Monthly Archives: April 2011

Goodbye India

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With less than a week left on my India visa, I was going to wrap up my visit in this country with a couple of stops in the famous architectural towns Chindagraph and Amritsar. With these thoughts in my mind, I left Jaipur relaxed and really looking forward to a change in country that will be coming up shortly.

I had already past a group of these gypsy’s but I was not able to pull over to take photos.
So when I saw a second group i had to stop. But they got angry at me because I was making their donkeys walk all over the road.

Then this man stopped and had a good look at me! 


On the way to Chindagraph I stopped for petrol around lunchtime. I pushed my bike into the shade of a bill board and stood checking my bike as I was not really good a forcing breaks for myself when I have nothing to do. As I was inspecting a small oil leak that had sprouted since being in India, I was approached by a man completely dressed in a white shirt and sarong, folded around him in a working style. He didn’t speak English, so after being in India for a while, I presume he was asking my country and said ‘New Zealand’, but he shook his head and eventually worked out the English word for chai (Tea). I accepted and joined the other older man sitting on dirty white plastic chairs in the shade of the small concrete office.

After the usual questions about me and the world cricket match, I was able to find out his story. He owned this petrol station and two on the main state highway between Jaipur and Delhi that his two younger sons run. His elder son worked in a government department in Delhi.


When I had finally finished my chai, I stood to shake their hands, he refused my hand and touched my head and shoulders. ‘We treat you like our daughter and do not shake hands with you. Best of luck for you journey and I hope you will be safe’. I felt so touched my their actions and blessing, Once again, I was reminded why I like travelling.


Arriving into the western designed city of Chindagraph was amazing. For the first time in India I saw street signs, signs showing the city layout and even directions to the different sectors within. I quickly found a hotel and set about organising the required paper work to see the Le Corbusier designed buildings.

Once I received my three forms, I headed for the ‘Court House’. I parked my motorcycle next to a man sitting on the ground cleaning and polishing shoes. He acted so grateful and honoured to have me park my motorcycle there, I guess it caused quite a stir and people coming to see it. I figured I left it in good hands.


I found an entry into the building, watching the locals hurriedly walk in and out the well guarded doors. When I walked up to them, I was stopped and asked for my paper work. Handing him my three sheets of paper, he looks at them and tells me I need a photocopy of something from gate 1. At this point after a morning of hunting down the office and then filling out the paperwork, I was a bit over it.

 A judge stopped and asked the guard what the problem was.Many Hindu words were passed between them before I was told not to take any photos inside the building. I entered the building, and was largely disappointed with the barren corridors and the stained with red pann spit sprayed on the concrete floors. Giving up on the inside, I walked around to the Le Corbusier hand statue. At least from here you get a great vantage point to see the main face of the Court House.




After I picked my bike up from the shoe man, I followed the traffic out onto the main road, but found myself in the rock garden car park. What luck! Everyone walked as directed bya huge sign towards the entrance, only to be turned down and told to walk back towards a very small hole in the wall ticket booth. Another Indian idiocracy! I followed the concrete path down the narrow path, which opened out to the following views.

This is the tiny ticket booth!

This is the tiny exit!


While I was here, I was waiting on my new passport to arrive and a second visa debit card, so hopefully I wont have any more issues like I did in Indonesia. As soon as that arrived, I packed my bags and headed for Amritsar.


On my way, I passed over bridges with amazing icy blue colours, the temperature dropped and then I could see mountains emerging in the haze a head of me. This can’t be right. I stopped in front of a sign and for the first time, I realised I was heading in the completely wrong direction for the last 40 kilometres and there were no roads heading that way except the one that I had missed.

Turning around, I travelled the 40 kilometres to the confusing road work construction and asked for the town of Amritsar, When they didn’t understand me I asked for Pakistan! Eventually someone worked out what I was trying to ask them and pointed me in a direction, only to discover I was now heading back to Chindagraph. Pulling over I tried again. I know I am saying it right. I found people are trying too hard with what I am saying.They think it must be so complicated hence why they give up or point me in the wrong direction. Eventually, after several miss-directions, I make it to Amritsar.

Sliding my shoes riddled with holes across the well polished wooden bench to a man with an orange turban wrapped around his head. In the few minutes I had to wait for my number, I choked in the strong stench of rotten shoes. As soon as I had received the metal tag, I ran up the steps into the bright sunlight. Breathing easier in the cleaner air, I pulled out my scarf and carefully wrapped my head.


Upon entering the Golden Temple, you are forced to share all foot diseases by stepping into a common foot bath, visited by thousands every day. As I stepped out, I nearly pushed over a man who suddenly bent down in front of me to  touch the first step into the palace area. Side stepping around him, I passed through the white marble arch and there stood the Golden Temple, in the middle of a large body of water, with only one covered gang way leading to its front doors. Walking around the outer marble colonnade, I watch the locals practice their religious beliefs.




Some sat in the shade of the colonnade with a string of beads in their hands, deep in thought, some collected water in clear plastic containers to take home to use at a later date, others paid their respects to shrines placed around the site and a few removed all their clothing bar their underwear and gingerly stepped down the slippery marble steps into the water to bath themselves in the holly water amongst the large fish. The women bathed in one of three concrete shelters hidden away from the devious prying eyes.




I finally made my way completely around the whole tank to the gang way leading to the Golden Temple. I stared down the long hot squishy queue to it and decided it was not worth the agonising wait. I walked back out through the main doors back into the dirty chaos of the streets that surround the quiet peaceful temple.


A few hours before dusk, I talked a British girl from the guest house to come with me to see the Wahga border closing ceremony. On the way out there we realised we were in theslowest three wheeler imaginable as we were being over taken by slightly larger three wheelers. It took over an hour to travel the 30 kilometres to the border, thinking we were extremely late we rushed and deposited our bags and were quickly ushered into the VIP area, which literally meant you got to sit squashed up on the hard concrete kerb with a front row view of the action.

We waited for ages, watching children and women run up and down the street holding the Indian flag proudly in their hands. Everyone rushed into the street and started dancing when they heard the ‘Slum Dog Millionaire’ sound track been blasted across the speakers.


By the time the actual ceremony started my bottom was completely numb and all I wanted to do was leave. Watching the 6 foot tall guards strut their stuff, in these amazing costumes,was incredibly funny but at the same time interesting. They opened the gate and shook hands, then slammed the gates shut and continued to stomp around with large and high steps. As the sun dropped below the horizon, the flags came down and we found ourselves back in our slow three wheeler heading back into town.



Today is the day I leave India, for the first time I wasn’t worried or nervous about crossing into another country, I actually felt excited. I woke, but I didn’t have to rush as the banks and borderdo not open until 10 am. I managed to pay my bill at the hostel and pack my bags before heading to the nearest bank with foreign exchange. When I arrived they told me, even though we have a sign out the front saying foreign exchange we do not do it. Walk up to the corner and there is another bank that does it. This is typical India. I walk up to that bank and was ushered to a teller, but she told me that they couldn’t do it because they only exchange US dollars into Indian rupees. She told me to talk to the guard.


I was then ushered to a man who spoke perfect English. I sat down at his desk, was offered a Chai and he arranged for me to get my Indian rupees exchanged into Pakistan rupees. He was my miracle worker. As I waited we talked about every thing from marriage cost to the difference in our two cultures. This was the first time I had met a person who had been living in England and had returned to India to help support his family. I left that bank really happy to have meet someone where I could have a normal conversation beyond the normal two questions – what is my ‘good’ country? and what is my ‘good’ name. 


Later that morning, I arrived at the border faster than the three wheeler had taken the night before. After filling out the usual departure card, I hand that and my passport across to the customs officer. I stand there and start to get nervous as he stares at my entrance stamp for a long time. ‘When did you arrive?’ he asks ’13th of January, this year’ I reply ‘which city?’ ‘Chennai’ knowing that, that part of the entrance stamp is smudged from the Chennai customs officers. He stands up and walks over to someone with a magnifier machine, while he talks with that man, another man enters the conversation ‘when did you enter India?’ ’13th of January’ ‘ How long have you stayed in India?’ ‘Three months’ ‘so you came to India on the 13th of January 2010?’ ‘No, I entered Chennai airport on the 13th of January 2011 – THIS YEAR, check my Sri Lankan visa’ They then asked me about my motorcycle and my trip. When the first man returned to his seat, obviously finally satisfied, he said ‘Do you like dolls?’ I looked at him, completely confused wondering what sort of question is that? He saw my confusion and ‘the doll on your motorcycle’ ‘ah, my sock monkey, yes, he comes with me where ever I go’ Laughing at the sudden change in heat.

I moved onto the custom’s area, where I had to wait for someone to return from lunch. When he returned they made me fill out a form asking for permission to exit the country with my motorcycle and tore out the middle section of my Carnet de Passage. I was then told to sit down, this will take 30 minutes to check the system. I was given a cup of chai while I waited, because it took a lot longer than they said. Eventually, I was beckoned out to inspect the bike. They then asked what I was carrying in my bags, I was then asked to open my personal gear and show him the contents.


Next my passport had to be checked once again. I sat in the plastic seats waiting for that to  be returned to me. Once I had it,I was released and I rode my bike towards the gates to Pakistan. 

Hitting Rock Bottom

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If a Psychiatrist examined me right now, he would take one look at me and tell me that I am Bipolar. To be honest, I didn’t see it coming, it snuck up on me and took me by complete surprise. It wasn’t until I saw myself snapping at locals for little annoyances and crying if anyone didn’t understand me or flatly said no. In the few days before arriving into Jaipur, a few things tested me way beyond my already spread thin personal limits, which I think pushed me over the edge to the state I’ve found myself in.

Leaving Bhuj at the crack of dawn, as I had a 400 kilometre ride to Mount Abu in Raijestan. It wasn’t going to be a particular technical day, as there was only one road to take, which happen to be a large state road. At least once a day, I get a car load of people pulling up next to me and matching my speed and within a few minutes they get bored and move on. When a Jeep pulled up next to me, nothing was out of the ordinary, until they slowed right now to make me pass them, then they would speed up to pass me. This game was repeated about five times before the driver slammed on the breaks only much too late and crashed into the back of parked 50 tone truck, which was conveniently sitting in the fast lane of the state highway.

I watched the impact through my mirrors as I rode away. Normally in 
New Zealand or Australia, I would have stopped to offer assistance to the victims, but in foreign countries you have no idea how they are going to react or blame, therefore you must just keep on driving despite your feelings. I couldn’t help feeling completely shocked by what just happened all because they were looking at me.



Later that day, I eventually arrived into Mount Abu and found a nice guest house which for once had a great place to hang out and meet other travellers. My plans were to move on the following day, but as soon as I arrived I didn’t budge from the court yard talking to the other fellow tourist. Later that evening, I was asked by a local if I wanted a guide to see sun set point. Frowning, I said no and asked the two Canadians I had befriended what that was all about. They told me, apparently there has been reports of people getting mugged or worse. I couldn’t believe it, it was meant to be a local attraction, and it was unsafe to visit by your self.



The following day, I set out for a walk around the towns other attractions. As I walked down to the lake, I had Indian men asking for my photo. Declining and holding my hand up to my face, I carried on. They couldn’t understand why I didn’t want this, but if you get photographed every day you soon realise that one photo isn’t enough for them. They take one photo with each one of them, until everyone in the group has had their turn. I have also been told that some pictures of ‘white’ women sun bathing on the beach in their bikini’s end up in Indian porn magazines.

I find the narrow over grown steps to ‘Frog Rock’. As its called it’s a rock that looks like a frog jumping into the lake below. I was feeling uneasy, the only thing that kept me for turning around was hearing women’s voices. I past two men sitting on the side of the path drinking cans of beer at 10 in the morning. As soon as I pass, they start calling out to me. I ignore and carry on up the stairs hoping I will catch up with the women’s voices. I pass a family also sitting on the side of the steps in the shade catching their breath. Disappointed I pass them and climb higher. Eventually I arrived at the top and was slightly disappointed at the rock, but I took photos anyway.

Frog Rock


Turning around I start to walk back down the steps. Stopping at a viewing platform, I take a photo of the lake. A young boy of about 15 years old, bounds down the steps after me. He stops next to me and demands my name. ‘Mickey Mouse’ I reply as I didn’t like his mannerism and I walked off down to the next platform. Once again, he runs after me and demands my name. I turn and head further down the steps, when he runs after me. I stop and step aside to let him pass, as I wasn’t going to play this game, but he stops in front of me, demands my name and grabs my left breast.

I found myself staring at him, regaining his footing after I had punched him in the face. He grabbed his jaw and I thought to myself, good, I’m glad it hurts. At the same time I couldn’t believe that was my instant reaction. As he started to walk away, rage took over. I ran after him and while yelling at him I punched him again then proceed to kick him hard where ever I could make contact. I had him squatting on the ground with his palms pressed together in the sorry / thank you position. I then realised what I was doing to this young boy of about 15 years old and felt instantly embarrassed.

Turning to walk off, I had second thoughts and asked for his photo. He stood patiently waiting for my camera to be ready, just as I pressed the button, he realised what I wanted it for and he turned away. I didn’t tell him I captured him, I just yelled ‘I’m taking your picture to the police, never touch a women like that ever again, you bastard!’

Here is the little boy… well the back of him.


Tears of embarrassment and shock streamed down my face. I’ve been grabbed before on previous trips, but this time I wasn’t taking it well. I half ran down the steps, when I reached the two men drinking on the steps, I stopped in front of them and gave them an ear bashing about bantering white tourist, we absolutely hate it, and this is the reason why women hate travelling though India. Gulping down the tears, I walk back into town, knowing full well I need to calm down before I start getting shop owners hassling me to buy their goods.


When I stopped for a pee, I found this staring at my bottom!



By the time I reached Jaipur two days later, I was a mess. It was Sunday and I had arrived in the middle of the day, so I thought I would walk to a famous block printing shop that was close by. On the way, I noticed a man in a yellow shirt walking towards me chatting on the phone. As soon as I passed he turned around and started following me. At first I thought, we must be heading in the same direction, so I crossed the road, he also crossed. I crossed back and so did he. When I turned a corner onto a busy road, I was surprised to find him also turning the corner. It wasn’t until I started approaching traffic police, I saw him turn hisheels and head back the same way we had just come from. I couldn’t believe it, I was now scared to be walking around this city in broad daylight let alone going out for dinner at night. Luckily for me my hotel had a roof top restaurant, which meant I didn’t to go out of the hotel compound at night.

Even after a good night sleep in a beautiful room, I didn’t snap out of the depressing mood I was in. I walked to the ‘Pink City’ where I would see some of Jaipurs major tourist attractions. I was a wreck walking the two kilometres towards the city centre, jumping at every man’s possible touch, getting upset when a scooter cut me off. I saw a young girl walking in front of me, I walked up to her and asked if she was on her way to do some sight seeing, she wasn’t but she was walking in my direction. I was embarrassed as I was a good 10 years older than her and I was acting like a child. However, I relaxed and was able to carry on feeling a bit better.

The painting on my bedroom wall



Later that day, I was approached by a man who started the conversation with ‘Can you please tell me why all tourist hate talking to the locals?’ I wasn’t the right person for them to be asking, plus I smelt a scam or a mugging opportunity. With a quick look around to see who his friends were, I carried on walking while the guy kept in step with me, yelling ‘why are you all like this? If you hate talking to locals, why don’t you just go home… I stopped and losing my temper I said ‘I hate talking to people like you – this isn’t a normal conversation and I do not feel like talking to you’. As I walked off, he yelled at me ‘Go home, just go home then!’ I felt really bad, as he caught me at a bad moment in my trip, but shortly afterwards I was approached by two more men in a similar manor.


The Hawa Maha 

These windows were designed to allow the women to watch the daily activities on the street below but not be watched themselves.

The street view of The Hawa Maha



I needed something fun to do and as I am interested in block printing. I booked myself into the block printing course at Anokhi Museum out in Amber. The only problem was the printer had to go home to his village unexpectedly for family reasons, so I was only able to do the block carving section. I arrived and was introduced to my ‘master’. I chose a design and was shown the process from transferring the design on to a pre-painted block of wood to actually carving the block. At the end of the day, I was able to take home a paisley block!

First step was to choose a design

Then to trace it out with soft punch marks to the piece of wood.

To create the circles you use this hand drill which is actually really hard to manage with only two hands!

These are the carving tools made from harden steel formed into different shapes

Its taking form!

Every now and then you check the original piece of paper to make sure you still following the right pattern.


I got to have a go at everything, but im not as fast at my master!

Finally you cut the patten away from the rest of the block.

Then cut the block down to size.

Mine took only one day to complete (with the help from my master!) The one he has in front of him took him 10 days!






I was in Jaipur for at least a week. Four days into my time there I felt the mood lift and I felt like smiling once again. On the sixth day I actually felt completely ready to hit the road. As I walked around town on the last day, I was stopped twice by the ‘why do all tourist act like this?’ guys. The first one I recognised, having been yelled at by him previously on my first day, but he didn’t remember me. I calmly talked to him, still uncertain if this was some sort of scam, but today I had patience. I managed to get away from the grumpy man only to be stopped by an older guy dressed in a suit asking the same question. I stopped and told him the truth, what had happened to me during my two and a half months stay in India, hence why sometimes I don’t want to talk to every Indian I see on the streets. He actually looked shocked and quickly apologised then asked me out for chai. I still couldn’t shake that uneasy feeling so I declined a hundred times before just walking off as he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

The following day, I rode out of Jaipur with a huge smile on my face, ready to tackle anything once again.

Amber Fort


Crafty Gujarat

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The guide book was correct, Bhuj was definately the wild west of Gujarat, however, my map was completely wrong. I ended up passing a village I was hoping to stop at and possibly do a home stay with a family of block printers. Instead I arrived into the township of Bhuj and couldn’t find the recommended guest house, as it was well hidden down several narrow alley ways. That afternoon I thought I should go and see the town museum, but didn’t after walking around the whole complex and back to the main entrance as I couldn’t find the second entrance my map showed. I couldn’t believe how wrong my map was.

On my way to Bhuj I got to stop and see more salt farms.



Should I take a tuk tuk or a camel?

This is another one of those moments where the parents ask me to take a photo of their kid.



My attempts for finding stuff today went from bad to worse, I jumped on my bike to look for a small craft village less than 8 kilometres from the township. 15 kilometres later, I turned around ask someone, they pointed in the direction I came from, but I was past it, I just couldn’t be bothered any more.

I was amazed at the completely different vibe I got from Bhuj. Everyone is so friendly, I didn’t feel threatened at all. I couldn’t help wondering if it was because Gujarat is an alcohol free state, or because a lot of the people here are Muslim. What ever the reason, I actually walked back to my hotel late and felt completely safe.

Rising early, I left for the white desert which is 90 kilometres north of from Bhuj. Along the way, I spotted a dried up lake to stop and take photos of myself and the bike. I had to call it quits after a while, as trucks and cars were stopping on the side of the road to watch me.

I was stopped further up the road by the police asking me to obtain my permit to travel to the Pakistan boarder. While I was in the tiny mud hut, I met an Indian doctor and his family who were also on their way out to the White Desert. As a lot of Indians are, they are really cautious people and he asked me to come with him and his family, as he thought I would get lost. Declining several times, with a thousand different reasons he eventually gave up and let me go.



I got almost there before I came to a ‘T’ intersection without a sign posts to tell me where I was meant to go. Luckily I had just past two Indian men that had strong Pakistan facial features, one dressed in a long purple shirt and pants, the other in a matching yellow one. Surprised to discover I was a woman, they pointed me in the right direction.

Riding out into the middle of nowhere, I came across a small masonry hut with two border guards patrolling the no man’s land between India and Pakistan. I was asked to stop my bike, dismount and hand over my permission. I then had to sign a ledger, with all my details. It was kind a like a signing a note to say I promise I will come back into India! I asked if I could take a photo, but they sadly said no ‘this is a border post!’

Following the dried up muddy tracks, I found myself wishing it had just rained to have some fun on the dirt. Eventually the brown turned to white as I hit the salt. Riding out past the cars heading into the middle of the vast salt flats, I felt the bike drop into a slushy part, so giving it a bit of gas I worked my way out of it, slightly frightened in case I found myself in a deeper salty puddle.



On my way back into Bhuj, I thought I would stop at some of the craft villages that I had passed this morning to get out here. Each village had its own ‘main craft trade’ to support its community. Not only was I looking forward to seeing all the local embroidery and mirror work (embroidered mirrors into objects like clothing, bags, blankets etc), but I had also heard the mud houses were amazing to visit.

I stopping in my first village, I was a bit disappointed in not been able to find anyone! The place was deserted or they were sick of tourist peeking into their lives. My next town on my list was Hodka, but I couldn’t find the place!! Most of the signs here are in the squiggle Hindi that I really cannot understand at all.

Riding back into the small cross roads called Bhirendara, I stopped for a cold drink and a packet of chips – my first food of the day (its well past 1 pm by now). I left too early for breakfast and there was nothing to eat out in the white desert!

I headed to the next town on my list, Khavda, again it was known for mud houses and mirror work. I stopped in the one shop, the only one that was open. While I was enjoying myself looking at the work especially the copper bells, I could see a small crowd around my bike. Walking outside, everyone let me into the middle of the group.

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One man asked me a thousands questions about New Zealand, Australia, and my trip. One questions he asked me was, what type of meat do you eat in New Zealand? I replied as you do, you know, cows!’ He looked down at me and said, ‘We do not eat cows here in India, they are sacred.’ I felt so bad, that I had completely screwed up! As I departed He said everyone has come to see the tiny woman on the massive motorcycle, which was pretty funny, but they were all loving it.

I moved on again, and stopped at another town – this was finally what I was expecting. Traditional mud houses with decorative mud detailing.

When I entered the house, I was welcomed by a beautiful older lady dressed in traditional Kutch mirror embroidery. She has this open home with her family, where they all sell their hand made stuff ranging from her great-grandmother to her grand daughters work. It was all amazing, they offered me chai (Tea) and I sat down on the floor and filtered through the amazing work.

Once I had spent all my money, I loaded my bike and took off. I was broke but I wanted to stop at one more place to see if it was worth coming back the following day with money.



I drove into a dusty town that reminded me of a typical Mongolian township. Driving around desperately trying to find the place. Just as I was about to give up, I found it. Tired, worn out with the lack of food and water – I also realised I was extremely sun burnt!

As I walked in and everyone turned to staring at me, I asked if there were stuff to see here, that when finally someone spoke up, ‘there is, but first it chai time, so come and sit with us’ Sitting down, chatted with a few of them I meet one Australian guy volunteering for the NGO. Afterwards, he showed me the museum where they had collected thousands of pieces of work from all around the district. They had completely categorised them, hoping that local people will use them to inspire themselves when creating a more modern piece.

He then showed me the work room, where everyone was busy working on the sewing machines. One woman was from Pakistan and joked she wanted to come with me and go back home! I laughed and told her to jump on and hold on tight! Everyone laughed. Then he showed me the show room – it was amazing, I found so many pieces I couldn’t believe my eyes.

The lady in front is the one from Pakistan who wants to come with me.

The show room.

The mud work details, all done with your hands. 


That night, I went next door to the Thali restaurant. The nice owner fronting the Thali shop wanders over to me and asks me about my motorcycle, and my trip. We get talking after I have eaten a whole days worth of food in one sitting. Ok, so now I’m feeling pretty sick, and dieing to lie down, but I quickly work out he isn’t just the owner for the restaurant but for the hotel I am staying in. Him and his wife are getting a house built at the moment, and he showed me the various designs that they had to choose from. I eventually managed to leave and head up to my room to rest my pot belly.

This is the one the first steps to block printing. The piece of fabric goes through about 10 – 14 steps depending on colour and design. 

They lie them out in the sun to dry before processing them again.

This is the back yard of the block printers house. They do everything in this yard, from printing to dying. 

This is where they heat up the natural dyes.

The have laid out all the fabrics ready for cutting


When I started travelling, I wasn’t sure how I was going to make a connection with the local women, knowing that in many countries they are not generally seen around the streets, let alone able or allowed to talk to a foreigner. Visiting small craft communities gives me a great opportunity to bridge the gap between the women and the women at home. It also gives me a great reason to get myself into the family’s houses and work environment to see how the women actually live their lives.

A good friend of mine, Louise and I have decided to work together, where I find and buy fair trade products from all the amazing places I visit. After sending them back to Australia, Louise will upload them to a online shop we are currently building. I will give more details as they emerge. 


Lets Celebrate Holi!

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I went into a famous fabric shop, which was full of women buying!



Leaving my hotel as ‘google maps’ told me to, I found myself in the heart of the slums of Vardara. Turning around, I tried to back track back towards the bus station near my hotel. I was completely lost, I was forced to stop and ask two police men, who quickly pointed me in the right direction. Once I was back to pretty much where I started from, I shoved google map directions out of my mind and headed north on the major road.
Within 50 kilometres north of the city, I came across a sign that fitted perfectly with the direction I wanted to go in. This allowed me to cut off a largely populated city I was hoping to avoid. In actual fact, it was the same town, ‘google maps’ had originally wanted me to go through.
Travelling further into the country side I found myself getting aroused by the amazing scenery laid out in front of me. I was passing camels pulling wooden carts down the main road, with their drivers dressed in white cotton pants and shirt with a waist coat and a huge red turban carefully wrapped on their heads. Colourful motorcycle tuk tuks, overflowing with people, drove between villages stepping in for what local buses should be doing.
I had just spent two long days riding up from Goa on the main highway, covering over 700 kilometres. I found myself almost falling asleep with the boredom of the lack of scenery and culture. As I hit Mumbai, the heat mixing in with the chaos of the intense traffic, I felt as if I was at work for a change and not following my own dream. Then finding myself in the state of Gujarat, where they are proud to display their culture and craft, it soon didn’t feel like a chore.
Stopping at a road side cafe, I topped my water up and grab a cold sugary drink to energised myself. Skulking away from the sun, I stood in the shade. Still dripping in sweat, I watched the locals stop to stare at my motorcycle. It wasn’t long before I was approached by a man who spoke good English and wanted to know all about my motorcycle and I. It was the first time that a local asked me if I was sponsored!
Turning off the main road, I head towards Dhrangadhra. I rode through a tiny village which I got completely lost in. Having found myself in the middle of the village, I had to push through the jambed packed streets, bristling with people, bicycles, tuk tuks, scooters, cars and then me. Following my nose, I turned down a street and eventually found myself back on the right path.
I arrived at Dhrangadhra and pulled over at what I thought was a good landmark, outside Indian Oil petrol station on a round-a-bout. I call Mr Devjibhai Dhamecha, a famous photographer and conservationist for the preserving of the ‘Little Rann’ especially the ‘Wild Asses’. He also runs the town guest house and safari out into the salt plains of Little Rann Sanctuary.
Mr Devjibhai Dhamecha told me to just to ask people and they will direct me to the house. Pulling outside a small shop I call out to the owner. He tells me to turn down an alley way. I follow and stop to ask again, they tell me to turn left again. At the corner I was stopped by a man on a scooter, He explained to me he was theson of Mr Devjibhai Dhamecha and the guest house was the one with his mother standing outside it. Finally!! I was just too tired for this game.
I pulled up outside the house and she beckons me to push my bike inside, then tells me to sit down. A ‘chai’ was placed before me, and then a plate of chapatis, an Alu (Potato) dish and rice. It was perfect timing as I was starving. Afterwards, I was shown to my room. I could finally get out of my hot sweaty motorcycle gear.

My room was upstairs from the family home, it was a worn blue washed concrete building. I had a simple toilet and bathroom at one end. Peeling of my damp clothes and changed into my off road gear, I grabbed my camera and took off for a walk. Walking down the quiet streets, I turned several corners to find myself watching women washing their clothes in the streets.


Taking photos of buildings, small details – feeling people watching me, I slowly turned around. I could see the colourful woman peering around the corner. Quietly talking about me and my camera. I showed my biggest smile and they returned it and said hello.
After turning a few corners I was once again surrounded by women, asking me to take photographs of them. When I tired from taking everyone’s photo I moved onwards to the next group of people.
Eventually I made my way out to the main shopping road, finding everyone extremely friendly and welcoming. All quietly watching me and whispering about me. I got the idea that not many tourist stop in town and actually visit the township. Making my way back to the guest house, I had to lie down, trying to find refuge from the heat.

Later that night, two Australians and one Irish man arrived. The two Australians had just come back from the Little Rann and was able to tell us all about their trip, which helped us to form a plan of attack for the next day.
Rising early, we leapt into the rusty, worn Jeep with MrDevjibhai Dhamecha at the wheel. We drove deep into the ‘Little Rann’. Our first stop, was the end process, where the salt is collected at one of the depot. Walking down the railway tracks, I could walk around the piles of salt. We walk back to meet Mr Devjibhai Dhamechaonce again at the local chai shop, where all the men gather for breaks and to watch the cricket. When we left they all made a hand symbol of riding a motorcycle and went brim brim. Laughing, I waved goodbye and Mr Devjibhai Dhamecha explained to me that he had told them about me. This happened through out the day – I could hear him telling everyone we stopped to talk to and even on the phone!


We moved further into the desert, driving over deeply cracked earth, some sprinkled with salt. The temperature rose as the mirages thickened on the horizon. We stopped at a man dressed in black dress shoes, rolled up tight brown pants, a white shirt and a waist coat. He was working pushing the salt around once a day to ensure that a crust doesn’t form and to help create nice round balls of salt. He silently walked in a steady pattern around the pond, standing in ankle deep water ruining his beautiful shoes. I read an article where it was stated, when they cremate a salt panworker only the soles of his feet remain as they have spent many years absorbing salt.



‘Wild Asses’ appeared from the scrubby bushes to come and relax in the desert. Now I’m not talking about naked run away blondes, I am talking about an animal that looks like a horse cross with a donkey. But in actual fact, it is just a horse with a sandy coat and has an erect dark mane, that continues in to a dark brown strip running the length of his spine to its tail.


Moving across the barren dried up lake we stopped at large fields of flat salt lakes, where people had gathered up the dried salt into long straight piles. Then they came along afterwards, scooping them up and dumping them into large piles at the end of each line.


Mr Devjibhai Dhamecha then drove us over to show us where the workers live in a make shift camp. The main family area was a canvas tent. There were two other houses, made of straw. I guess there were three different families living here, each with their own cooking facilities. Everyone wanted a photo of themselves and each of them were extremely excited to see themselves on the tiny 2 inch screen. One took a photo of me using my camera.


We then headed back to the main camp on the edge of the Little Kann for lunch. We got shown to our traditional kooba’s (huts). I was completely excited, as this was going to be my home for the night, listening to nothing but wind, completely away from the chaos of Indian villages.


After a peaceful night in the desert, we arrived back into town the following morning, right in the middle of Holi celebrations. I couldn’t help it but grab my camera and joining in on the fun. Even though I didn’t have any pigment to plaster anyone with, I was soon the target for many children with hand primed and ready for smearing colour on my face.