Indiaaaaa!

The adventure began. Ten brave ladies decided to jump aboard and travel with me through the bustle of India and the starkness of the desert.

Dressed in restrained Finnish colours (black, grey and white), they arrived in a foggy Delhi. Despite having been awake all night, they showed no signs of fatigue. Of all Delhi’s sights, they chose to visit the Lotus Temple, a house of worship dedicated to all the religions of the world. It was beautiful and calming, although its gleaming white surface had turned yellowish from pollution. Prayers echoed inside the marble lotus, soothing senses already heightened by the beginning of the journey.

That evening, we jumped aboard a night train. It travelled through the darkness across the beautiful landscapes of Rajasthan. The rocking of the train lulled the ladies to sleep. I stayed awake, listening to the clatter of the wheels on the tracks. India is great!

We arrived in Ahmedabad, where a kite war was under way.

The kites had been bought from craftspeople in a slum area who were fighting their own war against poverty. The ladies, meanwhile, were staying in the finest heritage hotel in the city. In the afternoon, we climbed onto the roof of my friend’s house, with a view across rooftops where the entire city seemed to have gathered. Everyone was flying kites. Hindus tried to bring down the Muslims’ kites and Muslims the Hindus’. In the end, it didn’t matter whose kite it was, as long as you managed to cut it down.

When the sun set, the war ended. Sky lanterns rose from everywhere and the landscape turned magical. The ladies sighed with delight, pleased that they had thrown themselves into the adventure.

Our journey continued to the Little Rann of Kutch, the salt desert. Once again, a little luxury awaited us: beautiful huts and soft beds (while we waited for the rat holes). On a desert safari, we sped across the cracked earth, scarves flying in the wind and the scent of freedom in the air. Wild asses galloped and wild boars grunted. In the wetlands, we saw magical pink flamingos and men making salt. When we had driven far away from everything, we marvelled at the barrenness of the land, the beauty of the vast open space, and how quickly the Earth turns and the sun goes down.

In the village of Ludia, a wedding canopy was being built. Kumba’s eldest daughter sat in the corner of a hut, covered by a veil, weeping her ritual lament. That evening she would marry, and the following day she would say goodbye to her family, her village and her childhood. The Finnish ladies felt as though they had fallen straight into a tale from Aladdin’s Magic Lamp.

After sunset, the sacred fire was lit and the bride and groom circled it seven times. The village men drank homemade liquor and got into fights. In the morning, the bride was sent on her way, towards a new village and a new life. Everyone cried: the village women, the men, the children, the Finnish ladies and me. We witnessed a village wedding, a turning point in the life of Kumba’s daughter, but we never saw her face.

The desert dust, the colours, the smell of village fires and the melancholy of the wedding guests were left far behind as we headed towards the Arabian Sea. The waves gently caressed the sand. Only birdsong and the chirping of crickets broke the sound of the wind. The deserted beach stretched endlessly before us, and there was peace all around. As the sun became an orange ball and disappeared beyond the horizon, we raised a toast to our journey. India had already given us so much.

We also visited the Maharaja’s palace. We climbed rusty spiral stairs up to the terrace. Those afraid of heights nearly fainted, but the views rewarded us. The palace was beautiful, although time had eaten away at its splendour. We also heard that the Maharaja was dying. Time passes without mercy. We simply have to know how to hold on to the moment.

Our adventure was already nearing its end when the first problems struck. The trains from Bhuj to Delhi had been cancelled for the next four days.

The reason: dense fog in Delhi.

This seemed slightly strange, as trains from elsewhere in India were apparently quite capable of reaching foggy Delhi.

Independence Day was approaching, and a terrorist threat hung over India. The salt desert of Kutch is a favourite route for smugglers. Drugs travel through it to the hippies of Goa, and weapons to naughty terrorists.

So, 1 + 1 = the fog had nothing to do with the cancellations.

Either way, it was time for Plan B (which, of course, did not exist).

We quickly hired a car to take us to Ahmedabad. Naran, a friend from my village (he lives in a traditional mud hut, went to school for seven years and belongs to what is considered one of the lowest castes), began arranging plane tickets for us with his friend. They paid for the tickets and made sure that every one of us got onto the plane.

Wow!

Friendship is the best travel insurance, and trust often comes to the rescue.

Thank you, Naran! Thank you, India!

On our final day, I took the ladies to see a Bollywood musical at the Kingdom of Dreams. It is a lavish combination of amusement park, restaurant world and cultural centre. There, in ten minutes, you can walk across India: eat, shop and admire all those useless things you simply cannot live without.

The Bollywood dancers surrounded by a fireworks display of special effects were spectacular. But after a real village wedding and encounters with real people, the plastic diamonds and laser beams inevitably seemed rather pale by comparison.

So what did we learn from all this?

Life is more wondrous than wonders themselves.