Fabric of the Mankind

Karnataka

Posted on May 1, 2018May 1, 2018 by Daniel

The turn-off onto a state highway lead into the uncharted territory of northern Karnataka. This beautifully green land was the first officially southern state I visited. Small but smooth road made its way between lined up houses, the homes were truly picturesque; they were not large, but the single storey (and likely a single room) was as if compensated by the bright outside paint and small decorative plasticas on the roof covered by tiles. The colours of countryside life were dominated by the green fields of cane, corn and kurkuma. Unlike other states, well kept bus stop stood in every village and public water purification filters were at hand.

The orange flags of Shivaji supporters were replaced by yellow and red flags of Karnataka, Hindi-related Marathi was overcome by Drawidian Kannada. Rice, dosas and idlys became the staple. And strangely enough, hexagrams, exactly the same as the Star of David, appeared at various places.

India’s love with hexagram has deeper roots that the Jewish one. It is a common symbol of various Indian tantric traditions and has its part in Vedic architecture and decorative patterns, initially appearing millennia before the Old Testament. It is often a part of a yantra, a more complex symbolic form. It is supposed to help in meditation, protect against evil spirits, or simply serves as an auspicious symbol. The hexagram itself is a combination of the upper triangle representing Shiva and the lower triangle representing Shakti, male and female, fire and water. While the exact interpretation may vary across India, in Karnataka it became a form of talisman, a substitute for a god idol to pray to, and of course a decoration.

It did not take long to reach a small hamlet of Belagali near Mudhol. All went well, maybe except for an old lady waiting at a bus stop, who hysterically ran away when I offered her a piece of cake. This visit was a unique opportunity to stay at a small farm in rural area, and surely an interesting one.

The farm was an example of a wider trend slowly arriving to India. Educated children of rural families quit their well-paying urban jobs to return back home and work in agriculture. Armed by much better knowledge of technology and market, these young entrepreneurs move towards organic production, technologically advanced, diverse and efficient. They know their customers, the organic market booms in India, and they know where to get the most modern technology and supplies, they know how to pack and transport the products efficiently and precisely. This is also a new hope to rejuvenate the Indian countryside depleted by the generations of urban migration.

Small and medium scale agriculture in India faces the climate uncertainty and suffers from the lack of coordination. While the changing weather patterns have been evident across the region for the last decade and farmers struggle to adapt, the mismanagement problem is decades old. Government projects or loans to bring irrigation or take steps against land erosion or fragmentation are non-existent. Farmers are unwilling to make even short-term collaborative investments to improve the yield. Small size of individual plots also means minimal mechanisation and thus lower efficiency. This way, the land becomes deadlocked. All the actors face the looming threat of drought, floods or late monsoon, which can be and often is fatal, as thousands of small farmers commit suicide every year.

Besides, the life also changes. Animals are used mainly for work thesedays, as it is cheaper to buy milk than to keep a cow—desi cows give only about 3 litres per day anyway. Small families put strain on the cost of labour. Growing modernity intensifies pressure of side effects of poorly regulated use of pesticides, fertilisers, and antibiotics. Indian villages will soon face many challenges, and the only certainty they have is indifference of the politicians. Yet to this day, one can still feel the idyllic life, waking up amid green fields covered by the morning mist, toiled by cows and water buffaloes, the air is fresh and not as dusty, heat not as suffocating. Family life and customs keep more firmly in the old tracks and the pace of life is slow and relaxed.

The road south follows the same countryside up until Nargund, after which a shocking change occurs. The picturesque little homes turn into poverty stricken huts, and villagers turn into shadows, the fields feel more shabby and less green. The sad road slowly reaches the small town of Gadag, with no sign of explanation of what might have happened there.

Gadag is a friendly place which sees basically no tourists. There is very little in terms of sights it has to offer. The town has several ancient temples as it used to be an important centre of Hoysala empire. Main would be the 12th century Hindu Veeranarayana temple devoted to Vishnu, where the adaptation of Mahabharata epic (first ten chapters) was written down in Kannada by poet Kumara Vyasa, in the 15th century. The temple was built by the king Vishnuvardhana after he had converted from Jainism to Hinduism, specifically to Vaishnava, a stream in Hinduism considering Vishnu the supreme deity. Note the situation where the king converts, but still respects other religions. Also note the signs of monotheistic worship in Hinduism, which is a common theme and besides Vaishnava (Vishnu), can be seen in Shaivism (Shiva), Shaktism (female supreme goddess).

Gadag also has a newly constructed huge memorial with a museum, a 35 metres tall statue to the religious figure Basavanna.

Basavanna was 12th century statesman, poet and mainly a religious reformer. Through his works, Basavanna revived end energised the Lingayat movement. The movement puts a huge importance on the worship of lord Shiva, similarly to the other monotheistic currents in Hinduism, which became more prominent around the time of Muslim invasion of the Indian subcontinent. From Shiva comes the name of the movement, as the symbol of Shiva is linga, a stylisation of phalus representing fertility. What was exceptional for Lingayats at the time was Basavanna’s huge stress on personal worship, asking people to leave the temples and pray to the personal god by themselves. To do so, the Lingayats keep a small image of the linga on a necklace (called ishtalinga), usually filled with ash of burned cow dung. Basavanna was also a strong proponent of social equality, he opposed casteism and did advocate for equal treatment of people of all walks of life. At the same time he opposed many traditions, which he found improper, like the sacred thread Brahmins wear, washing temple statues with milk or temple rituals in general. He also strongly believed in the importance of continuing spiritual self-development.

Over the time, Lingayat movement changed. Ironically, it fractured into castes based on the occupation, as politics took over the ideology, so now florists have their own cast, so do grocers or oil traders. The whole community forms about 25% of the population in Karnataka and is therefore involved in state politics, and thus, every now and then the politicians promise them minority recognition, build a memorial or declare Basavanna’s birthday a holiday. Truth is, part of the community was fighting to be recognised as a separate religion, on the level of Jains or Sikhs, but these wishes haven’t materialised so far. And while the politics takes the Lingayats by storm, Basavanna’s message of equality, justice for all, and love is forced to take the back seat. His preachings written as poems called Vachanas still resonate with the people, and hopefully will overcome the cheap political slogans.

Gadag is not just a historical place but also a friendly area with classical Indian merchant shops, where the first floor of a small and narrow house contains more goods than an outsider would have ever believed, and the second is an apartment for the family. As common in India, these homes are often shared by extended family. Beside shops, lively vegetable bazaar spreads, selling all the possible shapes of gourds, courgettes and cucumbers, together with fascinating leafy vegetables and lady’s fingers.

This little charming town is also nearby Lakkundi, an ancient site of both Hindu and Jain temples, which were built by local empires about a millennium ago. The temples are built of polished stone with beautiful ornate exterior adorned by sculptures, intricate columns and beautiful relief work, particularly decorating portals. As common in this part of India, the main sanctum housing the idols is accessed by the elaborate multi-columned verandah. These temples are a great example of classical Indian architecture of the bygone era, while the shade and quietness give a refuge from the modern times. Although the temples are rather small, the stone work is the best preserved and the most spectacular I have seen. Beside the temples, the whole area is dotted by step wells, some of which are a half-crumbled part of the living countryside, but some more elaborate ones were kept intact with all the beautiful craftsmanship.

Kasivisvesvara temple — Pillars at Kasivisvesvara Hindu temple hall

Lakkundi is a relatively small area with a couple dozen of temples and step wells. But not far from Gadag is a place of slightly lesser antiquity, but of much larger extent, Hampi. It is a former capital of Vijaynagara empire, which grew in the 14th century on the ashes of other Hindu kingdoms in Karnataka defeated by Muslim sultans. The city was built over the years of empire’s greatest glory, it was the richest in India and second largest in the world at its peak, only to be destroyed and pillaged by a coalition of sultanates in the 16th century, meeting the same fate as the other Hindu kingdoms before it. After the defeat and ruin, the city was abandoned, but it remained an area which stretches for miles and contains hundreds of temples of varying sizes, extent and elaboration, palaces, forts, market streets, and riverside development.

While Virupaksha temple initially built in the 7th century is the major attraction for the Hindu pilgrims, it is definitely one of the boring ones. Temples stretching over the Hemakuta hill above the Virupaksha are much more impressive and atmospheric; they were built in white stone, some Jain and some Hindu, standing side by side as a memento to the Indian religious tolerance. Architecture of some of the temples strongly resembles ancient temples of antiquity in Europe, with spacious halls surrounded by magnificent columns.

Huge idol of Ganesh on the Hemakuta hill

On the other side of the hill is a large historical market boulevard and a nearby step well (pushkarni). This area is spectacular, devoid of tourists, but breathing the ancient atmosphere of Vijaynagara, where the playful imagination easily brings to life merchants entering the city, people with large earthen jugs collecting the water from the well, and a busy passing of a market day. This street leads to a major Krishna temple, beautifully decorated, with the main prayer hall surrounded by an outer wall with columned rooms. Just the mere size of the temple is spectacular.

Krishna temple pushkarni — Pushkarni near the market area of the Krishna temple

Towards the north east is the area where the most impressive temples lie, on the road from Virupaksha to the Tungabhadra river. Matanga mountain separating them from the Krishna temple takes a little effort to scale, but from the top opens up a view of the astonishing scale of the area, with the temples dotting the horizon, everywhere. One could easily spend week or two reaching more remote structures and enjoying peace and solitude there. The scenery of Hampi is completed by large granite rocks protruding from the dry soil, and many thorny trees, it is dry but pleasant.

The large temples welcome you below the Matanga mountain, constructed with an open courtyard and an outer wall ringing the prayer hall, the most famous of them being Achyutaraya. These are so similar to the temples of Luxor, that one keeps wondering, whether they might have actually been aware of millennia older Egyptian majestic temples. In contrast to the generally plain Egyptian temples (at least after they paid their toll to time), these were carefully decorated by reliefs, to be faithful to the Indian ancient traditions. Some of the pillar halls have each pillar decorated by a relief of a unique avatar.

One of avatars on a pillar in Achyutaraya temple

Pillared hall of Achyutaraya decorated by images of avatars

Passing many more temples on the way further north east, which are rather smaller and more plain but less busy, one reaches extensive Vitthala temple, where a huge and famous stone image of Garuda chariot stands, which is also shown on the five rupee note. Several other temples complement the complex, with pushkarni a little further afield.

But Hampi is not only beautiful temples, ancient wells and pleasant peace. Many monkeys live in the area, playing all over the timeless remnants of the forgotten empire. It is a place of dry but beautiful nature and bright brown boulders. The river draws a pretty line across the horizon and local villagers still take small boats into the stream to meet the ends. It is a lively place of worship where many Hindu and Jain pilgrims come to pay respect and gain merit. It is more than an open air museum, it is abandoned but yet alive.

Auspicious tree — A thin line between religion and superstition

From Hampi, one road leads south to Karnataka’s bustling capital of Bangalore, another road leads north, across the changing landscape, towards the capital of Telengana, Hyderabad. Going north starts very pleasantly, across the green rice fields, with cool breeze and busy agriculture. After a day, everything changes, lush green fields disappear and weather becomes scorching hot as one passes Raichur and enters Telengana. And for another day, the road goes through small Mahbubnagar, and little rural villages with small shops and surprised locals. The blistering sun follows you all the way to the gargantuan capital.

Hyderabad was historically a Muslim city run, together with the surrounding areas, by Nizams. It kept its independence after the partition of India until the Indian army finally marched in in 1948, and a decade later, the Hyderabad state was partitioned and merged with Maharashtra, Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh, based on the language. But the Telugu and Urdu speaking districts attached the Andhra never really accepted the new reality, and a half century later were carved out again to form the separate Telengana state.

Today’s Hyderabad still has substantial Muslim population, particularly in the Old city, but the wildly and uncontrollably growing fringes are dominated by Hindu immigrants. The city is trying to project itself as a new centre of IT, with many companies setting up their offices and hiring and training thousands of young engineers, serving as a commercial hub of the region. But still if you mention the city by its name, the first thing that comes to Indian’s mind is the famous biryani.

Parsis

Posted on March 29, 2018March 29, 2018 by Daniel

Parsis are definitely one of the most prominent communities in India, at least as it comes to wealth, grandeur, and a mist of mystery. Parsis are descendants of the Zoroastrian refugees who escaped to India from the Sassanid Persia after the Muslim conquest in the 7th century. Zoroastrian religion is one of the oldest monotheistic beliefs in the world, with the oldest records dating back to the second half of the firsts millennium BC, but supposedly being yet another millennium older. It was revealed by the prophet Zoroaster and is devoted to the single creator and supreme deity Ahura Mazda. It was the first to introduce the concepts of moral dualism, heaven and hell, messianic narrative and a judgement day, all of these being typical for later Abraham religions. It puts a big emphasis on the free will and individual responsibility for one’s life and refuses fatalism. Uniquely, the nature elements are sacred to Zoroastrians and must be protected, which is reflected in customs: burial consists of leaving bodies in the open, to be degraded by the environment and wild animals, religious ceremonies include fire and water and take place in Fire temples, existence of which was recorded as early as fourth century BC.

The religion vanished rather quickly after the conquest of its native Persia. While economic collapse and civil war following a devastating conflict with Byzantines left population disillusioned already before the Muslim invasion, the reasons for the massive apostasy are also part of the religion’s structure itself. Zoroastrian theology and philosophy were known only to the priestly families and the majority of the population was largely ignorant beyond simple rituals. Besides, many elites of the time would voluntarily convert to Islam to protect their interests. The Fire temples gradually fell into disrepair or were converted into mosques, and within a century, the Greater Iran adopted the new religion with an exception of a handful of families.

Agiary — Parsi Fire temple with the typical winged figures

As the legend goes, ships of the remaining Zoroastrians left Homruz in 715 and arrived to Diu in what is today Gujarat, from where they finally reached Sanjan area along the coast, and were confronted by the local ruler Jadi Rana. At the meeting, the king presented the refugees with a vessel of milk, filled to the very top, indicating there was no more space for the migrants in his kingdom. In response, one of the Parsi priests added a pinch of sugar into the milk, showing that the newcomers would not overwhelm the kingdom, but add sweetness to everybody’s life. King then accepted the Zoroastrians under the conditions they will speak local language (Gujarati), will not bear arms and the women will dress in sarees. This way, the original Parsi town of Sanjan on Indian soil was established. Some time later, Parsis were allowed to construct the first Fire temple, where the sacred fire was enshrined. They brought the fire (or ashes, according to another version) from Iran; the fire is told to have been consecrated by the last Sassanid king, and is considered a symbol of both the religion and the overthrown monarchy, therefore called ‘Iranshah’ by Parsis.

Following years were the blooming of the community. They spread to other cities and more temples were constructed. The growth came to a sudden end four centuries later, as the Muslim conquest caught up with them. The community was in hiding for a decade, before the situation improved enough. The sacred fire was then transferred between various temples following splits within the Zoroastrian clergy, until it was finally housed in Udvada in the 18th century, which remains the longest-burning and the most sacred Zoroastrian fire in the world. There are in total nine highest level temples with the holy fire, eight in western India and one in Yazd in Iran. Dozens of temples with lesser sanctification can be found all over the world.

Ceremonial objects — A set of ceremonial objects used by Parsis on festival days

The importance of Udvada is hardly noticeable for an unaware observer. It is just a small village, very beautifully kept, with beautiful old houses, but very little to indicate the most important pilgrimage site for the remaining Zoroastrians. The temple, which has been present continuously since 721, is called Atash Behram, derived from Middle Persian, meaning ‘Victorious Fire’. Non Zoroastrians are not allowed to enter (only exception to this rule is the Fire temple in Yazd). The village has a small museum of Parsi history and culture, and a couple restaurants offering traditional Parsi meals. Arriving pilgrims cover their heads with scarfs, both men and women, before they enter temple premises.

When one sees Parsis today, it is immediately clear they are not ordinary Indians. Their proud features betray them to the world, long faces, prominent cheekbones and fair complexion. It is impressive how the community remained to itself during more than a millennium, only mildly expanded by later Zoroastrian immigrants called Iranis. But this seclusion is also their undoing; the recessive genes keep spreading, and even elaborate genealogies don’t guarantee problems won’t appear. Outbreeding is impossible, anyone marrying outside the community loses the line and their children are not considered Parsis anymore. This combined with dropping fertility rates of urban population finalises the twilight. Recent governmental initiative to convince Parsis to have more children only resulted in a mockery, with a punchline ‘Parsis are not pandas’.

Dadar house — Typical residential building of the Dadar area

While the Sanjan region is the homeland of Parsi population in India, with ancient fire temples as far as overcrowded Ahmedabad, expanding Surat, or small and historical Navsari, most of Parsis are now settled in Mumbai. Most of them live in upmarket areas, in walled colonies. Only approachable colony is the one of Dadar, built a century ago. Houses are decorated by the winged symbol and mostly elderly Parsis are easily recognised. Despite numbering less than fifty thousand in Mumbai, Parsis made a lasting mark on the city. The most successful businessman, Jamsetji Tata was a Parsi; and if not his business empire, his charitable works surely made him famous and respected. Politician, journalist and husband of Indira Gandhi, Firoz Gandhi, also belonged to the community.

The whole metropolis uncovers a surprising Fire temple (also called agiary in Gujarati) every now and then and offers a seldom stern look into an ancient Aryan face. Looking into Parsi face is like looking down the annals of history, as seeing a shortcut to the times when Cyrus had his cylinder made, and when Persepolis was cut from the white stone.

Another very unlikely mark these people made on Mumbai, a beautiful legacy, are Parsi cafés. While the number of these small restaurants is dwindling even faster than the community itself, it still keeps people from all walks of life happy with Irani tea, curry biscuits and cakes; caste or religion do not disqualify anyone.

Yazdani — Famous Parsi café in the Fort area of Mumbai

Agiary in Kolkata — One of agiaries in Kolkata

Converted agiary — One of Kolkata agiaries converted into a medical facility

Parsi culture and agiaries made their way to many other parts of India, particularly in nearby Maharashtra, in Lonavala or Pune. But also as far as Kolkata, which has a population of roughly 400, with five active Fire temples, but no priests. Some of the temples get transformed into charitable institutions as their former users shift to other places. With two lakhs of Zoroastrians around the world, Parsis form about one third, with deep root in the Indian soil, and branches in the most prominent Indian families. Yet with the sweeping winds of change and approaching modernity, the community as it was known for a millennium will disappear. Their descendants will still play a crucial role in the Indian society, but the religion and strict customs of the forefathers will go the same path as those of Polish Tatars, Russian Maris or Mordovians, or Soviet Koreans. And people like us will walk down the old alleys, looking for crumbling temples, overgrown cemeteries and the children with the noble past.

Maharashtra

Posted on March 17, 2018March 17, 2018 by Daniel

A mighty state of India, it sits on the line dividing the country into Aryan north and Dravidian south, it stretches from the Konkan coast of the Arabian sea to the Deccan plateau. It is a place of astonishing diversity and widespread traditional identity at the same time, of natural beauty and sprawling overcrowded cities. It is a place, where contrasts coexist.

Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj started his Indian reconquests from here, which is documented by numerous forts all over the state, but still the border remained open enough so that Parsis and Jews made it their new home. Pride and valour have been the driving force in wars against the Mughals, and eventually a cause of devastation—forget Rajasthan style palaces or finely preserved temples, the four riders rode this land more than once. British came to prey on quarrelling Marathas in the late 18th century, and the seeds of discord they sow among the communities gives poisonous fruits to this day, decades after Gandhi’s movement weeded Britons out of the fertile land.

The Marathi speaking land begins a hundred kilometres north of Mumbai, as a prelude to the Western Ghats, hills appear once more, changing the flat scenery of Gujarat. Road crosses forested area and follows to Mumbai’s remote satellite town, Virar.

Virar is a coastal town, but not a port nor a resort. Its residential suburbs are quickly expanding to accommodate Mumbai-bound employees seeking a bit of quietness and a cheaper rent. Mumbai suburban trains run regularly between the Virar city and the very south of megapolis throughout the day. They are not as overcrowded as they used to be, but people hanging out of the doors are still a norm. Between 2002 and 2012, ten people died daily due to overcrowding and jaywalking, but the casualties have been since cut in half as security measures and regulations were introduced. Redevelopment of the whole system is taking place, but with nearly eight million passengers daily, it’s an uphill battle.

Virar still feels like a small town, it is separated by hills from the highway, and surrounded by villages and fields on the other. Some of the village houses still follow classical architecture with prominent well in front. Centre of the town is dominated by low-rise buildings and small parks. At the first sight, one notices unusual Muslim population: women colourfully dressed, some men wearing shorts and t-shirts. These are Dawoodi Bohras, a small Ismaili Shia sect of about one million followers worldwide. They live mostly in Gujarat, where their faith arrived from Fatimid Egypt and Yemen. Bohras wear distinct traditional clothes, while men wear three-piece white attire of kurta, overcoat, and skirt-like izaar (not all of them wear shirts and shorts), women wear very distinct colourful two-piece dress called rida, with beautiful embroiled floral motifs, just partially covering their hair. The fullness and brightness of the colours is astonishing, lace decorates rims of the clothes and embroidery the face of it; the dress makes Bohra women stand out against the black burqa typically worn by Sunni women. Bohras are traditionally a trading community, so while they can be spotted in coastal towns, they would be very scarce inland. Despite their small numbers, education level, specially among women, is high and studies strongly encouraged.

Bohri women — Dawoodi Bohra women wearing typical colourful rida

Mumbai-bound highway crosses Vasai creek and climbs a few minor ghats around Sanjay Gandhi National park, before it enters the overly congested Mumbai metropolitan area. Many smaller towns like Thane, Vashi or Panvel have become factual part of the main city. Overall metropolitan region is home to more than twenty million people, and at the same time a residence for the richest people of India. You would hardly find a city in India with larger inequality, overcrowded slums stand side-by-side with supermodern high-rises, mauled auto-rickshaws fight for road with shiny cars.

Interestingly, there were just fishermen on the seven islands before British arrived in the 17th century, and through series of engineering projects and land reclamation transformed the area into a major sea port by the mid 19th century. In the adult life, the city came to prominence not only as the financial hub of the country, but also through the dream-factory of Bollywood, or educational centres like IIT. As such, Mumbai experiences unprecedented influx of migrants looking for jobs and better life, be it bankers, actors, and scientists on one hand or impoverished farmers and migratory labours on the other.

The incomparable level of population and wealth makes newcomers settle on the further side of the city. Even high paying job holders would live in apartments twenty kilometres from the centre—more than two hours by car in horrendous traffic and about 40 minutes if you risk your life on the local train. Bus system is well connected, but bogged down in the heavily congested roads and generally unpredictable. With all the transportation painfully slow, city administration has been developing subway, but this will still take years to finish.

Mumbai is a city way too big for a single visit, even for a lifetime visit, one may argue. But some areas have special charms and hidden gems. One of such area Bandra. Rich area with Christian heritage facing the Arabian sea bordered by waterfront Bandstand promenade. In folds of neat and clean streets shine old churches, small cemeteries, convent schools and villas. Relaxed atmosphere and friendly locals below and super rich sitting above, at the balconies of the holiday houses, watching the sunset over the ocean. Interestingly, the area also houses a very small Jewish cemetery, mere dozen graves in already poor state.

South of Bandra, on a traffic junction, songs resonate within the St. Michael’s church, originally constructed by Portuguese in the mid 16th century. It is famous for its Wednesday Novenas, a series of devotional prayers to the Our Lady of Perpetual Succour. These are visited by people of all religions backgrounds as they believe that if they attend nine prayers in the row, their wishes will be granted. It’s no surprise the church overflows on those days, people kneeling on the streets, watching the ceremony through the windows. The church caters to diverse community, offering mass in many languages, including English, Marathi, Gujarati or Konkanese. Behind the church, beautiful and we’ll kept cemetery decorated by fresh flowers and trees is a resting place of many generations of Mumbai’s Catholics.

Catholic cemetery behind the St. Michael’s church

Slightly more south of the St. Michael’s lies tranquil Dadar colony, mainly inhabited by Parsis. Like an oasis of peace, this place was planned and crafted at the end of the 19th century. Low-rise buildings surround Five Gardens, with many agiaries (Zoroastrian fire temples) dotting the streets. Houses are decorated by the winged symbol of Ahura Mazda, and elderly Parsis can be seen sitting on their balconies reading newspapers. Unlike other Parsi communities in Mumbai, Dadar is not isolated from the outside world and houses as many as 10,000 Zoroastrian residents. At the fringes of the area, new houses are showing up, high-rises decorated by reliefs similar to Persepolis, leaving no doubt as of who runs this place.

Modern Dadar — A modern building with Persepolis style decoration in Dadar

Old Parsi house — A century old Parsi manor decorated by the Ahura Mazda winged symbol

Historical centre of Mumbai is in the very south. Gateway of India marks a visit of George V to India in 1911, facing the structure stands hotel Taj Mahal Palace built by famous Parsi Jamsetji Tata a decade earlier. Popular story has it, that Tata decided to build the hotel after being refused entry to a ‘white-only’ hotel. Slightly north stands more than century old turquoise structure of Baghdadi Jews Synagogue, Knesset Eliyahoo; the building is in bad need of restoration, but is a great illustration of the Jewish life in Mumbai. A balcony for women oversees the main hall with benches and an altar, and a sanctuary of Torah. The interior is beautifully decorated by carvings and also pained in blue colour.

The historical centre also hosts beautiful arched historical buildings of court and university, which stand across the road from a huge green field, the university has an imposing and majestic clock tower, which makes the building look like a church. North from here stands a beautiful colonial building of local train terminus, formerly known as Victoria station, now renamed to Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj terminus. All these are neatly laid out along straight wide boulevards lined by trees.

Former Victoria station, terminus of local train

Slightly north from the historical centre begins the Fort area. Particularly its western part is noticeably unplanned, dominated by traditional Indian bazaar with narrow streets and pushcarts, where Parsi agiary and Jain temple stand beside each other, while a nearby park is dominated by the beautiful white Anglican church of Saint Thomas. The eastern part of the Fort is much more designed, with wide roads and polished façades of old colonial buildings serving now as a mint, port authority, high court or tax collector office.

While Parsis are less common in this area these days, one of famous Parsi cafés still caters to customers in the western part of the Fort. These restaurants used to be widespread and very common in Mumbai, hundreds a hundred years ago, now no more than two dozens remain. In the low key area of the Fort, it is Yazdani bakery. A unique place where one can see elderly Parsis with proud faces, Dawoodi Bohras in bright ridas, Muslims and Hindus, menials and managers, sharing little tables to drink sweet irani tea, eat bread pudding, bun maska or curry biscuits. Zoroastrian wings and a picture of Zoroaster decorate the walls of this aged wooden house. A young age portrait of Mr Yazdani, a former bodybuilder, hangs above the table where he comes to sit in his very old age, to huge admiration of young people who can recognise him. While pudding and tea are amazing and atmosphere unbeatable, this place has surely seen better days. With the advent of cheap junk serving multinationals mushrooming all over the world, propelled by the wave of pointless admiration of the western brands, beautiful traditional places like Yazdani’s find themselves in a difficult position. And as the owners get older and their children are not interested in the family business anymore, they are sadly doomed to vanish, or at least reinvent themselves into something different.

Making one’s way further north from the Fort, the most interesting part of Mumbai unfolds. An area amazing for its diversity, mandirs, agiaries, churches, mosques of different branches of Islam, synagogues, all constituting an impressive maze of coexistence. Various kinds of smell and stench, flagrance and perfume meddle, coming from homes, garbage, street-cooked food or ceremonial jotsticks. Another Parsi café stands here, Kayani’s, in slightly better shape than Yazdani’s, it has a big bakery shop making the best mawa cakes and Christmas rum cakes in town; different venue, but the same egalitarian atmosphere. The Parsi cafes managed to bridge the communal and caste divisions in exceptional way over the last century and brought society to the single table. From here, little roads lead to the intermixed neighbourhood. Beautiful green and white indo-saracenic mosques, some Muslims wearing distinct green turbans styled after the prophet belonging to a small Muslim branch. Tall front of majestic agiary on area’s edge is a counterpoint to the small and humble Bene Israel synagogues deep inside the jungle. Unlike empty but proud agiary, the synagogues are still full of life and used by friendly and chatty oldest Jewish community of India, even though finding their low key entrances is not easy. Jews lived scareless lives in India until 2008 terrorist attack, synagogues are under police protection since then, but still open and active. Besides these, historical churches, Muslim Darghas and Hindu mandirs are found all over the area. Slightly further north is another synagogue built by the Baghdadi Jews. These narrow crowded dirty alleys give You a safe feeling even after the dark. It is probably the most beautiful example of tolerance and coexistence I have ever seen.

Synagogue — Bene Israel little synagogue

The pressure of traffic just bursts you from the city across the Thana creek to Navi Mumbai, which used to be just a sleepy backwaters a dozen years back. Meanwhile, new homes grew like mushrooms and the town became a modern suburb with palm-lined highway and high-rises. The smooth road continues down to Panvel, which is slightly more remote eastern gateway to Mumbai. The busy heat is not felt anymore, it is a quiet suburb where streets get empty by 9pm. Many new modern homes rise all around the place for families, which wish for a bit of peace.

The Panvel road continues towards Lonavala, a hill station and a favourite weekend refuge. To reach the hill station, the path climbs from the sea level to the Deccan plateau through the Kandala pass. In some sections of the ascent, the steepness is literally breathtaking, with hairpin after hairpin making their way up. The nature setting is beautiful, lush green trees are all around and a countryside opens down below, the steep sharp cliffs of Western Ghats smoothed by a mild mist are visible in a distance. The hilltop is peppered by holiday homes and restaurants before the road makes a slight descent towards the plateau and the Lonavala itself.

Western Ghats — Ghats around Lonavala pass

Lonavala is a typical holiday resort, many hotels stand amid beautiful lush green vegetation and hills. This opens the Deccan plateau, an area where ghats (steep mountains) bar the road every now and then. Particularly in this region, Maharashtra is dotted by ancient fortresses on the hilltops. One of such is Logahad fort, with stone staircase spiralling up the steep slope, protected by many gates. The fort itself is rather empty, save a few water cisterns, caves and foundations of old buildings, but it offers beautiful views and eerie feeling during the sunset. The area is mostly ringed by the stone wall, with a hairpin of ramparts running far out, which is nicknamed ‘scorpion tail’. Lonavala area has more forts to offer and some ancient Buddhist caves as well, while in the city, surprisingly large Parsi agiary stands behind a high wall. Parsis obviously like to spend their holiday here.

Scorpion tail — Hairpin section of ramparts at the Logahad fort

Road to the main gate of the Logahad fort

From Lonavala, a wavy landscape continues to Maharashtra’s education capital of Pune. Countryside is initially green and filled with agriculture, until the highway enters Pune’s metropolitan area and everything gets clouded in dust and bogged in terrible traffic. This is a symptom of ever-expanding India; Pune used to be a laid back little sister of Mumbai, but rapid and unmanaged immigration and construction turned it into the same congested frustrating ant nest.

Most of the things Pune has to offer are further afield. Going east from the city, through sugarcane fields and jaggery plants, one reaches Bhuleshwar temple. The temple is a beautiful example of architecture, decorated by thousands of finely sculpted statuettes. And it is also a memento of the Maratha-Mughal wars, as most of the statues have been damaged, deemed idolatrous by the Muslim raiders. But in the dimmed light, sacred atmosphere and the evidence of ancient glory are strong. Southern road from Pune leads towards the Malhargad fort, one of the smallest in Maharashtra. Unlike other forts, this one sees nearly no tourists; tall, black stone walls and wind are the only company. A small temple stands in the centre, and deers run around, among the fields and ponds. In contrast to the huge and busy cities, Maharashtra still has many peaceful places and backwaters to offer. The villages one passes on the way out of town still give the impression of Gandhi times, men wearing white kurta and dhoti, and typical white boat-shaped cap called Gandhi topi. All these are still popular, since the time of independence struggle.

Black stone tower of the lonely Malhargad fort

Within the city limits, which are stretched year by year, stands Shaniwar wada, the former residence of Peshwas, prime minister’s and later de facto rulers of Shivaji’s empire. Of the former woodcarving glory nothing remains, just simple outer wall and a garden. A little south, huge crowds gather to see a gargantuan idol of Ganesh, in probably the most popular temple in the town. Further north is located reputed Pune University campus, these days already within the volatile city limits. Main historical building from the 19th century was initially designed to host local British regent, but was soon transferred to the educational facility feeding the late manpower-hungry administration. Campus is large and green, individual faculties are scattered across the grounds, housed in beautifully mellow buildings with charming atmosphere. Many students sit around or roam from one building to another, chat under a huge banyan tree or rehearse drama in the open theatre.

Pune is also a home to two synagogues, which are now only a little more than tourist attraction. Local Jewish population dwindled, as everywhere in India, and the doors are open only when visitors come. One of the synagogues has a peculiar shape of a church, including the tower, which is equipped by a huge clock. Pune also has many churches scattered all over the place.

Arriving to this area on Christmas is an interesting experience. Indian Christian population is by no means small. As many as 3% of Indians worship Christ, that means 35 million believers, fragmented into dozens of denominations. But still, Christmas is not similar to Europe at all. Loud and noisy, music is booming all the days, fireworks and firecrackers rattle the neighbourhood, nothing like the silent night carol. Big open-air mass is held on the Christmas eve, and huge crowds gather to hear the message. Christian families often invite their friends from different religions for dinner, as everybody enjoys public holiday.

After Christmas is over, it’s time to move on, further south, deep into the Deccan plateau. The road climbs over a small pass and after a few kilometres across agricultural countryside reaches famous temple town of Jejuri. The Shiv temple is not big and neither very elaborate or ancient, but famous for clouds of yellow turmeric powder. Worshippers stand in a huge queue to see the main idol, while many minor shrines are all over the premises…and everyone throws turmeric all over the place. Nobody leaves unscathed.

Jejuri temple — Jejuri Shiv temple, filled with the pilgrims and yellow turmeric powder

After Jejuri, road continues among the sugarcane fields, with much less traffic than on the national highway. In a few hours it reaches a small quiet town of Phaltan, where branched family of former rajas still dwells, and which I had a chance to get to know. It was the first time anyone welcomed me by putting a wreath of marigolds around my neck (which in the end ended up as a dog’s toy).

Phaltan is a typical Maharashtran small town, men in white with Gandhi topi, sugarcane everywhere, people are friendly and proud, picture of Shivaji Maharaj is on every other car and T-shirt. At the same time, believes feel a bit stronger here, as it is common to meet people chanting ‘Ram Ram Ram, Jay Sri Ram‘ or walking along the road as pilgrims. The food in this state is a fusion between the north and the south, rice and southern rice flour dishes like steamed rice bites idlys or fried rice pancakes dosas are complemented by chapatis and parathas. A special dish is puram puri, which is a chapati filled with jaggery paste, it is delicious but terribly filling. The tastes are mild, spicy Rajput cuisine of Maharashtra or sweet food of Gujarat are just a memory. As one moves a little inland and upland, temperature and humidity drop and weather becomes very pleasant, even little fresh at night, and mist covers the fields in the early morning.

Fields of Maharashtra covered in morning mist

Former compound of local rajas, Rajwada, dominates the centre of Phaltan. While nobody lives there anymore, and it is not open to tourists either, it is a beautiful place, which charmed cinema goers many times, as interiors were used during numerous shootings. Typical delicate woodcarving, airy halls, antique furniture don’t fail to impress. Next to the Rajwada stands Sri Ram Mandir and smaller Datta Mandir. Both have the same impressive Maharashtran woodwork, with astonishing details of the artistry, the wooden outer hall extends towards the beautifully sculpted main altar hall, which houses the idol of the deity. The wooden roof is decorated by colourful lamps made of Belgian glass, while besides the temple stands a huge stone structure similar to a tree, with dozens of oil lamp holders, called deep stambha. The temples have also many minor shrines and swarm with people who came to worship. On some parts of the temple one can see the repairs can’t easily match the deterioration, as is understandable for a structure of this extent and quality in such small town. Just in front of Rajwada stands another temple, much older and ancient; it very likely used to be a Jain structure earlier, with the finest details of the stonework. Only a short distance from here spreads a small town market selling fruits, vegetables and small daily things, strongly upkeeping the village atmosphere.

Woodcarvings and Belgium glass lamps of Sri Ram Mandir in Phaltan

A short ride from Phaltan is a small village of Wathar Nimbalkar, a home of one of the branches of Phaltan royal family. About two centuries back, nine impressive keeps were built there for each relative. But the times change, and while today’s grandfathers grew up in these palaces, and their children played around the abandoned but still intact houses, their grandchildren have to tread softly and climb crumbling staircases carefully. The keeps became overgrown with high grass, and many walls and structures already collapsed. Repairs are too costly and potential revenues basically zero. This keeps the little village and its noble past in soft slumber and simple life. Nimbalkars reunite only during merry or sad family events, they are scattered otherwise, in more manageable homes across the whole world. In this part of India, the royalty found its way among the people.

Very scenic road crosses agricultural land, with green hills and small villages, until it passes national highway and reaches a picturesque town of Wai at the foot of a huge ghat section, famous holiday spot for people of Pune. The city of Wai itself sits at the bottom of a bowl of mountains, which protect it from strong winds and rains. The mountain tops host little shrines where people climb to ask for a piece of luck. But besides natural beauty, Wai is famous for temples along the Krishna river, which springs nearby. Some of them are still unrestored and preserve their ancient charm, others are newly repaired and swarm with worshippers. But it’s not the individual temples, which make this place magical, it is the scenery of the whole river, particularly in the low winter sun, with pilgrims camping around and local women washing clothes in the stream and drying the colourful sarees on the embankment.

Wai riverfront — Riverfront of Wai and women washing clothes

The temples of Wai along the Krishna river

About thirty kilometres up the stream opens a large section of beautiful Ghats rising hundreds of metres above your head, making you feel small and humble. The rocky shields with beautiful colours in the low light are one of the most impressive pieces of nature in Maharashtra. In this area, villages are very small and traditional, buffaloes, fishing and farming, a completely different world from Mumbai, which is just a few hundred kilometres away.

Up from Wai — Ghats around a dam near Wai

A stretch of national highway gets quickly and smoothly to the major town of southern Maharashtra, the city of Kolhapur. I had a chance to meet people of a prominent Marwari community and learn about Indian way of doing business in this industrial heart of the region. The basis of business relationship in a country with rampart corruption and judiciary which takes years to settle a case, the reputation and family line is everything. It is unthinkable to sell against invoice to an unknown person. Only family bounds and guarantees or confirmation of good payment history actually lays foundations for any business. Also for this reason, business runs in the families, from father to son, for many generations, with age of a particular family company exceeding a century. It is not only a family line, but also branching: it is better to help a cousin or nephew to open his shop, with the same material, next to mine, as he will be my predictable and controllable complement, rather than a fierce competitor. In this way, clusters of similar shops develop in a single street.

The young Marwaris are miles away from the other Indians I met. Their riches allow them to life in standards middle class Europeans don’t even dream of. They travel the world freely, party and shop as they like. On the other hand, they have to work hard on their businesses, they are kind and generous people, and within the hierarchical Indian society, they are bound to treat their servants well and kindly. But it is a very different community, constraint by its own internal rules and customs. Much more formal and posh, much more self-confident, much more showy and appearance oriented.

Marwari society of course progresses, and every upcoming generation will be more and more modern, the same way their business evolves—the same old story as in Gujarat, where machine looms replaced weavers and supermodern German technology replaced labour intensive old industry. Here, steel mills go into modern holding technologies and replace old blast furnaces with induction furnaces, making the production leaner and cleaner. But technological advance discloses the gap with safety and standards. Men working without helmets or gloves, operating machines with molten metal without any protection, cutting or smoothening metal without googles, working in dust and soot without any respirator or mask.

Foundry — Melting scrap iron in a foundry, without any safety precautions

The same way Marwari community made it above the others, Dalits, the Untouchables were left behind. Discrimination engrained over hundreds of years doesn’t go away easily. And since they sided with the British during the Anglo-Maratha war, tensions flare up around the anniversaries of the battle of Koreagon. On the bicentenary, it grew into riots between the Dalits and higher caste, particularly hindutva Shivaji followers waving orange flags. These orthodox Hindus are knows as RSS, a mother organisation of the BJP. The RSS was initially formed a century ago in Nagpur in Maharashtra, and adopted the Shivaji’s orange flag; it is supposed to be a Hindu cultural organisation to unite and mobilise all the casts against a common enemy, be it British, Muslims or lower caste Hindus.

Morning Dalit strike and a blockade of the city crossroads grew into property violence as the protestors vented their frustration of mistreatment, which in turn brought the Hindu nationalist retaliation and street violence. By the late afternoon, Dalits were chased down the streets by the orange mob, and whatever possession they left behind were destroyed. Later in the evening, a story about a bad mob (Dalits) and a good mob (RSS) came up, but to me, mob is always only a mob, and seeing the young excited man with orange banners hunting down the impoverished few did not seem that good.

With all its diversity and differences, Maharashtra is a beautiful place to visit. Be it never-sleeping Mumbai or sleepy backwaters, chic actors of Bollywood or Gandhi topi wearing old men in Wathar, purple flag of Dalits or orange flag of RSS, Bandra promenade or Western Ghats. But at the end of the day, riots are far in between, and differences are easily bridged while overlooking the misty fields and nibbling on puram puri.

Gujarat

Posted on March 1, 2018March 1, 2018 by Daniel

Gujarat is a western Indian state, a coastal area where Arab traders used to land in ancient times, where the first Parsi refugees found new home and where Portuguese seafarers made their foothold. With population 60 million strong, one of the most developed and rich states remains a trader hub, diversity melting pot, and a vegetarian stronghold. It is the birthplace of Gandhi and a home of his peaceful resistance to colonialism. In respect to Gandhiji, it is, at least officially, an alcohol free state. It has been ruled by the BJP party and India’s current Prime Minister, as it’s chief minister, for more than two decades. The time infamous for 2002 intercommunal Hindu-Muslim riots, which left thousands dead, injured, or raped, majority of them Muslim.

Leaving Aravalli — Southern fringes of Aravalli mountains

Both mandir — Desolate Buddhist temple in Gujarat countryside

Road to the northern Gujarat city of Himmatnagar slowly leaves the greenery of Aravalli mountains and through farmlands reaches semi-arid lowlands with shrubs, bushes and low trees. Himmatnagar itself is a very simple city, completely devoted to Hanuman with dozens of temples in the area dedicated to him. Hanuman is the monkey god and one of the main characters of Ramayana, particularly considered a representation of strength, devotion and loyalty (to Rama). As in every place in Gujarat, the city has a strong community of traders, the Patels. This city is far from tourist interest, small alleys of the not-so-old town hide narrow houses, small shops selling sweet milk and roaming cows. Around the city, forest covers the sandy soil, snakes and mongooses are plentiful and rather modern temples appear here and there. One of Shiva temples, a site of cremations, was built on foundations of an ancient temple dating a millennium back—the original lingua sanctum is fully submerged under the ground. Standing in front of the cremation site but seeing no graveyard gives this astonishing sudden insight: all the graves I have ever seen in India were either Christian or Muslim, when one believes in reincarnation, digging graves makes no sense, Hindu graveyards do not exist. This is not always exactly true, and some regional differences will be touched upon in appropriate installments.

In a nearby little temple, people come to offer to a snake god; coconuts and oil lamps are placed in a hollow trunk of a banyan tree only to be in turn extinguished and oil drunk by the mongooses. Being a foreigner in this city means becoming an instant celebrity; you have to be ready to have several lunches, refuse invitations for wedding ceremonies and drink countless teas and sweet milk glasses. This is how indian hospitality is shown—feeding a guest is nearly holy and refusal of food is perceived as an insult.

Mongoose waiting near the sacrifice place for another oil lamp to extinguish and eat

It is not a long ride to the newly constructed, planned capital of Gujarat, Gandhinagar. Broad roads with surrounding parks, newly constructed homes arranged in neat colonies, meticulously organised traffic with lights, police and compulsory helmets. The city is a twin city of the historical centre of the area, Ahmedabad, local busses and auto rickshaws shuttle the mere twenty kilometres back and forth within an hour or so.

Ahmedabad is a huge megapolis, which grew around a walled crowded old town. The walled town was founded by a local Sultan in the 15th century, while in the 19th century the city was developed by the British into a textile industry centre from which it still has its nickname “Manchester of India”. In the early 20th century, it became one of the centres of independence movement after Gandhi had established Sabarmati ashram on the river bank. And in the aftermath of partition of India, the demography and economy of the city were ultimately transformed by the arrival of substantial Hindu population from Pakistan.

Gate in Ahmedabad — One of Ahmedabad old city gates

The city streets are burdened by shocking examples of poverty: whole families living in the street without any shelter whatsoever, half-bare children roaming around, hair filthy and entangled, cooking just in the middle of all the dust and garbage, ignored by passerbys and pariahs alike. Such striking poverty stands in sharp contrast with shining offices, big cars and banks. On the eastern bank of the Sabarmati river, the old town lies, the walls are long gone, but many of the gates remain intact. Inside, everything is overcrowded and congested, even walking is nearly impossible, traffic is in standstill. The structure of the old city is dominated by Pol houses, communal house clusters, usually aggregating the same-caste families. Constituting houses are clenched to one another to withstand the summer heat, with ingenious system of rainwater collection and storage; they are built of bricks intelayered with wooden beams to provide buffering during earthquakes. A Pol house cluster is separated from the outside city by an outside wall, with one or two entrances and has a common shared space. Besides the Pol clusters, Haveli houses, courtyard centred villas, form the historical centre of Ahmedabad. The city itself is filled with bazaar, old mosques, but also colonial buildings, churches, synagogue, Parsi fire temple and Jain temples, often sharing a single street.

Shaking minarets — Ahmedabad’s Islamic architecture

A major Jain temple stands to the north of the centre, built in white marble, covered in beautifully sculpted statuettes of dancers and singers, with a rectangular inner sanctum surrounded by a colonnade which hosts idols of the 24 Jain teachers. While photography is usually forbidden inside the Jain temples, they are open to everyone, without hassle or crowd. From there, it is a short walk across the river to reach the Centre for Heritage Management of the Ahmedabad University. The major aim of the institution is, besides cultural anthropology, to find a way for villagers and tribals to turn their hereditary craftsmanship into a source of income in the 21st century. Certainly an uneasy task, yet with the incredible cultural and artisanal richness of India, a task worth trying.

Ahmedabad is a sprawling city in ferment, in contrast to almost sterile Gandhinagarh. The old town bazaar is a Muslim masala, and the new town is a Hindu dough, with flagrance of Jain and Christian, and seasoned by memories of Jews and Parsis from the Bawa Latif street. As a rising IT hub, it drains young graduates from all tastes of India, from roti Punjab to chawal Manipur, creating an impressive melting pot of cultures, religions, and languages.

Fire temple — Parsi Zoroastrian fire temple in Ahmedabad

From Ahmedabad, the road copies the route of Gandhi’s salt march to Dandi, through small villages and beautiful countryside. Slightly later, the road becomes wider and villages far from sight, as the asphalted artery pumps the traffic into the Baroda city, home of Gaekwad noble family and their lavish Laxmi villa palace.

Laxmi villa palace of Gaekwad family in Baroda

Unlike Ahmedabad, Baroda (also known as Vadodara) has a well managed city centre, dominated by a huge and lush green public park, blood-red centenary Baptist church and a nearby beautiful and historical university campus, particularly the multi-domed Fine Arts faculty building and nearby library with crimson walls and a telescope tower.

Library building of the Baroda University

Faculty of Fine Arts of Baroda University

It is rated as one of the best cities for living in India and as such attracts hundreds of thousands of incomers settling in quickly expanding fringes every year. It is pleasant to stroll, crowds easily disperse in the wide streets which are dotted by few remaining colonial buildings with typical black and white stripes. It is an attractive relaxation spot midway through Gujarat from north to south.

As families in modern India stretch across the whole country, English is becoming a mean of communication, specially for deep southerners. Children in such families often attend private English schools, however language is not the only reason. Private education in India is booming, as the value of education market is projected to grow by 80% between 2016 and 2020, where the pre-university education makes roughly half of the 180 billion cake, private entrepreneurs are ready with their plates.

Success of private schools in India is propelled by the understanding of education as a precursor to success in life, strong preference for English schools, and no less by the terrible reputation of public institutions. Average absence of public teachers is around 25%, while many simply do not teach as they give paid tuitions to the very same children after class. Student-teacher relationship is extremely skewed in India, nearly divine respect teachers receive is repaid by ridiculous feeling of superiority, pointless yelling, and arbitrary injustice. As long as humbleness does not enter into public classrooms, families will keep spending their hard-earned money on service they have already paid taxes for.

From Baroda, highway continues towards Surat, a city famous for its diamond cutting and polishing industry and textile making. Huge city of itself and one of the former centres of Parsi community. Most of the city is a modern development, quickly expanding into surrounding fields. Traffic follows no rules as usual, and even police will give you a baffled look when you stop on red traffic light. From here, highway continues over flatland to Daman, former Portuguese colony and a land apart from Gujarat state, ruled as a Union territory.

A parallel road south takes turns through small towns and villages of Sanjan district, which is the area where Parsi refugees first landed. Small towns might be run down, but have much of historical charm and old architecture as well as intrinsic Indian bustle. On the bigger side is the town of Navsari, a former headquarters of Parsi community and a location of several historical Parsi temples. Somewhat further south is a tiny village of Udvada, which houses the oldest Zoroastrian fire in India, clean and well kept village with Parsi villas, museum and restaurants. The peaceful curvy road continues further south through the green countryside and rejoins with Daman bound highway.

Fire temple in Udvada — Zoroastrian Fire Temple in Udvada housing the oldest Zoroastrian fire in India

Daman became part of Indian state only in 1961, after being occupied by Indian army, leaving couple dead on both sides and ending 400 years of this Portuguese toehold. Despite the abrupt end of Portuguese rule, the dialect of the colonial language is still spoken by older generation, and area’s independence from but proximity to the Gujarat makes it a popular drinking destination, marked by hundreds of bars lining the roads and the cheapest liquor in the country.

Old colonial town is split by a river into the small fort nearby the modern town and the larger fortified town on the other side of the river, facing the open Arabian Sea. The town is now home to official institutions, but still houses several old churches, ruins of Dominican monastery and a small lighthouse on the extremity. Besides its simple structure and modest decoration, the Church of Bom Jesus has simplistic but funny carvings of mermaids on the wooden arches. A small jetty is on the riverbank between the two forts, serving local fishing boats as well as relaxing locals coming to have their smokes.

Lighthouse on the walls of Daman old town

Mermaid — Carved mermaid decorating the arch of Bom Jesus Church

Daman is just a couple kilometres from the industrial centre of Vapi. While dusty and crowded, Vapi is an example of transforming Indian industry. Factories change their aging equipment for modern technologies, old heavy industries die out to be supplanted by pharmaceutical and biotech companies. The young generation of Indian family entrepreneurs steps out of the shadow of stagnation covering their fathers. And precisely this keeps Gujarat at the forefront of Indian business community.

But each coin earned by this success has two faces, and the ugly one is the deterioration of local communities. You would hardly find any Patel home where at least one member does not live abroad. The situation became so extreme, that the US embassy reportedly refuses any visa application if the surname of person is Patel. Such huge flow brings not only brain drain which threatens Gujarat’s future prosperity, but also draws the assets of the émigrés out of the country. And the tides of migration which once flooded the state with unique identity and prosperity now seem to be turning.

Dying industry — Old phased out industry

Jains

Posted on February 7, 2018February 7, 2018 by Daniel

Jains are the community of followers of Jainism, which is an ancient Indian religion sharing common roots with Hinduism and Buddhism, but putting the major stress on non-violence and avoidance of harming of living beings. Jains revere 24 teacher figures, Tirthankaras, which are exhibited in each Jain temple as statue idols. The last teacher, and Tirthankara, is Mahavira, who lived in 5th or 6th century BC as a contemporary of Buddha; Jainism is derived from his teachings, written down in prakrit language, of which however much was however lost. Logical structure of the faith was more formalised around the eleventh century. Beside Mahavira, his predecessor Parshvanatha, 23rd Tirthankara, is highly revered among the Jains.

Chittor Jain temple — Ancient Jain temple in Chittor fort

Jains follow five basic philosophical principles: the cornerstone principle of non-violence, truth, no stealing, no attachment and celibacy/chastity. The fundamental doctrine of Jainism is Anaketavada, which says that the truth has many facets and many viewpoints exist, so as such it cannot be full understood by humans in its absolute form and therefore, any statement will always be relative. However interpretations of this doctrine often disagree with one another.

Jains number roughly five million and constitute less than a half percent of Indian population. The community however has the highest literacy rate and is very influential in the broader society beyond their meager numbers, with the highest per capita income and lowest child mortality. Jain communities reside particularly in the states of Rajastan (where Marwari Jains form a considerable part of Marwari merchant community), Gujarat, Maharashtra, Karnataka and Medhya Pradesh, forming around one percent in each. The city of Udaipur in Rajasthan has as many as 10% of Jains.

Lokkundi Jain temple — Vestibule of Jain temple in Lokkundi, dating to 11th century

Jain religion is divided into two major traditions, Digambaras and Svetambaras. While there are theological differences between the two, the major difference for an external observer is in thee monastic tradition, Digambara monks are naked, they give up their clothes as part of non-attachment principle, Svetambara monks wear white robes. On the other hand, Svetambara place elaborately coloured glass eyes on their idols, which their counterparts never do.

Ahmedabad Jain temple — Ornate Jain temple in Ahmedabad

In Gujarat, particularly in Surat, white clad Svetambar nuns are a common sight. They walk down the streets with a walking staff, begging bowl, with bald head covered in the white cloak. Rules of Jain monks and nuns are extremely strict. They eat and drink only once a day. On special occasions they perform nine day full fast. They avoid bathing, sleep on hard surface and pluck their hair and beard by hand. Some of Svetambar monks wander barefoot between temples to preach, gently sweeping the ground before themselves by a cotton brush to remove small insects; to avoid harming them, monks do not travel in rainy season. They often cover their mouth with a piece of white cloth for the same reason.

Similar measures can be seen among general Jain population. They eat purely vegetarian diet, excluding eggs, but allowing dairy products, if obtained without harming animals. Anything that grows below ground is also generally avoided, like potatoes, carrots or garlic. To this day, many Jain families would keep a piece of fabric on the tap to filter possible organisms from the water. Much of the tradition would be followed by even secular families, who would still pass the knowledge of ancient shlokas (chants) on their children. Older generation would eat only after sunrise and before sunset, some Jains will fast 8 or 11 days, drinking only boiled water, while some would rarely follow up the fast to 30 days. Even longer fasts take place; in recent years, a twelve years old child died after fasting for 82 days. In sharp contrast, the youngest may sometimes reach for eggs and chicken. Even Jain world is changing fast.

Jain philosophy considers human body as a temporary gift of god, and soul a permanent identity subjected to millions of reincarnations. The body can then be used to perfect the soul, or wasted in a plain enjoyment of life. Since only humans are considered to have the ability to know good and bad, they are supposed to use that ability to live proper life accumulating good karma, to be reborn as a human, god, or to attain ultimate nirvana. Such life is stipulated by the three Jewels of Jain ethics as proper faith, knowledge and conduct.

Adorned Jain doorframe — Fine sculptures decorating doorframe of Jain temple

Jain temples are among the most beautifully decorated, often surpassing temples of south India. Small statues in many poses cover the walls and doorframes, depicting anything from devotional offering, fights and love. Even Jain monastic cells bear trademark adornment on the outside, contrasting with frugal simplicity of the claustrophobic inside. Monastic complex of Khandagiri in Bhubneshwar is a beautiful example of this contrast, dating two millennia back. It also serves as an epitome of former grandeur and glory of now miniscule religion.

Jain monastic complex — Two millennia old Jain monastery in Bhubneshwar

Jain monastery — Facade of main monastic building in Khandagiri

The decline of Jainism is ascribed to a whole plethora of possible reasons, mainly disappearing support of kings and failure to attract followers en masse—strict frugality and penance, complicated theology, and gradual incorporation of Hindu practices made the religion less and less attractive. The effects compounded with internal sectarian divisions and the faith went from mainstream to fringes, leaving thousands of lavishly decorated temples as a memento. The perfusion of wider Hindu beliefs and practices can be felt in today’s community: cows are worshipped as holy and godly, idols of Mahavira and other Tirthankaras are bowed to, rather than used as a tool of introspection of oneself, Sanskrit made its way back to the teachings, and even Hindu idols became revered. Such observations make one question what the faith looked like initially, and whether it was very different from what we see today. And with the Jain youth drifting towards the western lifestyle, the future of the faith in its essence is more uncertain than ever before.

Rajastan

Posted on January 7, 2018January 7, 2018 by Daniel

The plane touched down softly and rolled towards a humonguous building. Everything was different, snow and freezing temperatures were replaced by dust and warm sunshine, little airport of Almaty crowching under the Tien Shan became a multiterminal monster on the open flatland of northern India. My brain began to slowly switch from not-yet-mastered Russian to yet-forgotten English. After some waiting, the box with my bike arrived, unmolested. It took two hours to rebuild at the corner of the arrival hall, under the tight oversight of the truppe of local cleaners.
I mounted my luggage and cycled out of the airport, going for Gurgaon. It took mere seconds to recognize the driving switched from right to left, and a minute or two to notice that no traffic rules are followed whatsoever. The air was thick to breathe, pollution was astonishing as much as the traffic congestion. Gurgaon is just 14 km from the airport and is basicaly a new part of Delhi, a hub of Indian booming IT sector. The rate of development is shocking, hundreds of highrise houses were built during the last ten years and brought some older neighbourhoods into a direct threat of expropriation for redevelopment. As every big city of India, it is busy and crowded and for a European quite overwhelming. But a beutiful and smooth highway leads you out, with a couple of hitches, into the farmlands of Rajastan.

Road to Rajastan is a flat wide highway surrounded by low trees and little villages. As you turn off, things change, road does not fly over the towns but cuts through them, choking at the crowded chowks. Cows and buffalos pass there and back, and local men in white dhotis and red turbans try to herd them. Bullock and camel carts slowly ride through the beautiful green agricultural land. The road leads to a small town of Tijara, with a beautiful historical centre of old-styled houses and narrow alleys. The town hosts a major Jain temple, a building with a massive door decorated with two winged figures, leading to the arched courtyard, where an idol is seated on a tall white collumn, and the inner sanctum building nearby, where more idols are placed and worshipped.

Foreigners don’t come this way very often. When I stopped before the temple, such a crowd formed, that cars couldn’t pass. This is typical Indian property, curiosity, or one may say nosiness. They will stare at you with open mouth for several minutes. But this is not surprising, as most of them have never left their district, so seeing a hairy white man on a bicycle is quite an event. They would even drive along you on motorbikes on the road and demand a selfie. But such things are part of cycling in India, sometimes awkward, but part of the Indian charm, and of course absolutely harmless.

Tijara is famous for a milk cake and warm milk. Huge skillets stand all over the village, where milk is slowly boiling, becoming slightly brown. The milkman then pours a glass of milk with added sugar between two containers, creating rich foam, and finally pouring the liquid into a small disposable cup made of sandy soil, which adds slightly soily taste to the bewerage. No need to say these milk places are very popular.

Rajastan, ‘land of rajas’, is full of hilltop forts and decorated city palaces, residences of former rajas. These rajas were very smart in passed days, they made treaties with Mughals and later with British, which compromised their sovereignity, but preserved their riches and local autonomy. Therefore, major wars avoided Rajastan and the beautiful palaces and forts were preserved to this day. Most of them now serve as hotels or wedding sites, beautifully restored, breathing with the royal past.

A road from Tijara goes back to the highway, through the rural countryside. The impressive sight of village life rather subsides as one reaches the tollroad, which turns and runs to Jaipur, through intriguing landscape with sharp and steep hills, which rise as quickly as they sink back to the flatland. Hills are often topped by impressive temple structures accessed by steep stone staircase. As the road reaches the capital of Rajastan, air is once more unbreathable and city is terribly crowded by cars and people.

Jaipur is also called a Pink city, as this is the colour of buildings inside the ancient walls. The city centre is quite underwhelming, despite many pink houses and several palaces, it is a modern and bustling place without much charm. Forts on the nearby mountaintop are much better place to visit.

In one of small temples, I met a Brahmin from Uttar Pradesh, who was serving in Jaipur as a priest. To my surprise, the temple grounds were also a centre of education—various types of teaching and courses were taking place there. The priest was very friendly and invited me for a cup of tea at his home. It was an interesting insight into very kind and very religious family, which would show reverence to the idols as well as deep respect to personal spirituality. Far away from their home state, they easily blended in in the colourful India.

The polluted Indian air forced me to spend a day of rest to avoid worsening of my cough and mild fever. This gave me an opportunity to see some of Indian political debates and gain a small insight into Indian understanding of politics. Any debate is basically reduced to yelling of one over another without any respect or arguments, it’s just a ‘louder wins’ scenario (videos from parliament didn’t look much different). Indian politics on the other hand is more complex, but largely sectarian and easily swayed by strong personalities. It is terrifying how polarized the scene is, there is little space for concensus and middle ground. It is either pro-Gandhi or pro-Modi, pro-Congress or pro-BJP, not much of pro-people or pro-India. It is quite puzzling, in the country with such famous tradition of intercommunitary tolerance. Particularly strong divide is between Muslim population voting more often for Congress, and Hindus choosing BJP, which rides on more nationalist agenda.

Road from Jaipur passes by several tall mountains and a centre of marble industry, Kishangarh, before offering a magnificent view of a beautiful mountainside Jain temple of Nirali, shining with crimson red in the setting sun, and entering the city of Ajmer. Ajmer is more similar to an extensive village, rather than a million strong metropolis. As the day sunk, I met Farhaan, whose family gave me a beautiful insight into the Muslim life in India. To my surprise, many of Indian Muslims are Shia, and even then they divide into a plethora of sects, Twelvers, Seveners, Ismailis, Jaafaris or Sayyedis. They follow leadership of Ayatollahs (Khamenei or Sistani) and their mosques are generally separate from Sunni ones, just to give a very brief summary.

Indian Muslims share common traces of reveration of Sufi teachers in darghas (shrines) with Central Asia Muslim community. You would find a big Dargha Sharif in Ajmer, and small darghas all over India, in every town and village. Graves are covered by a green cloth, and ribbons are tied nearby. People come to pray and pay their respect to the Sufi. Over Ajmer, accessed by a multitude of road hairpins, is another smaller dargha, in a village in an old Taragarh fort. The hilltop also offers great views over forested terrain sparcely dotted by stone temples on little cleared patches of land. The hills are part of Aravalli mountain range, which stretches all the way from Delhi to Gujarat. They form characteristic sharp sloped peaks, often green and scenic.

hilltop — Hilltop Taragarh village above Ajmer

Aravalli mountains and a small temple on bottom right

As most of Indian big cities, Ajmer is a microcosmos of India’s religions: Hindu temples, Muslim mosques, Jain temples, Sikh gurudwaras and Chistian churches mix freely. In the midst of the city, an artificial Ana Sagar lake with marble altans, Anasagar Barahdari, is a favourite picnic spot (as testified by heaps of garbage). The city is also home to the ‘Eaton of the east’, second best highschool of India, Mayo college, founded in 1875 by India’s viceroy, Earl of Mayo. Beautiful Indo-Saracenic main building is surrounded by extensive grounds, providing much space for sports (including equestarian training), student houses and lecture buildings. More than a century old Saint Mary’s church stands nearby, filled with believers.

Indo-Saracenic Mayo college main building

Road south from Ajmer passes a slowly burning landfill and a minor pass and continues through an arid land towards Bhilwara, centre of textile industry. I had an opportunity to live in a cottage nearby one of the textile factories, where ground floor was filled by raw cotton, upper floor was taken by empty rooms—memento of unfulfilled weekend refuge. Around hundred of automatic looms were churning out metres of fabric in that plant, stored in huge rolls to be shipped to customers. Many of support employees lived in improvised houses on the factory grounds, with a simple well providing water and no toilet. But all of them were very curious and welcoming to their new neighbour. This location was also an opportunity to participate in a local wedding. But as such, it was reduced basically to a large banquet for the whole village, where my newly found factory friend would frantically drag me from one food bar to another, in random order.

In India, weddings are a cornerstone of social structure. Marriage is more of a contract between two families than individuals. More than 80% of wedlocks are arranged (depending on the state) and inter-cast and inter-religion marriages are possible only in urban families (and even then not always approved by the wider circle of relatives). Divorces are nearly non-existent and limited to the period before a child is born. Wedding ceremony is highly social and public event, far-reaching family, friends, public figures and neighbours must be invited, swelling numbers of even small ceremonies to over a thousand. A large business is also centered around weddings, from expensive clothes (often used once, of cost starting at hundreds of dollars), to gifts, catering, decoration, hotels, and of course wedding venues.

Bhilwara district is a very friendly area, people are amazingly warm and welcoming. I am not sure whether a small newspaper article published about me played a role, but I was invited for tea at least five times on the day I was passing the city. The highway further south was crossing rather dull arid area. The rain started in the afternoon and by the time I reached Chittorgarh, the bicycle was completely covered with mud and sand. The rain continued throughout the evening until night.
But the dense showers made a great backdrop for exploring the Chittorgarh fort. Huge multi-walled mountaintop is an impressive structure and an artistic feast, accessed by seven gates along convoluted pinhead roads. Ancient Jain and Hindu temples and a victory tower stand near a cliff, beautifully decorated by carefuly carved stone statues densely packed one next to another. Jain temples host 24 idols, small halls in white marble stand in arched courtyards made of the same white stone and are the most beautifully adorned buildings in Rajastan. Monkeys and stray dogs roam around the ancient structures and water reservoirs of the fortified area, adding some wild contrast to the manmade perfection. At high elevation stands a palace of fabled queen Padmavati.

tower statue — Decoration of the victory tower

hindu temple — Ancient Hindu temple on the site

The legend of Padmavati has many versions of itself. The major plot revolves around the beautiful wife of Chittor king, Padmavati. The king manages to win her hand in an arduous voyage to Sri Lanka. However as she reaches Chittor, Delhi sultan Kilji learns about her beauty and lays siege to the Chittor fort to obtain her. When the fort is about to fall, Padmavati and the other women commit mass self-immolation to protecs their chastity, while the men all perish in the ensuing battle. Events make it more a story of Rajput honour, than a love story. The last film adaptation of the story did not make all people happy though, despite the fact it had not yet been released. Some more sensual scenes shown in the trailer (like dancing) instigated fury among local rajput community, death threats followed. A mob attacked the filmmakers and demolished the set. The premiere was postponed and debate on ban and censorship ensued. This is also India I saw, a place where otherwise kind and tolerant people commit violence under pety pretext, on very dogmatic grounds, or when their sentiments are offended.

I departed Chittorgarh under a cloudy sky, and soon found myself in pouring rain. This ride to Udaipur was long, and I started late. The countryside became little more green and a little more agricultural, but the rain soon covered everything in a cloud. My arrival to Udaipur was also not as smooth as I had hoped; the bypass road I wanted to take was jammed so I was forced to enter the city. But crossing the city was quickly interrupted by a car burning on the road, making a small explosion. While I stopped, all the other people continued unphased towards the burning vehicle as if it was not there. It took some time to bypass the spot taking small side roads, but finally, I got through with help of my host.

Meeting my host and his friends (I would prefer to restrain from name here) gave me an interesting insight into youthful and modern India you don’t get to see otherwise. A young enterpreneur, who started a new company which successfully grew, he employed his friends and managed to create a warm and strong atmosphere among his staff. But he and his friends were also people from a different planet in India. His success allowed him to buy a house in a new residential colony and hold parties to the extent he became despised by his neighbours. Among their circle of friends, there were no classical Indian taboos about pre-marital sex, alcohol, or weed. They were eager to meet westerners, as much as they resembled them. At the same time, they preserved the strong Indian values of friendship, family, respect, and kindness. This was new and uncharted India, liberal, successful, unpretentios, and enjoying life.

It took me several hours to clean my bicycle after the rain. I have never seen it so covered in mud, not even during the rainy summer in Russia. What I could take apart, I did and wiped. It took an extra hour to get a spare brake handle I had managed to break during a fall in the rain—finding good quality bicycle parts outside Pune is nearly impossible in India. This left me with limited time to visit the Venice of east, as Udaipur is also known.

The system of artificial lakes, which gives Udaipur its beauty, connects the old city waterfront with remote soulless areas or merry embankments packed with people and food stalls. Water is surrounded by beautiful Rajput palaces, which have been mostly converted into hotels. Amazing rooftop views, particularly at night, are the best way to appreciate the city as a whole. And then there is the old city, of course; charming and attractive, with narrow alleys and friendly locals, peppered with little shrines and temples, old men drinking tea in the street, Jain mandirs, barber shops, tailors, sari vendors and every now and then beautifully painted house on very steep slopes.

One of small shrines to Shiva in the old town

Udaipur is surrounded by Aravalli mountains which followed all the way from Ajmer. Tall green peaks with steep slopes make the city with its lakes to sit at the bottom of a bowl and provide weekend refuge for locals. From here south, the road goes directly through the mountains, climbing up and down amid small picturesque villages and green farmlands. South of Udaipur, everything becomes green and fresh again. The air is pleasant to breathe and the rainy days are over, the greenery continues all the way to Gujarat. Last town in Rajastan in this area is Dungarpur, roughly 20 kilometres off the highway, in the mountainous terrain—the name means ‘Mountainous place’ in local Wagdi language. Sleepy town which is quickly waking up to the 21th century.

The area is very rural, simple small houses and little farms line the access road surrounded by light forest on higher grounds. The area is also inhabited by tribal people, but their presence is hardly noticeable. Dungarpur is a small place with a palace and a lake, it was built on hills amids agricultural land. The quiet place full of lovely and friendly people has little to offer by itself, but temples decorate surroundings, and villages show timeless rural life.

Rajastan belongs to the poorer Indian states. Here casts still resonate, sooner or later, people will proudly mention their cast, particularly if they are Rajputs or Brahmins. Origin of Rajputs is slightly blurry, but it is believed it dates back to the times of Aryan incursion into India. The invaders were trying to institutionalise their new position in the society within the Indian caste system. Over the years, the claims of Rajput ancestry became widespread and untraceable, yet lately solidified by British understanding of the caste as a knighthood.

Rajastan speaks two major languages, Mewari in the north and Marwari in the south. Besides the host of Rajas, the state is home to a sizeable Jain community, and a Marwari community of traders, seeing Sikh turbans and gurudwaras is still very common. On the southern side, Gujarat begins, a state of skillful business people, sweet food, and strict vegetarians.

Almaty revisited

Posted on December 26, 2017December 26, 2017 by Daniel

This groovy Central Asian metropolis hosted my for nearly a month in total, so I feel like doing it a justice by writing about it a post of itself, a bit more personal and maybe slightly repetitive.

Almaty is seated at the foot of Tien Shan, under the proud snow-capped mountains dwells the cultural and economical hub of Kazakhstan. Founded around old Russian fortress town of Vyerny, it has little to show for the tsarist past, except for the wooden church built by Zenkov. While tsar might have not left a significant footprint, Stalin, Khrushev, and Nazarbaev surely did. City is new, the brutalist, monumental, supersized buildings of the last 20 years occupy the central area. Supposedly built to boost the national pride, they more likely greased some nephew’s palm. But many of those come with small green parks, which makes the sight less painful.

But rather than being a contrast of old and new, Almaty is more of a fusion, a fusion of Russian (or rather Soviet) and Kazakh, art and science, nature and downtown, rich and poor, high and low. It’s a city interwoven by many tamed streams envelopped by embankments, which are easy to navigate and pleasant to stroll, with humming mountain water flowing by. It’s a city knitted by a yarn of cyclotrails, with public citybikes at hand. It’s a green, tree-shaded city of parks stitched by the best public transport in the Central Asia. But still, it’s a city of stale air poisoned by thick pollution. It’s a city of hundreds of thousands of cars. Churches compete with mosques for attention. Huge high-rise steel and glass buildings of malls and multi-national companies on the high end are balanced by run-down dormitory neigbhbourhoods and faltering old dachas on the low end. Upmarket central cafes are as full as the ice-cream kiosk near Baykonur metro station or underpass pancake window near the railway station.

The ice-skating stadium of Medeu is just a bus ride away and the skiing resort of Shymbulak takes only one more ticket to go, providing a great weekend runaway and a launch platform for a hike to the nearby glacier. Another bus tends the starting point for a hydroelectric dam and ultimately the Big Almaty Lake, the source of city’s potable water. There are plenty more easy treks with spectacular views, particularly if low lying clouds form the sea of clouds below. On clear days, a sharp line of smog can be seen, above the city.

Glacier — Mountainview with smog level clearly visible in the background

Sea of clouds — Mountainview with a sea of clouds

But the city has more depth to it. As you roam the mountains, you meet young people, excited by outdoors, often camping with bonfire and tunes of didgeridoo. Some would meditate, some would do various eastern excercise in the rising sun, others would collect herbs, plants and berries. These young Almatines are born metropolitans, the influence from the outside world is more perfusive than ever before. Many travel to India for holidays and return as worshippers of lord Krishna, do yoga or become vegans. Philosophical debates about self-consciousness, identity and life energy often follow. Tea ceremonies are kicking in, with broad selection of teas from all over the world. Tea culture took deep roots in my country in the 90’s, and it pours in the same way into the Almatine bowl.

Spirituality life from the outside and search for alternatives put pressure on the internal public space as well as outer boundaries. Beside quais, pedestrian zones and parks, creativity and art push through, local music scene gets louder, DJs run parties and music designers get foothold on western markets, graffiti gets cheekier or overgrows into murals. IT sector booms and expands abroad, youth scatter all over the world in search for reputed education if local universities don’t match their ambitions.

Huge areas of Soviet time architecture still make the city a special place, be it high-ceiling Stalin houses, small Khrushev houses, empire university buildings or forgotten small cemeteries where Russian and German names mix in peace, the same way all the men from a locality mix in parks to play chess and drink a little booze under a meticulous oversight of Lenin, Kalinin and other pidgeon-crowned revolutionaries.

chess players — One of old style parks where local men come to play chess and sip from small bottles.

cemetery — Cemetery, where German protestant tombs easily mix with Russian orthodox.

If you stay even longer, you may have a chance to hear Pennsylvanian Dutch and play a favourite Amish card game, you may get to watch Bengali movies, celebrate Thanksgiving or get a slim understanding of what the World Bank actualy does, you may drink kumys or tea made of mountain herbs, you may slide into debates on meaning of life and hapiness with the most gentle couple you have ever met or hang out with the kindest Russian yogin in the city. It would be a story too long and sentimental for a post. Almaty is a place to be loved and missed.

The last sunshine

Posted on December 1, 2017December 1, 2017 by Daniel

With Tashkent and the mid-autumn sun in the back, the road enters beautiful hilly contryside of southern Kazakhstan. The spillover of unpretentios Uzbek culture is still strong; in just 20 kilometres of regrettable shortcut to the highway, three drivers stopped to invite me to be their guest, but the city of Shymkent was too far to afford the persistent hospitality. And so I declined three times, with shame growing every once I did.

Journey to the north was through a lovely and colourful landscape reflecting the last rays of summer. Smooth hills made a backdrop to cropsless fields and trees like a mosaic of leaves. The weather was nicely warm and pleasant. Eventually, the highway dropped and rammed into Kazakhstan’s third most populous city.

If Tashkent is tasteless, it is twice as true for Shymkent. The delapidated industrial area is not the most impressive entrance, and busy traffic jams make impression no better. Some Soviet architecture pleases the eye as much as it can, but the city is truly not a tourist destination, at least as long as you do not enjoy the local friendliness in the way I do. I was waiting for Javid, my kind host, in a very multi-ethnic neighbourhood (Kazakhs, Uzbeks, Russians, Turks), when his neighbours picked me from the street, introduced me to the whole family, fed me amply and poured uncountable bowls of tea. By the time Javid arrived, I was fully refreshed and merry.

Kazakh hospitality — Major Mirbek took me in, I hope he is right and god adds it to his good deeds list.

While there is not much to see in the city itself, nearby town of Sayram, the birthplace of sheikh Yasawi, illustrates region’s past. It used to be a stop on the Silk Road and a major city in the region, but nothing lasts forever, and after a few tumbles over the course of history, it remained a peaceful town, with a few shrines of local Sufi saints. The shrines are small and simple if compared to the opulent architecture of Uzbekistan. They were build of yellow-brown bricks forming rather small chamber where the tombstone is laid, usually located at a cemetery—the cemetery likely appeared later around the crypt, not the other way around. The chamber frequently hosts a mulla, who serves a cermon for people, who come to pray and give respect to the burried scholars.

The road from Shymkent to Taraz is the most spectacular stretch I saw in Kazakhstan. Little villages sit in little green valleys, cows, fields and many green and yellow trees decorate the view.

Typical countryside of Southern Kazakhstan

Just before the city of Taraz, in the village of Aisha Bibi, there are another two old crypts, much visited by locals, and both newly restored. The one belonging to Aisha Bibi has beautiful external relief and an intricate decoration and is slightly bigger than the simple one of Babazha-khatum. The restoration allows one to see the original state of the structures, hopefully close to what they used to be when built around 12th century.

Taraz itself is a smaller and more peaceful place than Shymkent. Besides rare exceptions, there are no highrises, the city is mostly made of private residential houses, neatly lined along the roads. The city is cut by a railway and by the river Talas. It used to be called Jambyl after local famous poet who lived for nearly one hundred years.

At the southern edge of the city is a popular relaxation and spiritual place of Takturmas, overlooking Talas from its high bank. The place is magical in the low sun, with a colourplay of trees below, and the settlement veiled in a haze of burning leaves. On the bank, the Takturmas is composed of a Mausolem and a Mosque. A little below, in a small pit, is a tree where locals tie ribbons and build piles of seven stones around it; which is likely a tradition dating back to pre-Islamic times, pretty much the same as at Mizdakhan.

Taras — Town outskirts over the Talas river

Pit of wishes — A small pit with the tree where locals tie ribbons and build small stone piles.

Taraz is a historical city, as much as two millenia old. It has been an important stop on the Silk Road, but little is left to show for it. There have been archeological excavations at several sites in the city, the findings so far uncovered roads, fundaments and some pottery. To account for the long continuous history, several Mausolea stand in the city, in a green park, Karakhan and Dauitbek, dating back to 12th and 13th century respectively. Finally, there is a large old cemetery, which seems rather forgotten today; besides Christian (Russian) graves, it has also Jewish graves, without particular partitioning of the grounds, which is rather exceptional.

Jewish graves — Tombstones of Jews at the old cemetery, unseparated from othet Russian graves.

Taraz used to be famous for a huge bazar in the city centre, where one could buy anything from milk to car parts. But as many other places in Kazakhstan, forceful redevelopment of the city centre had the whole place shut (at the time owner was on holiday), and the land was divided into an archeological site, shopping mall and an odd public building with a park and a lookout tower.

Southern Kazakhstan is quite far from Astana. If not geographicaly, then definitely in terms of development and the rule of law. The reputation of the two major cities is almost like a race to the bottom. Taraz is famous for its poverty and lack of opportunities, Shymkent is know as a city, where it’s easy to get beaten up. I would object to such labelling and locals would simply pass the buck on the incoming villagers. But the southerners will surely complain about widespread corruption, at the offices (if you need stuff done), police, schools (if You want a good mark). It went so far, that degrees from some Taraz colleges are not accepted in the rest of the country. The embezzelment ruins the local governmental projects, and any inspection by Nazarbaev is met by Potemkin and cardboard.

It is, on the other hand, very diverse area. The proximity of Kyrgyz and Uzbek borders means large communities from those countries, complemented by Russians, Tatars, Germans, Koreans, Uyghurs or Dungans to name a few. In the shools at the late days of Soviet Union, classes might have three to four students of each ethnic group. This has certainly changed, mainly with the massive exodus of Russians and Germans in the nineties. Since the times, the language became a tool of nepotism and oppression. Kazakh became a prequisite for a government job, which effectively bars all minorities born in the nineties, when teaching of Kazakh at schools was between useless and non-existent. And so such profiling pushes people to search for opportunities elsewhere and further propels ethnic cleansing and economic decline of the region.

From Taraz, road goes through the agricultural countryside towards the small town of Merke, from where it bends towards Korday along the Kyrgyz border, shadowed by a barbed wire and sentry towers (largely not manned). I pitchef my tent in a field nearby Korday and rain started at night. The first rain in months. While packing the wet tent was not so bad, getting my cycle through a dirt road left me with the brakes, fenders and tires completely covered in mud. Nearby petrol station was the only luck. It took twenty minutes to wash the mud away by a hose. The road then climbs through several small villages to the Korday pass, which is more of a hill than an actual pass. Still many wind turbines decorate the saddle after which a drop down to Almaty region begins.

After the pass, the countryside is already visibly arid, and herds of horses and cows can be seen in distance of the yellowish hills. As the rain continued through the day, I tried to find a place to stay overnight, but hostels nowhere to be seen, neither the famous Uzbek hospitality. So I pitched my still wet tent on a hill not far from the highway. In the evening the rain slowly subsided, and surrounding mountains became visible.

The following morning, I was welcomed by a crispy crust of ice on my tent, all the yesterday’s water froze overnight. But the surrounding area was left veilless and bare, with a cloud of fog covering the valley; all the worries about the packing were dispelled by the beautiful sight. Mountains pointing to the sky looked majestic in the morning sun. From there, Almaty was less than hundred kilometres away, and in spite of thick haze, the road was a smooth and pleasant finale for this section of the trip.

dawn — The sun rises over the sea of clouds.

peaks — Shiny mountains stand above the hazy valley.

Transoxiana

Posted on November 20, 2017November 20, 2017 by Daniel

City of Nukus is sitting on the right bank of Oxus, marking the entry point to the area between two rivers, Amudarya (or Oxus) to the west and Syrdarya to the east, called Transoxiana. The area more or less covers the main chunk of Uzbekistan, excluding most of Qaraqalpaqstan. It is rathen exceptional part of Central Asia, a fertile, well-irrigated lowland, a fruitbasket and home of the tastiest mellons of many varieties.The western boundary, the area of Amudarya’s delta, is called Khorezm, traditionally headed by historical city of Khiva. From Nukus, a decent road flies east, crossing some of the most spectacular views of passed weeks. Mountains bite through the steppe, and their rocky shields shine in the low autumn sunlight. A few mud fortresses appear now and then on remote mountaintops, huge balls of sandy soil lie at mountain foot, likely accrued when a small stone started to roll down the slope. After some 40 kilometres, the mountains on the northern side of the road turn black; it is not steppe anymore but true desert, on the southern side, where remaining waters of Amudarya spill, forests of small trees can be seen, first such forests since Mari Taiga.

Black mountains — Black mountainous desert to the north

Oxus delta — Green delta of Amudarya to the south

A little later the road splits. A small Kazakh hamlet stands at the turn-off, small simple houses are heated with huge iron fireplaces, often decades old, and aged Kazakh babushka invites You to warm up on the cold day, drink tea and have some flat bread. In the culture, it is unthinkable to refuse offered bread, if nothing else, people break off a miniscule piece, to revere the staple and the generosity of the host.

An offshot of the main road passes by an ancient necropolis on the foot of black mountains and runs towards well-irrigated kolkhoses of the region called Elliqala (meaning twenty fortresses). Cotton and corn fields intersected by huge canals are toiled by locals helped only by donkeys and ages old machinery. As the name suggests, the area is famous for historical mud fortresses. They more often than not stand in the middle of village, unrestored and generally unheeded by locals. The red clay gets spectacular colour tones during twilight, particularly if you pitch your tent nearby and watch the sun set behind the qala. Keeps are scattered over the region which is still very friendly and hospitable, hearty talks and invitations for tea are unavoidable, paying for bread at store is impossible. South from Elliqala, the road crosses Amudarya yet again (now looking healthy and full of water), and goes to Khorezm’s ugly modern capital of Urgench, from where historical Khiva is just 25 kilometres away.

Kyzyl qala, with several restored sections

Topraq qala, large and largely unrestored

Khiva is like a little sister to the famous tourist spots of Bukhara and Samarkand. The old town is walled and generally turned into a living museum and souvenir shop. But looking beyond the stalls and bad museums, the city has definitely kept its charm. City walls are covered by crypts or graves on several spots; nearby the graves is usually a pole with tied ribbons and rags, to commemorate the dead and ask for luck. Locals still mix soil with water and straw to repair their houses, and with a bit of effort and Russian, people become chatty and friendly. Shields and entrances of medresas and mausoleums are decorared by typical blue-glazed tiles, minarets pierce the skyline, doors are beautifully carved. Right behind the eastern gate, a huge bazar spills, still unspoiled by tourists, loud and chaotic, dusty and beautiful; here people still stop you for a small chat, prices are fair and tastes original, now-illegal money changers still cross the parking lot with plastic bags full of banknotes. While within the walls medresas and palaces are occupied by museums or souvenir sellers, without, they host hairdressers, cafes and restaurants. There are two exceptionally beautiful places in the city, the tall minaret giving fabulous views, particularly during the sunset, and the millenium old Jumma (Friday) Mosque, supported by 120 carved wooden pillars, a few of the original beautiful trunks survive to this day with the carved writing still visible. The interiour of the many-pillared Mosques is breathtaking, the light entering through the rooftop and the wooden columns growing from the ground give the feeling of a forest, of a place alive.

View of Khiva — A view of Khiva skyline, with tombs below, and ribbons tied to the pole to commemorate the dead.

Caffe — One of the ancient places outside the old town turned into cafe

Many-pillared Jammu Mosque, with some pillars dating millenium back

Façade — Typical façade of a medresa with typical junk sellers

Road leaves Khiva and follows through green and excessively hospitable countryside east, the agricultural heartland of Khorezm. It eventually crosses the Oxus again, for the last time, and after 10 kilometres of bone-trembling road connects with the major highway to Bukhara and Samarkand, running across Kyzyl kum (Red desert). The smooth pannel road is like a salve for soul, possibly the best road in Uzbekistan. It climbs up and down a few times and then follows Amudarya, steppes of Turkmenistan cover the horizont beyond the river. Kyzyl kum is visibly different from the steppe, it is sandy and covered by dry bushes. It is not particularly red in this area, but a counterwind quickly reminds you it is a desert. Sometimes, dried up salty lakes can be seen from the road, but not as many as in the Kalmyk-Astrakhan steppe. Seeing only some teahouses and little villages along the way, the road eventually comes to Gazli, a town hundred kilometres west of Bukhara. After Gazli, the road becomes a terrible nightmare, while the strong wind is still unbuffered by trees or houses. The bad road gives the torment all the way to Bukhara.

Bukhara is likely the most breathtaking single city in Uzbekistan, and maybe even in Central Asia. Its historical centre stretches for kilometres, filled with medresas, mosques and bazars. Southern end of the old city is marked by large Bukhara Jews cemetery, claimed to be as much as one and half millenium old. There are many gravestones at the cemetery, most however date back no more than 200 years, while the number of new marked stones declined rapidly during the 90’s. From the cemetery north, main city opens up, blue tiles decorate most of the walls, living animals are depicted on some (contrary to Sunni tradition). Interiour of the medresas—open courtyards with hallways providing access to student cells—are spectacular, often with shade of trees and unfortunately even more often with plenty of sellers. But nice and quiet interesting pieces can still be found, a medresa hosting a wood workshop, one where stairs bring You to the roof, one with colourfully painted portal and several ruined ones where one can peep inside to see the desolation. Mosques have beautiful wooden porticos with impressive carved collumn heads, often colourfully painted, while interiours shine with bright geometric frescos. Exceptional is Chor Minar Mosque, which is surrounded by four blue-domed mimarets.

Nadir Divanbegi medresa decorated by mosaic of peacocks

Beautifully colourful portal of Abdul Aziz Khan medresa

Main entrance of still active Mir-e-Arab medresa

Kalon Mosque with Kalon minaret on the right

Kalon Mosque interiour — Arcades of the Kalon Mosque

Colourful carved wooden columns of Bolo-Hauz Mosque, where prayers are still held.

Bobo-Hauz Mosque entrance — Entrance of the Bobo-Hauz Mosque

Besides these, a selection of other buildings makes up the mosaic of city’s history: two historical Synagogues where couple hundred Bukhara Jews still meet (see the post on Bukhara Jews); more than millenium old, the oldest structure in town, Samanid mausoleum built as a simple but sturdy rectangular crypt; nearby mud city wall; Catholic church with chatty Polish monk Stanislaw. But the most beautiful about Bukhara is its Tajik-speaking population; roaming around the old town, a baker can invite You to watch his art, local veiled babushkas will start a small chat with you, kids will run, laugh and shout ‘hello’, drunk Tajiks will invite you for a meal of manti, a ticket seller lets you in for free as the place is not worth a ticket, Mosque keeper will give you a wide smile of golden teeth after You join the crowd for Namaz. But most importantly, the warm welcome and hospitality will overwhelm you, sitting in a mullbery garden of one of the local houses, sipping tea and watching bats flying above Your head at dusk or singing birds at dawn. Charm of this city is hard to match.

The road goes on to the east, towards the city of Navoiy. The Khorezm hospitality is not matched anymore, you are entering more serious world. But the countryside is just as beautiful, trees and lush green fields, small villages, which later switch for a barren steppe again and then recover once more at the town of Navoiy. Just before entering Navoiy, I met Dima, or rather, he met me. A cyclist in his fifties, happy to see one of his kind. We started to talk and came to the town together, to see a memorial for the army of Poles under general Anders escaping Soviet Union through Uzbekistan and Persian corridor towards Palestine during the second World War. After that, Dima invited me to stay overnight at his place. His wife Sara cared for me as for her true son. She cooked and bought the best food for her guest. Dima showed me his collection of largely self-made bicycles, four beautiful polished pieces, I was more than impressed. Unfortunately, I did not manage to leave the following morning, with 38°C fever and nausea, I could barely walk, likely due to a gut infection. In the end, they took the best possible care of me for three days, patiently and carefully choosing the optimal foods and liquids. On the departure day, the fever subsided, but I felt bad and weak, however the spectre of registration forced me to undertake the 150km trip to Samarkand. And I did succeed, eating only raisins and two pears.

Polish memorial — Memorial to the dead Polish civilians and soldiers of the general Anders group

Despite the selection of hostels is rich in Samarkand, one comes more homey than the others. Aziza and Shodi’s Amir hostel is a fabulous place. The feeling of being a guest in a family can hardly be any stronger. Their daughter Azalia keeps sitting in the dining room drawing pictures, Aziza feeds and cures you if you are hungry and sick. The hostel is a small place where guests are likely to have a small talk rather than a noisy party.

Samarkand is a step down from Bukhara. A large and largely modern city with sights scattered among highrises, it is far from Bukhara’s fairy tale magic. On the other hand, the architecture and decorations are superiour to those of Bukhara, as well as the entry fees are. On par, it’s another Tajik-speaking city and people are no less friendly and helpful. The tomb of Tamerlane is impressive on the inside and outside, beautiful tilework and minaret decoration are strongly reminiscent of the Sheikh Yussawi mausoleum in Turkistan. Main square of the city, the Registan, is rather a disappointing tourist trap, full of people and sellers. Coming after dark is much more rewarding, people are few, the façades are lit up, the place is quiet, sellers gone and bats circle above the courtyards hunting insect. The majestic feeling is undisturbed, while standing alone in the golden interiour of Tillya Kori prayer hall is an aesthetic feast.

Minaret at Tamerlane's tomb — Meticulously decorated minaret at Gur-e Amir, Tamerlane’s tomb, inscriptions in Kufic script

Decorated niche of Sher Dor medresa at Registan

Front view of the Ulugbek medresa at Registan, the oldest of the three

Golden decoration of the Tillya Kori prayer hall

The minarets and walls of Registan medresas are often leaning visibly to the side. The oldest of the three is Ulugbek from the 15th century, the other two are two centuries younger. The youngest Sher Dor medresa features elaborate relief-tiled dome, while the other two have simple smooth domes of Central Asian classical style. Off the Registan, Bibi Khanum Mosque offers monumental walls decorated with meticulously arranged tilework in a showcase of astonishing tessallation. Despite much of the Mosque is in disrepair, the shear size is impressive enough. It must have been one of the largest mosques of its time. Some further distance north west, a huge cemetry spills over little hills. In the heart of the forest of tombstones is an alley passing between small tombs of Tamerlane’s relatives. What was not invested in size was surely invested in the artistry. Probably the most beautiful artistic creation in Uzbekistan, the mosaics and majolicas (majolica tiles come in various shapes with holes in them, they are burned in forms) decorating the tombs are stunning. The fine shapes and patterns are underlined by the witty play of shadows. Despite having been restored over the years, the beauty and gentle arrangement cannot be denied. Yet the outer beauty is not the only reason to come here; despite asked not to do so, Uzbeks come and pray at the graves, bow, kiss them and give a little money in a plea for luck. While mocked or looked down upon by the more orthodox countrymen, this custom of tomb pilgrimage is widespread and engrained in Uzbek culture.

Tessellation — Intriguing pattern of tessellation

Cylindrical tessellation — Tessellation mapped onto a collumn

Bibi Khanum domu — Richly decorated Bibi Khanum dome with Kufic script

Tile detail — The tiles are made of blue-glazed red clay.

Intricate majolica decorating at crypt at Shah-e Zinda

Similarly to Bukhara, the main sights are complemented by another type of lesser places to see. A tomb of Daniel (one of many such tombs) stands in the north of the city, built on a cliff. Besides about 25 metres long grave, these is little to see in the area itself, but a small cemetery built on the top of the cliff nicely illustrates Uzbek custom of building cemeteries as close as possible to celebrated personalities’ crypts. The vast area south of Daniel’s tomb contains remains of Afrosyob, Samarkand ancient town, but very little is here to be seen except for wall fundaments. In the old town inside Samarkand, now separated from the tourist sites by a wall, is Gumbaz Synagogue of Bukhara Jews (see the separate post), in the new, Russian, part of town stands a new modern Synagogue, but more interestingly a century old Armenian church, and a Catholic church of about the same age.

A century old Armenian church in Samarkand with a typical octagonal tower.

Interiour of the Catholic church in Samarkand

The new Russian part of Samarkand is a pleasant place to go. Lowrise houses are peppered by Orthodox churches and small grocery shops. People are friendly and talkative, and the babylon of the tourist centre feels miles away.

The main road from Samarkand goes north through the barren land. After about 80 km, a turn-off climbs down to a small river and continues through a path lined by jagged mountains, the road is badly beaten, narrow and closely passing cars make one feel very uneasy. But after some 20 km, it eventually leads to the city, famous for its samsa (a bread filled with meat, which is baked stuck to the wall of tadur—a clay wood-burning oven).

I had an opportunity to be a guest for one night in a village near Jizzakh. The father of the family, Hussan, was very happy to talk to a foreigner. As many of his age, lamented the end of the Soviet Union, he missed the open borders, minimal inflation, certainty for tomorrow, the investments into major development projects. His sorrows were very specific, founded on good knowledge of politics of the passed time. As for many in rural Uzbekistan, the perestroyka had a terrible impact and basicly left them behind in the country where former communists and their families made strides forward, grabbed what they could, stealing the resources and bankrupting the industry. His son Sardor was more upbeat about the new era, he could study in Poland and travel through Europe freely, his work in school was stable and good. During the night, a windstorm swept through the area tearing some roofs and making me very grateful to the people, who openned their door for me. In the morning, Hussan and I shared a meal of Plov, national Uzbek rice dish, very oily (cotton oil is often used), usually cooked with chopped carrots and beef or mutton (and chunks of mutton fat). Very heavy and filling meal. As Hussan explained to me, the proper way of eating plov is starting with watermellon and finishing with a lot of hot tea, otherwise the stomach won’t be happy. Plov is eaten from a shared plate and meat is usually distribured to everybody’s side of the plate by the host, utensil of choice is a spoon (though I seldom saw people using hand). Plov is often served with vegetable salad, well and flat bread (lipyoshka in Russian) of course.

From Jizzakh, I rode on towards Tashkent. The roads were great as long as one stayed away from villages. Yet the pain of village road was always compensated by amazing friendliness and hospitality of locals. If you stop to buy your lunch, people from all walks of life will surround you, schoolkids, shopkeepers, russian babushkas, or uzbek grandfathers. Particularly as the night was getting close, I was invited to stay overnight at the first doorstep I stopped. But this is Uzbekistan, the hospitality is unrivalled.

The following morning, the Tashkent-bound road crossed Syrdarya, the river which soon after flows to Kazakhstan and feeds the northern part of the Aral sea. After the bridge, the road cut through small hills and entered the capital. The first feeling of Tashkent is a bit tasteless, Soviet residential areas are not interrupted by anything else, the grey houses go on and on for kilometres. I have stayed for a day in a big hostel, and I wouldn’t do soagain. One surely gets to meet interesting people and travellers, like a Russian detective from Perm or a lean talkative Uzbek housekeeper. But as hours move on, the alcohol takes over the place, and so-called travellers get wasted beyond recognition. I was very happy to get on moving the following morning, from a very smelly dorm.

Kamchiq pass lies between Tashkent and Fergana valley. But the terrain becomes hilly much earlier, as green bumps rise from the steppe. The countryside is still fertile, villages are plentiful and locals sell fruits at the roadside. Trail eventually reaches town of Angren, from where the road becomes more steep and hills more rough. Asphlat is cutting its way along an empty dam up to a military checkpoit and beyond towards the pass. Fergana valley is connected to the rest of Uzbekistan by a narrow stripe of mountainous land with the single pass. The road and tunnels are therefore guarded by the army, and all foreigners are dully registered on several spots. From the Tashkent side, the road is very curly and ascends get steep. A cafe stands in one of the road hairpins just before the final climb starts. I put up my tent in one of the altans to get a good sleep before the tough part begins. A huge shepard dog made me company throughout the evening and night, which made me uneasy at times, but finally finding him sleeping metre from my tent in the morning convinced me it’s a friendly breed. I mounted my bicycle and with the sunrays bending around the mountaintops, I started to ascend, at slow speed. The last kilometres to the pass have slope of around 10%, fortunately, the difference is only about 1200 altitude metres. The ever-under-repair road climbs through a beautiful alpine scenery with snowy mountain peaks, dotted with beautiful villages, colourful lean tall aspen trees, and a river flowing down the pristine gorge. It takes about three to four hours to climb to the tunnels cutting right below the Kamchiq pass. Soldiers inspect the documents about five times before letting you to the Fergana side, where a straight road drops down to the valley and a cyclist finally gets a chance to overtake heavy lorries standing on their brakes.

Ravine — A ravine of an alpine river and autumnal trees

The drop passes a few small towns and crosses Syrdarya into the fertile breadbasket, densely populated home of pure Uzbek culture (so they say). Kokand is the first major town on this side of the pass. A friendly and laid-back city with houses no more than two storeys high (due to underground water), very clean and green. While most of the historical centre is gone, several building shine light on city’s colourful past. A little bit is left of Khan’s former palace, with blue-tiling mosaic significantly simpler than its older counterparts of Bukhara and Samarkand. Nearby Jammu Mosque has a beautiful hall with colourully painted ceiling and carved wooden pillars, similar to smaller mosque in the older part of town, both of them dating back roughly two centuries. The decoration and architecture of the mosques is unique and intriquingly charming, remotely reminiscent of Indian Mughal architecture. Walking among the wooden pillars resonates with the impressions of the Jammu Mosque of Khiva. But the city holds many more charms, the streets lined with green trees offering respite from summer sun, two storey Empire style appartment buildings from Stalin era, tsarist city hall and a bank appearing almost contemporary. The old huge trees in the park near the Khan’s palace attract scores of ravens in the autumn, making an incredible symphony of voices of these underrated singers, while amazing patterns of the black birds pour from one cloud of bodies to another in the sky at dusk, reminiscent of famous starling dances.

Fergana valley is famous for the quality and selection of its tandor flat bread, called lipyoshka in Russian. The dought is usually let to rise overnight, and at 4am, the bakers start to make round cakes of dough compressed in the centre by a needle instrument. They might be then sprinkled with white and black sesame seeds and stuck onto an inner wall of tandor, an oven made of clay, where a slow fire is fed by wooden twigs. The bread turns slightly brown within 15 minutes or so and becomes crispy on the outside and soft and moist inside. The bread is a revered staple in Uzbekistan, breadcrumbs can’t be just brushed off on the floor but meticulously collected, old bread is eaten with warm milk or given away to poor, only very old bread is given to animals. Lipyoshka can be eaten with anything, just with tea, butter, white cheese, sour cream, fresh grapes and of course as a side dish of every meal. They come in a huge variety, too, made with lard, milk, cream or butter and whole range of possible spices and decorative patterns. There can be very soft ones, almost like a cotton, or very hard and crispy ones, like tea biscuits, lasting for a day for the former and months for the latter.

Bakers use long pole with a hook to remove loaves from the oven.

Cooling — Breadloaves cool quite quickly after taken from the oven.

Baker tools — Tools used to make decorative relief in the centre of the loaf.

Another interesting custom of Fergana valley is morning plov. For major events like wedding or circumcission ceremony, big parties are held for a whole day entertaining several hundred people, starting with morning plov at 6am for men only. They eat as custom has it from common plates, with tea, bread, cream and sweets also offered. Each table is served only after all chairs are taken by guests. The spoons are not washed but only swiped by a napkin. It is an interesting and charming habit, if only a bit too fast, as you gulp and go, and heavy on the stomach.

From Kokand, a straight road of 130 km goes to Andijan, the cultural hub of the valley. The city where the first Mughal emperor Babur was born. This major highway leads through rather arid and tedious land, while not a steppe, it is not the beautiful green scenery one can see around Kokand. The Andijan reminds a bit of Tashkent, it is grey and modern. Fergana valley is considered to be the more religious area of Uzbekistan, but it is not strongly visible. There might be more grandfathers with beards, grandmothers may wear colourful scarves more often, but anyone expecting strict hijab and men with visage of Iranian basiji would be disappointed. You may see veils slightly more often, but it is hardly noticeable. The city of Namangan has a reputation of Wahabi hotbed, but as I have been told, the government has no tolerance for imported idealogy and uncomfortable mosques get reguralry raided and shut. Andijan is a more quiet place, at least since the bloody events of 2005, when a stand off between supposed extremists and government forces flared up and hundreds of peaceful civilians got caught up in a storm of live rounds, but I know too little to comment further.

While Andijan is considered to be the cultural centre of the valley, it is a dull city in terms of tourism. A huge old cemetry will give an idea of the size of local ethnic Korean community. There is a restored mosque in the city centre, which shows some beautiful art, and not far is a bustling produce market. But it is as much as Andijan has to offer. More remote large bazar is huge but not spectacular; it is a maze of little muddy alleys between shops selling anything from meat to shoes and carpets. But people are very friendly and talkative there, You can easily get into a talk for half an hour, only to repeat the same exchange at the next group of merchants. But the hearty friendliness of the local people is definitely worth answering the same question five times over.

Cemetery in Andijan — Korean family graves at ‘Sadovoe’ cemetery in Andijan

Jome Mosque — Restored Jammu Mosque in Andijan

Ceiling painting — Decorated ceiling of Jammu Mosque entrance hall

What made my visit to Andijan special was visit to education centres of Gennodiy Morozov. As many as 6000 students strong, with more than two decades in the game, these centres sent bright young people to the high positions of Uzbek government and to the far reaching world beyond the border. Meeting the young and witty students was really impressive. Fluent in English, smart and curious, and of course ambitious to outgrow the city they grew up in. I am not sure my impromptu speech impressed them back, and I am quite sure my attempts of exciting them for science fell on deaf ears (mostly due to my dull presentation). But the atmosphere and frenetic selfie-taking lifted my mood and made me very happy for taking the effort to reach the city.

The road to Fergana city turns back west, closer to the valley’s southern edge, and therefore passes more hilly terrain, and a major Chevrolet factory (all new cars produced in Uzbekistan are branded under Chevrolet, imported cars are subject to 100% duty). Yet, the southern frontiere of the valley is beautiful, very green and covered with orchards, vineyards and fields. Small villages line the road as it bends between the grassy hills, people sell apples, whalnuts and persimons. In the autumn, the colours of the falling leaves combined with the lush green grass and white mountaintops far south are like a fantasy came-true. Fergana is home to the friendliest lot in Uzbekistan. As I stopped to buy sour cream to eat with bread in a small town, an older man started to talk to me. After he found out the cream with bread would be my lunch, he strictly refused to accept and invited my to eat plov in his nearby home. His ‘russian’ name was Borya, he worked for half a year in Russia on construction yards, and half a year he lived in his house in Quva. This is very common for Uzbeks, they have reputation of hardworkers (unlike Kazakhs) and often travel to work in Russia, Kazakhstan or Belarus. After eating the plov, Borya insisted I take a bag of persimons, while his neighbours gave me a bag of whalnuts, and were only convinced not to give me grapes, after I had explained to them they would get smashed in the bags. After drinking compulsory dose of green tea, I was allowed to continue to the Fergana city.

Fergana is a modern city from tsarist times. Built not far from historical Margilon, it is a spacy place with beautiful Stalin era architecture, parks and boulevards. But the city changes fast, thick alleys of threes that used to cover all the streets and provide shade in summer heat were cut down to make space for everbloating cancer of cars, whole quarters are torn down and redevelopped into modern urban dwellings, which nobody can afford. Fergana differs from the rest of the valley by its ethnic composition, it is much less Uzbek, many Russians and Koreans live here. It has more modern feel, with plentiful of western-style cafes along the streets. What makes a surprise site in Fergana is the Jewish cemetery. The old keeper cares for it in an amazing way, even the oldest graves dating back a century are spotless, waiting for emigreés to return once a year and give a thought to their ancestors. The kind keeper invited us for tea and sweets, happy to have company. With Hussain’s sentiment he recalled his youth in army in Latvia and Hungary, and with gratitude talked about the people there. I am forced to repeat myself, but Uzbeks have hearts of gold.

Jewish cemetary — Jewish cemetery in Fergana city dating a century back, taken care of by a kind elderly Uzbek.

Fergana is a non-touristy place, but makes a great base for trips to the beautiful surroundings. One of the nearby famous spots is Richtan, town which made its name in ceramics industry. Centuries long tradition of potter masters has been briefly interrupted by the Soviet colectivisation, but the family-run workshops bounced back right in the 90’s, when collective factories began to shatter. Decorated dishes, teapots and cups are loved by Uzbeks, stocked by upmarked restaurants and of course adored by tourists. The red clay is obtained from surface pits in the area, burned in the gas kilns, and then covered by further layers of white glazure and colours. Decoration is usually blue, with intriguing patterns.

Kiln — Cups and decorative balls covered by white glazure ready to be burned in gas kiln. Modern equipment offers much better control of temperature and its homogeneity.

Decorative ball — Most of the production is handmade.

Finished decorative ball — Intricate patterning of a finished decorative ball

Dishes — Ceramics production in a more practical setting

Another famous spot nearby is the already mentioned Margilon, a centre of silk production. The factory oversees the whole process, it feeds silkworms with mullberry leaves, watches them grow and form cocons, and then boils the cocons and spins the released silk thread onto a coil. The threads are boiled with soda to soften and whiten (or spinned onto a cotton thread for rug-making) and made into larger coils. Those are then dyed by natural dyes (indigo, whalnut shells, tree bark etc.) and used in weaving. A colour scheme similar to batique originating from Margilon is called atlas. The dyes are sequentially applied in stripes to a bundle of silk threads, while the rest of the bundle is covered to protect it from dyeing. In the final fabric, colours diffuse one into another, making hazy-edged patterns. Besides clothes, hand-made carpets, silk or cotton-silk, are made. The knots of threads are tied onto a matrix fabric according to desired motive, each knot a time is hand-tied and cut. A carpet of 3×6 metres takes a year of daily work to make to two weavers. This makes the work on a weaving loom appear fast and easy. There are two types of looms in Margilon, 8-pedal to make one-sided thicker fabric, or 2-pedal to make two-sided fabric.

Getting silk — Silk thread is gathered from cocons in boiling water.

As my visa was getting short, I regretfully took a train to Tashkent through ten kilometres long, brand new rail tunnel under the Kamchiq pass. Crossing the fertile and friendly valley at spead, the low sun was casting long shadows, and very modern, half-empty train was making its way west. Thinking back of my arrival to Fergana city, at the time one man posted information about me onto facebook forum, a storm of offers and friendly welcomes followed. Thanks to this, I met an Uzbek Korean lady, Lena Kan, who was my mother for the days in Fergana. She took care of me and drove me to all the places of interest. I am deeply grateful to her, she made my stay in the city so exceptional, and I hope she herself enjoyed the time we spent, criss-crossing the area. I had a chance to meet several Soviet Koreans. And despite they appear Russian in all but appearence, there is this eastern spark in them, this engrained humility and industriousness. They helped me many times and always put up a façade of complete assimilation to wider Russian (or Soviet) culture. But I am not convinced as yet, I still believe, than if one is patient and gets closer, they can reveal something from the far east, something they are maybe not aware of themselves.

The train tunnelled back to Tashkent and I found my hotel, now much smaller than the one before, in an old residential area of town. An intriguing house of open courtyard surrounded by rooms connected by bridges, maze-like corridors and mirrors. The kitchen was made in an old garage, where the ceiling was supported by 70 years old steel rails. An atmospheric place to stay, where guests do not get wasted in the evening.

Left with a single days to invest in Tashkent, I started up to see the neighbourhoods towards the train station. A modern Ashkenazi Synagogue build in 1973 stood in the centre of the residential area, where many Soviet Koreans live. In front of the building undergoing reconstruction, I met a man in kippa. This accounts for the strangest Jewish encounter of my travel so far. I wished to ask a few question about the Jewish community in Tashkent, but the man started our conversation by saying the biblical flood happened, because there were too many gays. Trying to ask couple more questions, I learned that it was actually Ukrainians who ran the Nazi concentration camps (I am sure, that if we talked about Ukrainians more, he would say they don’t exist, but they are only Russians fooled by Western/American/Freemason/put-your-favourite-bullshit conspiracy), that it is not a coincidence the World Wars were the most destructive in the Eastern Europe (oh really?) where the major Ashkenazi population lived (not sure if it was because they were gays or secular) and that all what happened in the 20th century was god’s plan and it made world better. But nonetheless, he explained to me the first Ashkenazis entered the Turkestan province with the Russian army in the mid 19th century, they were encouraged to start families and so brought Jewish wives from Ukraine. Further influx came during the revolution and of course during the second World War. The population dropped in the ninetees, with several dozen European Jews left in Tashkent. But as he said, the community is strongly assimilated and individualistic, so getting exact number is impossible.

Baffled by the encounter, I went on to see large Orthodox church, and on to Catholic Cathedral. The Cathedral is impressive, it was originally built a century ago, but reconstructed in the 90’s after the decades of neglect. It is fitted with beautiful new vitrages made in Germany and hosts masses for a diverse community of Tashkent’s Catholics, composed of old Polish diaspora, expats, converts and local Christians. Not too far is much smaller, but inaccessible protestant church of German community, also a century old. Further west are several nicely restored Sufi crypts at grounds of local Islamic University, where one of them was visibly built around a tree, of which now only trunk remains. Tashkent feels like a Soviet city, as most of the historical buildings were destroyed by a massive aarthquake in the 70’s. It was the first to have metro in Central Asia, and its reputed universities used to attract students from the whole region. But times have changed, and it is not the case anymore, quarter century of Karimov made a huge difference.

The issue of president is a bit tricky one. Everyone will tell you how good president Karimov was, but how much better is Mizarbaev, because he restored relations with neighbouring countries, massively invested in education and tried to liberalise the country and boost tourism. However, after mere two years in the office, there is much left to be proven.

So the last day passed, and the following morning, I cycled a simple road, along continuous stripe of villages, to the petestrian border crossing. Leaving the country was as easy as entering it. Just a few stamps, customs declaration and a bag x-ray. They looked on my registration slips, but only quickly and passed me on to the Kazakh colleagues, who made no fuss at all, and in the typical friendly manner just put stamp into my passport and with a bit of curiosity let me through, back to Kazakhstan.

Bukhara Jews

Posted on October 30, 2017October 30, 2017 by Daniel

Jewish community in Central Asia dates back more than a thousand years, from the time on, Jews gradually migrated there from Palestine and Maghrib. Because most of them lately used to live in Bukhara khanate, they became known as Bukhara Jews. They belong to Mizrahim eastern jewish community; they originally belonged to a single group with Middle Eastern and Iranian Jews, but the larger group gradually fragmented as the contacts between individual communities became more difficult to maintain. Their language was, and often still is, Judeo-Tajik, a Persian dialect strongly infused with Hebrew words.

The community went through many ups and downs in the history; they were routinely rounded up and forced to convert to Islam, while at the same time their practice gradually diverged from the original lore and incorporated external traditions. The eroding community was saved by Moroccan Rabbi Yosef Maimom in the 18th century, who replaced the heterodox rituals of several thousand remaining Bukhara Jews by Sephardim teaching. Those who maintained their faith through the turbulent centuries found a great relief during the Russian occupation of the Central Asia. Russians directly supported Bukharan Jews as natural allies against the local majority. With the discriminative measures largely lifted in the Tsar era, the community began to flourish and expanded into educated areas of society, swelling ranks of lawyers, doctors and teachers. Newspapers started to be printed, and Jewish presence spread from traditional areas to the cities of Katta-Khurgan, Navoi, Samarkand and further east to Fergana valley. Preference to live under Tsar’s rule became so strong, that Russian administration had to put measures to regulate Jewish immigration from other Central Asian puppet states into directly controlled territory of Russian Turkestan province.

The Bolshevik revolution gave an unexpected twist to the story of the thriving community, the communist push against religion lead to purges of senior rabbis and general secularisation and assimilation of the Jewish society. Abolishing of private enterpreneurship turned the whole class of Jewish merchantry into factory workers. Synagogues were closed and religious newspapers shut down. The decline of the religio-ethnic group did not stop there however, risky illegal emmigration from the Soviet republic to the havens of Israel and New York started to dispair the community even further, and the process was finally cemented by the exodus of the 90’s.

The historical Jewish cemetery of Bukhara, claimed to be more than thousand years old, gives an idea of how large the community once was. The oldest graves are still not recovered, but the restored section shows continuous burrials for the last 200 years, gradually declining into the third millenium. American Bukhara-Jewish societies make considerable effort to revive and restore the grounds, even though the quality of the works is at least questionable. Bukhara still has two Synagogues, one central, very large and open air, where the community of 250 Jews still meets, even though all who were left behind are old. I recall a funny exchange between an Israeli Jew (who turned out to be a professional guide) and one of local grandfathers. The guide kept insisting on the question as how Tora is read there (apparently, the whole Jewish schizma is about the pronounciation of some wowels), not getting the answer he wanted to hear, he finally pointend to a Hebrew writing on a wall and saying ‘How would You read this?’, the old local man apparently perplexed and irritated replied ‘I don’t know, I can’t read these letters, I am just showing You the Synagogue!’. And that was it, he asked no more questions and obediently went to see the winter prayer hall.

Then there is a smaller synagogue deep down in the old city, behind big wooden gate, with a keeper slowly approaching his nineties. It feels more authentic than the central one, which is often crowded by tourists. The whole area around the smaller synagogue used to be inhabited by thousands of Jews just a few decades ago, now, only those too old to leave remain.

Similar fate caught the Jewish faith in Samarkand. Influx of Jews came with Russian presence, when the Bukharis bought land of 12 streets and founded the community in the city. Gumbaz Synagogue was built a little later on in the end of the 19th century. Copies of Torah from those times are still carefully kept in the building. The construction plan of the Synagogue is unique, typical Sephardim balcony for women was removed and the prayer hall turned into a single domed rectangular room with rich decorative pattern typical for local mosques and medresas. The section for women is separated by a screen, on the ground level. Similarly to Bukhara, some 200 Jews live in Samarkand and meet in the Synagogue, mostly elderly.

The Samarkand Rabbi may peddal on his old cycle to open the Synagogue for You and show You the old books and photographs. He is visibly torn between his family which left to Israel, and his duty towards the remaining community. As the huge crowd of his kin crumbled into a handful, he sentimentially recalls the times of two dozen synagogues operating in the city. He rubs his eyes repeatedly, talking about his grandson in Israel, he proudly mentions the clean and tidy Jewish graveyard a couple miles north. Now, the graveyard is gated and not always accessible, one newer synagogue in the Russian part of town assists the museum piece in the old city. Most of the communities in other Uzbek cities got reduced down to individuals.

Some of the Bukhara Jewish emmigrees would be less sentimental and more outspoken. One I met at the Bukhara graveyard, a new New Yorker, observing renewal of his ancestors resting place. He explained that many Bukhara Jews had left because of uncertainty and under heavy influence of the US and Israeli propaganda. His feelings towards the new home were bittersweet, he denounced the racism in the States and to some degree even expressed regret to have left. His sentimental monologue was cut short by his childhood Uzbek friend, who said “You left this tolerant place—we don’t care if one is Jew, Russian, German or Gypsy—and You went to live with negrs.” I couldn’t help not to chuckle on this bizzare statement, but the jew only turned his eyes silently down.

Besides the central Uzbekistan, Bukhara Jews settled as far as Fergana valley. An Uzbek oasis, a paradise behind the Kamchiq pass, the valley was home to the community for a century. Having nearly disappeared by now, they printed newspapers and participated in local politics during the Russian civil war. Now, mere 18 families remain in Fergana city. A huge Jewish cemetery gives an idea of numbers of once influential people. The cemetery is spotless, local keeper does an amazing job. Clean graves and neat paths, oldest graves dating a century back. The emigrees still care about their roots, once a year they come to tend the graves. While in Samarkand, Bukhari and Askenazi cemeteries are separate, in Fergana, all the communities share the common grounds.

Finally, another enclave was set up in Tashkent. The old Synagogues did not survive Khrushev; constructed in 1906, it had been turned into a meat and diary factory, to make sure Jews would not return to worship there, and later became a bank, which it has been to this day. Tashkent used to be one of two Soviet capitals to have two working Synagogues, one Bukhari and one Ashkenazi (the other was Tbilisi). Now, Bukhara Jewish community in the capital counted down to roughly 130, with two modern synagogues. The numbers are easier to get than for elusive Ashkenazis, Bukharis are born into the closely knit community, they are first presented in the synagogue of their parents, which they then attend for the whole lifetime—this makes them easily countable.

Generally, when You talk to Bukhara Jews, they are sad. Hard to tell who more, if those who fell foul to the big game, or those who were left behind. Their home is lost. Their community is torn appart and separated by oceans and mountains. This sadness can be strangely seen in their eyes, heard in their voice. To those of us who were not forced or fooled out of our homes, it is hard to comprehend. Jews were waiting to return to Jerusalem for two millenia, dreaming on for generations about the promissed homeland. I hope Bukhara Jews will not be caught in the same cycle of saddness, dreaming about the blue-tiled cities.

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