M: I can’t sleep.
C: Neither do I. My feet are hanging way too far out of bed. Why wouldn’t you?
M: The mosquitoes pierce me.
C: Then turn on the fan again.
M: Well, but it blows to the maximum, can’t be adjusted down and is very loud. We’re gonna catch a cold.
C: I’d like to use the fan, then we don’t smell the garbage from outside. I can’t sleep well that way.
M: Ok, I turn it back on, but then I’ll sleep in my sleeping bag.
C: Thank you. Good night.
India is different. India is knocking us out for the first few days. India is loud, very loud. With a lot of people. As I have been to India before, I had deliberately voted for an accommodation with a roof terrace in order to escape the hustle and bustle. I’m glad about that now. In Jodhpur we have a wonderful view over the “Blue City” and the fortress. My photo heart leaps with joy. We are bringing a gift from Iran, but unfortunately it will become clear in the next few days that this family is not very warm, that the host probably has an alcohol problem and is very unreliable. The heat makes it even harder. 33 °C in the shade, on some days up to 36 °C. It takes a few days until our bodies get used to it and we have adapted the rhythm: getting up early, lying down at noon, getting up again in the evening. We stroll through the streets of Jodhpur, take pictures of the blue houses. Oh, this town is so photogenic. I could take so many photos of the red saris of the women in front of the blue background… And there we also hear the first calls “Welcome to India” and are invited to a conversation, sitting on the doorstep of course, and also Indian Chai. There they are, the hearty Indians. It needed the second look. We take a look at the fortress and palace, take rickshaws and bargain down the prices. “Very intelligent, miss.” “Not intelligent, just bargaining.” Once learned, never forgotten.
In contrast to Iran, we rarely or never find a garbage can in the city. Garbage is thrown onto the street, swept out of the window, out of the house entrance, swept into a pile on the street, the own house is rinsed with water and the dirt is washed down. Anybody who walks barefoot will definitely get something. The garbage is searched and sorted by the poorest of the poor. Street dogs and cows share the food leftovers. We’ve seen a little mouse so far. I’m surprised you don’t see any rats and cockroaches. Not yet. Because in the next town it’ll work out.
No, not at the hotel. We’ve improved on that. A fan with multiple levels, a mosquito screen at the door, a two-meter-long bed, a warm shower and a nice landlady named Anita. We are in a new city called Bikaner, six hours by train from Jodhpur to the north. In the morning we wake up with birds chirping, the sparrows fly around the table for breakfast and through the house. Afterwards, we go to the neighboring village with a rattling moto-rickshaw. Hindus love their sacred cows, as everyone knows. And rats are also sacred, at least for the Indians who are descended from a saint named Karni Mata. Karni Mata had resurrected her drowned son. In return, the God of death demanded that all their descendants be reborn as rats. She must have loved her son very much… Well, and now the holy rats are cherished and cared for. The donated food is partially eaten by the believing Indians, if it hasn’t been completely eaten by the rats. Double ugh! And if you see a white rat, you get lucky.
The Indians walk barefoot through the temple, we as foreigners are allowed to put on cloth shoes. Mouse droppings everywhere and that’s the way it smells. Ugh again. And in front of the square the pigeons are fed, the flying street dogs. We venture into the (surprise!) pink temple. Everywhere the little creatures flit, argue, sleep, eat and poop. And it happens what had to happen. A particularly curious rat climbs up on me and suddenly sits on my camera bag. Now I’m beeping. Not in panic, but I don’t want an Indian rat on me. Gross, put that away. The Indians are laughing, I have to laugh too. Matthias pushes the rat a meter into the depth. The little rat has broken nothing, it scurries away to a donated piece of coconut.
