I thought that this place was pretty well established on the tourist front, but once I arrived, and got laughed off the bus, I discovered that there were NO autos, and not even a rickshaw, they said "village hai". Realizing that this could just be a language barrier
problem, I pushed my case to see the Rann by bus or auto but to no avail.As I began to think about how bad life was going to suck without even a hotel around and the possibility of another bus not passing through the region until Sunday, (4 days away), I saw my friends from the bus that dropped me off. They inform me that they are returning to Bhuj that night, after going to this "maili" in Nasare or something like that. This village isn't even on the map, but since it was my only hope I had to take it.
We began plowing through the Kutch. Though it clearly looks like a desert appare
ntly it isn't classified as such because during the monsoons the region floods and leaves only scattered islands. Interestingly a massive earthquake in 2002, I believe, actually altered the course of the great Indus river which used to run through here, leaving this wasteland. I soon became plagued by delusions that I might be being kidnapped. I'm totally paranoid and have several adult male villagers, some apparently friendly, others hostile (even after a preemptory smile), conversing in Kutchi, the language of the region, chuckling here and there and staring at me while taking me out into the middle of one of the most barren and remote places I've ever seen. My irrational fear stemmed from the eerie deja vu, like I've seen this in the movies or something, of the situation, the fact that I had already admitted to being American, and that I was in an overwhelming Pakistani nationalist region. My fears were soon assuaged when several women boarded and were headed to the same festival.
I couldn't believe my luck. On the way we passed through a section of the Rann. Photography of the Rann is technically prohibited (according to the permit), but being off trail so far, and having gotten stuck in the sand I seized the opportunity for a few snaps.
This festival was everything probably any tourist in India could ask for. It was comp
letely indigenous, I was the only outsider. The traditional fight of the sub-continent, Maili, was the event my driver and the conductor came for. They pulled the bus right up behind the other spectators and had me get on top to ensure that I had the best view possible. To make me even more comfortable they had a couple of guys hold a shawl behind us so that we would be protected from the already intense sun. The driver turned out to be a major player in these fights, and even went on to have his ass handed to him later in the day.The surrounding scenery was the most special part for me. The tourist
industry cannot reproduce such a thing. The beautifully gaudy traditional clothing of the women (some with drunk-buddy-style tattoos covering their arms, throats, and face), fantastic jewelry (the Nath being my favorite), harsh climate, and very friendly people. It was perfect and surpassed all of my previous trips to neighboring, and in many ways similar, Rajastan.The villagers who had gathered for this annual event, Sunni Muslims, were celebrating Mahoram, a festival I haven't quite figured out the significance of yet.
[From top to bottom, these pics are of my driver and the conductor, a shot of the Rann from the vantage point of our being stuck in some deep sand, and two shots of the fights]
