finally we managed to get away, and I spent the next several hours with a wad of cotton between my teeth, waiting for the cement to “set up.”  The next morning the onlay felt both “high” and insecure.  So I again spent several hours with some folded up toilet paper between my teeth, wandering around Jodhpur with clenched teeth, hoping for the best.  

I am avoiding eating anything sticky, and trying to be even more vigilant about avoiding hard bits.  This is not so easy to do, as in pretty much every meal there is at least one, and often several, hard bits of seed, nut-shells, sticks or stones that have escaped the notice of the women who sort the rice and herbs by hand.  One eats “on guard for teeth,” chewing tentatively at first, trying to remove any hard bits before they have a chance to do any damage.  Dental woe befalls those who are careless or forgetful!

 

Post Script: The onlay did last until I got home, and to my own dentist, who took a look, and some x-rays, and gave me the bad, if predictable, news: “I’m afraid there’s decay under the onlay.  It wasn’t seated quite right, and it’s leaked.”

 

A few visits, the usual discomfort, and $800 later, the onlay was replaced by a full crown.  But… the dentist, and all of her staff, loved the story.  So the tooth had a gold lining – for someone. 

 Above photo actually taken on another trip, in Morocco....