MYSORE
I had'nt planned on Mysore. My original plan was to have
headed further south and spent a couple of weeks r and r on some quiet
backwater of Kerala, surrounded by palm trees and doing nothing more strenuous
than lifting a cup of toddy and taking photos. Unfortunatley, avarice reared its
codicious head and I made for Mysore. I was told by a friend of Carmen's that
Mysore was the centre of sandalwood oil in India, true; she went on to inform
me that due to the slow growth of the sandalwood tree and production processes
it was very costly, also true and that I could make a pretty tidy profit back
in Europe, untrue. It turned out to be a fool's errand of sorts in as much as I
did not make a “pretty tidy profit”; however, it turned out to be the most
beautiful city I had seen to date in India as I hope the Nikons will show. The
best way to describe it is white and blue. The sky is blue every day and the
buildings and monuments are a stark white. It is clean(by indian standards) and
a pleasure to stroll through its streets without being accosed by people
wanting to sell you things. I also got the best rate of exchange ever on the
euro(73inr/euro), the next day it dropped to the 72inr/euro. It never
recuperated to such a level during my stay. I stayed in a large complex named
the hotel Dasprakash, bang slap in the middle of town, but its rooms seemed to
keep it all the noise out. The walls were thick and the rooms themselves were
basic but scrupuously clean. For 400 inr a day you had a basic single bed with
small attached shower and toilet. The walls were bare. It was spartan, but
clean, great value. The building itself I was reliably informed by the chap at
the tourist office that in the past had been the residence of a wealthy
merchant. It is crescent shaped and as I said in the middle of the city. The
whole city is dominated by the massive Maharajas' palace in the centre and
about ten minutes walk from the Dasprakash, with its manicured grounds and
imposing bronze lions.
Around the palace perimetre the city is laid out in orderly
Victorian style with squares and roundabouts bearing the names of bygone heroes
of the Raj such as Hardinge circle and Irwin road, although a Ghandi square
cropped up just outside the hotel. I adopted another hotel as my daytime GHQ
which had a restaurant and an open terrace which looked out onto the square
below. From here I would breakfast, occasionally lunch and after my days'
wanderings would wind up my evenings with an acceptable and cheap tandoori or
whatever Rashid the waiter would suggest. I asked him where the best place to
acquire sandalwood oil would be and he suggested the Cauvery emporium, just a
few minutes walk in front of the huge and colourful market. I could not miss it
he said and after a few basic directions if I did'nt find it, I was to ask
anyone as it was on the tourist agenda. He was right. Mysore has a balmy, just
right temperature which makes strolling through it a joy and I soon found the
Cauvery. A large, long establishment where everything it contained had a
sandalwood link, from minute carvings of every type of adornment to highly
polished furniture; tables, cupboards, beds all carved from this delightfully
scented wood. At the entrance were two artisans carving away at something. It
was too early in its creation to be able to tell what the end result was going
to be. I finally got round to asking the salesman about the oil. I cannot
remember what the price was, except that I came close to fainting when he told
me. Although I should have guessed it was not going to be within my budget when
he unlocked a cabinet behind the counter, with a key on a chain, around his neck
and when the tiny bottle he held could hardly be seen. It contained a very
thick oil which could be smelled without his having to break the seal. When told
the price of the 15 milligram bottle I thanked him and apologised for wasting
his time and despondent walked out of the emporium. I got the impression that
he was used to repeating the process often and I crossed the road to the market
marvelling at the colour and activity, snapping away to my heart’s content.
After a day or so visiting the various sites and snapping away I decided to
forgo the visit to Seringapatam, eleven miles away, where in 1799, under the
command of Colonel Arthur Wellesley( he was'nt an Iron Duke yet) defeated the
army of Tipu Sultan and thus managed to gain control of a vast patch of India
for Victoria's quickley growing empire. I had a schedule unhappily to adhere to
and was also quite down in the dumps about not having able to procure the
sandalwood oil. Apart from missing out on the financial gain, the time spent in
Mysore was time not spent in Kerala and I had resolved to catch the early bus
next morning for a gut wrenching journey of twenty one hours to Panaji, the
capital of Goa, leaving at nine in the morning and arriving at six am the
following day. It was my last in Mysore and around mid morning I sat on the
terrace, nursing a bottle of Kingfisher and gazing at the spectacle below.
Hundreds of people weaving their way around the old fashioned taxis designed
around the ancient English Ambassador model and the typical yellow and black
three wheeled tuk tuks, wondering how I should spend the next eight hours before
turning in and steeling myself for what was going to be yet another odyssey on
a private air conditioned private bus with bunk bed included. My deciding was
put to an end when I was approached by a young man in his early twenties. He
woggled his head in the typical south indian fashion and tried to sell me a
sight seeing tour around Mysore. I politely declined, but he insisted “maybe
relaxing massage?” Again I offered a total lack of interest and he produced
from behind his shirt a rather large(by european standards) bag of marijuana.
“Maybe smoke? Very good grass” he proclaimed. To get him off my back I said I
would buy 2000 rupees. It seemed quite good and knew it would come in handy for
the tedious journey that awaited me and my stay in Goa. I decided to ask him
whether he could procure me some sandalwood oil. He immidietly pushed both his
hands down palms open as though to quiet down and looked around anxiously as
though I had just blasphemed in a temple. He told me he could but we would have
to go to his house and he would show me his hidden stash. I jumped up and leaving
money on the table for the beer, we jumped onto a tuk tuk and headed into
Mysore's hinterland. In the back, with the machines’ old noisy engine he
explained to me why he was more
anxious at being found in posession of sandalwood oil than a bagful of weed.
The sandalwood tree is protected and controlled by the government and the tree
and production of its oil is limited to only three months a year. Anyone, other
than the government controlled emporium and its oil processing factory,(which I
could have visited but was closed at this time of the year) dealing in it was liable to a
lengthy prison sentence as well as a hefty fine. In effect, he was a poacher
and the oil were his tusks of ivory. I felt rather guilty now at being an
acomplice to this wretched business and had begun to regret the whole affair. We
travelled along narrow lanes, left and right, all the time wondering if I was
really being taken to a mugging and was going to lose my Nikon and cash which
was carefully folded in gaps of the Lowepro straps. Fifteen minutes later,
after which had seemed an eternity the tuk tuk stopped at the entrance to a
narrow alley and I followed him into a court yard were two adolescent girls were
handrolling hundreds of joss sticks, their hands darkened with the powdered
substance which they were deftly sticking
to thin strips of bamboo. They were working with a startling velocity, with
huge piles of different coloured sticks on the floor around them. I asked if I
could take a photograph of them, to which they happily woggled their heads
sideways. Inside the dwelling I found a welcoming settee surrounded by racks of
different scented sticks of joss sticks. In the centre was a small round table
laden with glass bottles of different multi coloured oils, most beautiful to
observe. Mikey, as that was how he had decided to identify himself to me
disappeared into a back room shut off from the rest of the place by a curtain
on a set of rings. That was where he gave massages he explained when he returned
with a plugged coca cola bottle, three quarters full of the treasured and
dangerous amber liquid. He tipped a minute amount onto his palm and rubbed it
vigourously around stretching it all round his hands and offered it to me to
smell. He explained how it was unadulterated as otherwise he could not have
been able to have covered such a surface with such a small amount. The smell
was over powering even from the settee I was sitting on. Without a doubt it was
the real thing. We decided on a price and I purchased five small 5mg phials
which he filled and stoppered and sealed with molten wax and electrician's
tape. After paying, I bought a a kilo of joss sticks of different scents;
jasmine,opium and yes, sandalwood. I thanked him and hopped back onto a tuktuk
and headed back to the Dasprakash, grateful that in the end I had not walked
into a tiger's lair and carefully stowed away my purchases, taking great care
to hide as best I could the minute bottles of sandalwood oil. After my rucksack
was perfectly packed I headed to Rashid's restaurant/hotel and had an excellent
duck curry in coconut followed by a cup of strong coffee and a few pegs of
Johnnie Walker on the terrace as dusk fell. At eight, already dark I thanked
Rashhid with a generous tip and thanked him for everything. I went back to the
hotel and settled my bill, then I tried a spliff of mickey's rather good grass
and fell into a fitful slumber. The next day I slipped out early to the bus
station bound for Panaji, Goa.
El plan original no era Mysore. El plan original era tirar más al sur y tomar un
descansito en un calladito remanso de Kerala, rodeado de cocoteros y haciendo
nada más laborioso que levantar un vaso de toddy y sacar unas fotos. Desgraciadamente
la avaricia levantó su codiciosa cabeza y me hizo tirar hacia Mysore. Una amiga
de Carmen me dijo que Mysore era el centro de produccion de aceite de sándalo,
y efectivamente es verdad; me dijo que
el aceite de sándalo era muy caro debido al crecimiento lento de dicho árbol y
el proceso costoso de extraer su aceite,
tambien verdad y tambien me dijo que le podía sacarle una ganancia bastante
respetable en Europa, falso. Fue lo que llamamos en ingles un recado de tontos.
De todas formas no me arrepentí. Mysore fue la ciudad más preciosa en que había
estado hasta ahora, como espero que las Nikons mostraran. La mejor manera de
describir la ciudad es azul y blanco, el cielo de día siempre azul sin una nube
y los edificios de un blanco resplandeciente; también era la ciudad más limpia
(por estandar indio) que había encontrado. La calles eran un placer para pasear
sin ser acosado por mendingos o gente persiguiendome para venderme algo. También
habia sacado el mejor cambio, 73 rupias al euro, al día siguiente empezó a
bajar hacia 72. Nunca volvió a recuperarse durante mi estancia. Me alojé en un
complejo llamado el hotel Dasprakash, justo en el centro de la ciudad, cuyas
paredes de un grosor impresionante mantenían el ruido de la calle alejado y
mantenian un frescor agradable. Por 400 rupias la noche tenía una habitación
pequeña y espartana con ducha y vater limpio, justo lo que quería. Tenia forma
de media luna y me informó el encargado que en tiempos pasados había sido la
casa de un mercante rico. La ciudad está dominada por el impresionante palacio
del marajá de Mysore con sus jardines muy bien cuidados y enormes tigres de
bronce. El perímetro del palacio está rodeado en forma Victoriana, ordenada, con
plazas y rotondas que llevan los nombres de antiguos héroes del raj Britanico
como calle Irwin y rotonda Hardinge, aunque cerca del hotel apareció una rotonda
Ghandi.Cogí otro hotel como cuartel general durante el día, que tenía una terraza
donde podia ver la plaza abajo, aquí desayunaría y por la tarde vería la gente llendo y viniendo, mientras cenaba un tandoori
agradable a un un precio razonable, o qualquier otra cosa que el camarero
Rashid me sugiriese. Le pregunté una mañana, donde podía conseguir el famoso
aceite de sándalo. Sin deliberar me mando al Cauvery emporio a unos minutos, en
frente del colorido y bullicioso mercado, que era fácil de encontrar y si me
perdía, preguntando a qualquiera, llegaría. En efecto, fue fácil y a la entrada habia dos carpinteros artesanos esculpiendo la fragrante madera. Era
demasiado joven en su creación para que
pudiese ver el resultado final., El interior estaba repleteo de todo tipo de
adornos y muebles; camas, sillones, armarios y hasta un columpio, todos
esculpidos de ésta madera, que llenaba el lugar con su aroma. Fuí al mostrador
y le pregunté al encargado el precio del aceite de sándalo. Se acercó a una vitrina a su
espalda y saco una llave que llevaba a su cuello en una cadenita de oro. La
cosa ya empezaba a oler a caro.Me trajo una botellita minúscula que se escondia
en la palma de su mano, contenía un aceite amarillento y espeso que desprendía
un tufo fuertísimo que se podía discernir sin romper el sello, pero agradable.
El frasquiito contenía 15mg y cuando me dijo el precio, me curo el hipo. No
me extrañaba que lo tuviese cerrado y bajo llave. Aún a precios indios era carísimo
y no quiero pensar lo que hubiese valido en Europa. Lo que era seguro era que
pocos clientes iba a encontrar para pagarlo. Disculpándome al señor, le dí las gracias y salí del lugar al Mercado en
frente donde me quedé alucinado con los
colores, olores y bullicio y los artículos varios en venta. Me pasé la tarde
sacando fotos antes de volver al cuartel general y cenar. Después de ver las
vistas un par de días y sacar cientos de fotos había decidido marcharme al día
siguiente, pasando de ir al campo de batalla de Seringapatam, donde en 1799, el
ejército británico bajo el mando del Coronel Arthur Wellesley( de esa aun no
era el Duque de ‘hierro’ Wellington) aplastó las fuerzas del Tipu Sultan de
Mysore y así aseguro un gran cacho del sur de la India para el imperio de
Victoria, que se estaba expandiendo por el siglo 19. Tenía una agenda a que tenía
que adherirme. Aparte de haber perdido la oportunidad de ir a Kerala,, no iba a
sacarle un centavo de mi alto en Mysore. Desgraciadamente no pude salir al día
siguiente, ya que no me di cuenta que el bus privado salía temprano y no me
había preparado ni había conseguido el viaje por adelantado así que me tocó
otro día en Mysore. Estaba a media mañana del día siguiente tomando un
Kingfisher fresco decidiendo como pasar las próximas ocho horas, mirando hacia
la plaza abajo, donde veía las idas y venidas de los transeuntes; observando
como la multitude se enredaba entre los tul tuks amarillos y negro y los
antiguos táxis ‘Amabassadors’ cuando apareció como por arte de magia un chaval de
unos veinte pocos años. Quería venderme un gira turística por la ciudad, le dí
las gracias, pero no, que ya lo había visto todo. Fue cuando me ofrecio una
bolsa de maría por 2000 rupias, que se la compré, decidiendo que una hierba del
sur de la india me vendria bien para aguantar el viaje de miedo que me esperaba
a Goa y que se me ocurrió preguntarle
por el aceite de sándalo. Al preguntale, me hizo un gesto nervioso con las
manos, palmas para bajo como si acababa de decir un disparate en un templo y
miró a su alrededor. Me dijo que me podría ayudarme pero que tendría que ir a su
casa, donde me enseñaría lo que guardaba. Sin pensarlo dos veces, dejé un
montón de rupias en la mesa y me subí a un tuk tuk con él. Por encima del ruido
del motor me explicó porqué era tan peligroso conseguir el aceite Ser
pillado con una enorme bolsa de de marihuana era nada.. El árbol de sándalo está
protegido y la producción del aceite está controlado por el gobierno como la tala, que estaba
limitada a tres meses del año. Cualquiera
que intente comercializar con dicha substancia que no fuese el emporio aprobado
por el gobierno, se exponia a una temporada larga de cárcel y una multa cuantiosa.
Osea que Mickey( como asi se dió a conoce,r era un furtive), el aceite era sus “colmillos
de marfil” y yo su puto traficante. Toda la historia me empezó a dar mala
espina y me estaba arrepintiendo al meternos en las entrañas de las afueras de
Mysore. Dimos vueltas, izquierda y derecha, por callejuelas polvorientas sin
asfaltar, todo el tiempo pensando que me estaba adentrandome en una movida
donde se me iba a despojar de la Nikon y todo mi metálico, que iba escondido en
las hombreras de la bolsa Lowepro. Después de unos quince minutos, que me
parecieron una eternidad, la máqiuna paró en frente de un portal, en un
callejón silencioso. En el patio habia dos chicas adolescentes fabricando
decenas de palos de incienso, sus manos teñidas del polvo y trabajando a una
velocidad impresionante con centenares de palitos apiladas a su lado. Trabajaban
por Mickey y me permitió sacarles una foto. Dentro de la pequeña vivienda había
un sofa muy acojedor rodeado de estanterias de palos de incienso de fragrancias
diferentes; jasmine,opio y claro, por supuesto sándalo. En el centro, una mesa bajita llena de frascos de ungentos
varios que Mickey usaba para los masajes. Desapareció a un cuarto cerrado por
una cortina de tela y al poco tiempo volvió con una botellita de coca cola
llena de tres quartos del preciado y peligroso aceite. Al destaparlo, sentado
en el sofa, ya se podía percibir el aroma potente. Dejó caer una gotita
minuscula en la palma de su mano y empezo a frotarla con ambas. El olor era tan
penetrante que sin duda sabía que éste era auténtico y no estaba adulterado,
Después de el obligatorio regateo, le compré cinco botellitas de cinco mg de
aceite y un kilo de palos de incienso variado. Las gracias dadas, me monté de
vuelta en un tuk tuk, agradecido de que no me había adentrado en la guarida del
tigre y volví al hotel Daskaprash a esconder cuidadosamente mi compra ilícita.
Preparé mi mochila, lista para una
salida temprana y salí a comer a la terraza de Rashid. Me aconsejó un
maravilloso curri de pato al coco con un par de botellas de Kingfisher y lo
finalicé con una taza de café y unos chupitos de Johnnie Walker. Me despedí de
Rashid dándole una buena propina y con un “Namaste”; al anochezer, me fui a
dormir en Mysore la última noche depués
de un porro buenísimo de la maría de Mickey. Al día siguiente salí de madrugada
hacía la estación de autobuses privados (aire acondicionado) para la paliza de
viaje hacia Panaji, capital de Goa.
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| View from the entrance to my hotel |
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| Grafting |
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| On the streets of India , they fix and manufacture everything |
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| An Ambassador taxi |
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| My hotel |
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| Don't know what this is, but I thought it a worthwhile photo |
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| The state run Cauvery emporium. If you want sandalwood, this is the place. |
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| Working the wood |
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| Mickeys yard and his joss sticks |
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| And his table of exotic oils |
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| What did I say about hand rolling joss sticks' The real Mcoy |
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| View from my daytime GHQ |
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| The Dasaprakash hotel. Well recomended, great value for money. |
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| More vistas from my daytime GHQ |
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| My daytime GHQ aroungd elevan am. |
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| Just finished lunch with a Kingfisher beer, great stuff. |
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| The following five pics are from Mysore's market, grat colours. |
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| Entering the Mysore palace |
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| What can I say? What a yard! |
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| It's many bronze lions, Tipu sultan was quite keen on lions. |
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| Very well kept grounds. |
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| My sleeping quaters. |
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| The following five pics are around nine am on the twenty one hour journey to Goa |
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| Some chums I made in the palaces' gardens |
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| My famous skull ring and a bud of Mickey's weed, great stuff! |
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| Hardinge square, middle of Mysore. |
