Family Affairs: Gujarati Style

 2^nd – 25^th January 2014



You know you're in the village
when there are more cows than
people roaming the streets...

Arriving in Rajkot, Gujarat, where my grandparents reside throughout the harsh, British winter, I begin to feel a little anxious. Similar to that niggling feeling that you get when you think you’ve left the iron on at home, but it’s too late to turn back. I’ve left all the friends and fun back in Bangalore to come to a dry state (this may turn out to be the longest stint my liver has gone without alcohol), to spend time in the village  (cue the unremitting stares), and endure a daily routine that involves bucket baths, restricted running water, dark mosquito-filled toilets and basic furniture with no modern conveniences such as a hairdryer, washing machine, and the all important wi-fi. Now I’m all up for slumming it, having backpacked around the world and in some cases lived a very basic existence, uncomplaining, circa Chiang Mai hill-tribe trek 2009 where the waterfall was my shower and a hole was my toilet. But I for one have grown accustomed to a bit of comfort in my old age, even if that just means a decent, insect-free bathroom with a sit-down toilet and a shower to wash my hair. And yet, it’s funny how quickly we can learn to adjust and adapt, especially within the warm and loving bosom of immediate family who go out of their way to make you feel at home. I find I even missed the normal little things like household chores, after staying in hotels for a month.

An unlimited Gujarati
thali at Thakkar Lodge, the
most amazing lunch for a mere £2

   
As we wait for our luggage at the over-crowded carousal in the tiny airport – so small that we spot Dada (grandpa) waiting outside by the exit almost immediately – we get a taster of what’s to come with all the pushing, shoving and complete disregard for personal space. Dada has already hailed a taxi and we are greeted by a driver whose loud voice is muffled the entire time as, like many men we come across including our own uncles and cousins, only half of his mouth is used to speak while the other half is stuffed with paan. With the absence of alcohol, the tobacco-paan permanently wedged within one’s cheek seems to be the obvious substitute. Saying that, the don that he is, Dada made it his business to get a liquor licence for the house so he can enjoy his glass of whiskey or the odd beer on the balcony as he watches the world go by and waits for lunch. The very first thing he shows us are his crates of beer and his booze cabinet, as foreigners have a special allowance to purchase alcohol while the locals have to get it off the black market. Apparently all the durjis (that’s our caste, meaning tailors) love a bit of liquor, though it’s frowned upon here. That’s where I get it from then!


Daily chores with Baa, helping shell
peas to prepare for tomorrow's lunch

It’s so lovely to see the glee on our grandparents’ faces at our arrival, especially as they have only each other for company for the four or five winter months, that I decide I have my whole life to party and meet new people, and to stop with the itchy feet… for the time being anyway. We quickly get into a relaxed routine, which mostly revolves around eating and preparing food. I didn’t realise that I get my complete obsession with food from my Gujarati heritage; the morning begins with selecting the best vegetables for the day, then talking about what to make, then discussing a great meal that they recently experienced… I overheard my mami (mother’s sister-in-law) and cousin having a twenty-minute phone conversation about food preparation and little else. The best thing is that not a shred of food goes to waste, as any scraps are bundled into some newspaper and given to the huge population of roaming cows on the streets, which the gobble up, newspaper and all. My Baa (grandma) even goes as far as making a special few small chapattis for them with freshly kneaded dough. 

The cheeky grocery cart guy who stands outside the house
for my Baa to inspect and purchase food from the balcony

The produce here is so fresh, cheap and delicious, it reminds me of my time in Spain as well as the depressing decrease in quality that we get back home in London when it comes to the food we have to put into our mouths at least three times a day. What a joke! The best bit is that you needn’t leave your house as the fruit and vegetable cart comes to your doorstep, and with every purchase the cheeky fruit-seller (cheeky because he would falsely claim that he was off the day after to ensure we bought more today) would throw in a few complimentary bunches of coriander, curry leaves or dill, and a handful of large, green chillies.



We set off on a foggy winter morning, visibility nil...
not the best way to start a road trip

 Of course the restless soul that I am, after a week of lounging in the sun, getting fat and not meeting anyone under the age of fifty, the lifestyle was beginning to grate on me and I was itching to DO something. Just in the nick of time my young cousin arrives with my aunt and uncle, the type that are still pretty young and hip, and favour an active, jam-packed holiday opposed to a repetitive, relaxing one. We hire a car for a few days and take an eventful, hilarious road trip down to Diu, passing a handful of the amazing sights that Gujarat has to offer. With all the stops in between it’s an eight-hour drive to the beaches of Diu. This is people watching at it’s very best. Every time we pass a little village on the way we ask the driver to slow down so, for once, we can be the ones that sit there and stare, wide-eyed and without shame.

 

Just managed to capture a passing group of Siddis

One of the most fascinating places we pass is a tiny village called Talala. The entire population consists of a black African community that amazingly speak and dress like their fellow Gujaratis. I thought it mesmerising, as I had no idea such a village existed, and especially not in rural Gujarat. My kaki (paternal uncle’s wife/aunt) recognised them as Siddis; they’ve been settled in Gujarat since the 12^th Century, apparently the Siddis originally descend from Bantu peoples from Southeast Africa, brought over to the Indian subcontinent as sailors or indentured servants by Arab and Portuguese merchants. It appears the only part of their African traditions that have still been fiercely preserved to this day is the Goma music and dance form, which involves drums and dances of spiritual significance. Though we spotted one or two Siddis that clearly had a hint of mixed Indian heritage, the majority of the tribe have kept to themselves these past hundred years. After a bit of background reading I discovered that the community is largely ostracised by the Indians, which keeps them in relative poverty and that on both sides interracial marriage is frowned upon. It’s so sad to hear, but I’m not surprised in the slightest. In our experience, in terms of the majority anyway, the Hindus stick to each other, the Muslims do the same and sometimes we, having been born and bred in the West, aren’t even considered a fellow Indian! Though in our experience, especially for Chirag as he looks more middle-eastern than Indian, the Hindu shopkeepers and rickshaw drivers are quick to overcharge and rip us off, whereas the Muslims are honest down to every last rupee. Ever since we made this interesting discovery, we deliberately seek out rickshaws with Arabic writing or Islamic imagery, knowing full well that we will be charged local prices.

A beautiful mausoleum in Junagadh
that we got off for on the road

   As we pass quickly through the picturesque temples and masjids, the mountains of Junagadh, the forest of Gir – home to the endangered Asiatic lion, we begin to realise
that our driver is an underage novice sporting a constant look of befuddlement regardless of the clear instructions he receives. If we weren’t all having such a good time in each other’s company, he would have proved to be extremely taxing. On many an occasion I was both exasperated and enraged at his lack of knowledge and poor sense of direction, that I would have preferred to be in the driver’s seat despite not knowing which pedal is go and which is stop…

The caves of wonder, where
we had to rush past the rowdy
Indian tourists to stop them
spoiling our shot!

   When we finally reach the little island of Diu I am instantly transported back to Goa, another former Portuguese colony. After eight hours of litter, smog and dusty streets, one forgets that we’re even in India anymore. As we zip along the coastline to our hotel on Nagoa Beach (which of course the driver had far too much trouble finding considering it is one of only twenty-odd hotels on the entire island!) it could easily be mistaken at a seaside resort in Europe. Dare I say it, but the Portuguese really cleaned up this place. How I wish the common Indian man had a little pride in his surroundings, then we may not see so much litter, broken roads, open gutters, pollution (both noise and air) and India wouldn’t be seen as a ‘dirty’ country. Every thing we see during the trip, from the fort, to the
caves and the beautiful large churches, is kept neat and tidy, which is no small feat considering the majority of the tourists are actually rowdy Indians who come down here for sun, sea and booze. Diu is the only place in Gujarat where alcohol is legal, so as you can imagine the Indians go a bit nuts here. We must look like right heavyweights compared to them, having double after double at the restaurant and not even flinching. At lunch a large group of rather lethargic looking Gujarati men are sat on the table beside us nursing a few Bacardi Breezers, yes that’s right the barely alcoholic Breezers we used to drink in our mid-teens, and half of them are dozing at the table while the others are at that sleepy drunk stage that I only

Nagoa Beach, Diu, our view from outside the hotel

reach in the early hours of the morning after a wild night out.

   It’s a shame that the road trip is only three days long, after so long without ‘non-veg’ and alcohol it really feels like a holiday to indulge in meat and liquor by the poolside, with the sandy beach a stone’s throw away. We spend a few more days with our cousin before he leaves for London, taking in the sights we didn’t know existed the whole time we were in Rajkot living the stagnant life. Then it’s off to pay a visit to our lovely, seldom-visited (as they’re born and bred in India) maternal relatives in the nearby village of Jamnagar…