A day which, in intensity and emotion, has nothing to envy the day in Delhi.
After breakfast overlooking the lake (nutella toast for me), we welcome Amin returned to Kashmir via Delhi. I find as expected my 2 fellow caste bhop near their small troquet. We agreed that I would take pictures in their village.
First surprise: we are 5. Along the way a teenager joins us, very friendly and jovial, pure gypsy blood. Dyed hair (a Dutch way), an innate sense of business and contact. He greets his friends regularly on the street. It is yet another caste, the Nuds (?). Shiant Shiant forces, the day begins around a chai. The gypsy who daubed me hand and harassing me since yesterday joined us. The tone rises as each clan hunting the same territory and everyone warns me against the others. I do not want this conflict and I moved to my gossip to go for a drink elsewhere. They m'embarquent rooftop restaurant and order a cola. Or ...
They then announce how he must rent 2 bikes / scooters to reach the village. I think that the negotiations had already been arranged. Go on for 2 "bikes ..." out of the city. Bad luck, in the first renter, a single "bike" (a motorcycle 125) is available. My teen with dyed hair gets on the prompt ... I have to leave my passport. The lease by the day, is extremely cheap (around 1 euro, which added 3 liters of gasoline, same price). I sign a record by giving up my passport there, still a little apprehensive. What am I doing in this little world embark on 2 bikes ... and who obviously welcome ... I ride my bike around the helm of my gypsy and go to a rodeo-baptism in the narrow streets of Pushkar in the direction of another landlord. Here, prices are slightly higher but one of my companions bhop still negotiating downward. A scoot this time. I must leave small deposit. Nothing else. It's me this time that the driver scoot but I ask my guide to go through another path to avoid the rush ...
arrived on the main road (tarmac, normal traffic), acceleration ... wahouu .... We are 2 on the scoot that I drive, they are 3 on the bike. I see a family of 5 (parents, 3 children including a baby) on a motorcycle of similar size. Be three or four on a machine without a helmet and, of course, is part of life.
I fly with pleasure ... then we decide a change of drivers. I go back on the bike in the back of my gypsy who would give their heart - acceleration, horn, sometimes a bit dizzy overruns.
After the ride, we arrived - we are in the desert, buildings more or less poor everywhere, men's groups, clusters of cows along the streets. A lovely little blue house, a family in the back, a tent where we explain all inhabited by a family. Photos, chai and laughter. - What to believe? ...
En route back to the village bhop this time. A "real" village, a camp, rather, made of canvas, old metal beds. Goats. Caste bhop is transmitted from generation to generation, a specific art and music created as and when the instrument - the sound and form, he approaches the violin. I found there Rampaji, beautiful like a maharajah, the father of one of my young companions, a man I greatly appreciate. And who plays his instrument divinely. Photos, pictures, photos.
He then shows me an old tarp that falls into pieces and used to provide shade to many of his sheep. The previous day he had showed his shoes, in a sad state ... Pushkar is the crisis because of the drying lake less of pilgrims and tourists. But the bhop live their music in the street.
After chai final Rampaji, a gesture accompanied by a few words, made from whole little world. I find myself sitting alone with him and give him something for his tent. Too little, I know, but I can not do more. I took at that time a very strong emotion and the heart is no longer at the party. I say to my 4 Raiders of the Lost Ark as we go. Despite, of course, because they play on the machines but run.
Due to a misunderstanding, and having taken over at the arrival in town, Scooter, I find myself to be controlled, in turn, in the crowd and playing the horn ... hazing of conduct in India. For here, in town or elsewhere, the horn is essentially in lieu of traffic. You are supposed to drive on the left but it does seem to have too much. "It works" because everybody does the same thing and so I'm moving. A bit stressed but I succeed. Phew. I get among the first owner, my passport. Re-phew. We will then - I let drive my gypsy ... - The scooter. Alas, the dinner party boss, wait half an hour. Yet I was still reeling from the emotion and I needed to find myself alone, and quickly. Re-chai. We make the scoot and I get my deposit. Then one of bhop, the oldest asked me to buy him for flour, oil and butter for their bread locally. Grocery. I pay the bill, which hurts a little, even if they are far, far away, for this amount of flour (10 kg presumably) European prices. But it is proportional to the budget ... And of course, my gypsy wants his share too, as fair - there is an arrangement. On the stroke of gypsy daubed rebelotte joins us and chasing me until I give in to his request to go take a picture of her and others dancing. It is his job in his caste gypsy / gypsy. I defer to another day.
I arrive at my hotel and there I let myself bask in the sun half an hour.
The aridity of the land, precarious living conditions of my bhop, the deep affection I feel for her son and Rampaji, my inability to help me buy another tent filled with sadness . While I am not here to save the subcontinent. But a little affection prevails over reason ....
Passed emotion, and thinking to have found a solution, I returned from shopkeepers when I took pictures the day of my arrival. I am not able to put photos on CD. Finally, we find a solution and everyone is happy. I finally decided to go and break a seed (it is to 16h) in my little bistro ristretto Indian electrifying.
And I love the boss, a bit crazy and always humorous. I concote 3x nothing to toast a real Indian. From there I go around in town, looking for photos - but still very live by caste bhop.
Turning around a tray filled with red rosebuds and yellow, I asked the gentleman standing there for permission to take a photo. Without having had time to say anything, then I find myself carried away by him, which proves to be Brahman, for a puja at the edge of a pond. I resist and gently explained that I have nothing to give as an offering ... I insist, I insist, but also ... I let myself do that because it's an opportunity to get off the edge of ponds. Seated, he praying with me, the red rose in my hands daubed at the water's edge ... He recites mantras and prayers, makes me give a (forgotten). Comes time to checkout. I gently remind him that I tried to make him understand before going down ... thank you and god, he understands that he will only get 2 x nothing. I do not know if we parted good friends. Still, that feeling in a hurry, he said several times: "Slowly, egon, Shiant Shiant ..." and it's so true ... As I reached
Internet corner, a general power failure plunged the entire city in the night, a few candles conjure shadows.
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