...a lively, almost boiling city
full of vitality and contradictions, poverty and opportunity, tradition and
progress...
Amdavad old town
Jama Masjid,
the Friday Mosque, was built 600 years ago, shortly after the founding of
Ahmedabad (Amdavad) by Ahmed Shah. Clearly he had a big vision, as the
large courtyard had room for thousands of believers, just like the main
building. 260 Pillars created a mystical atmosphere, the sculptures were very
refined, the proportions and the dimensions perfect. The consistent stony colour
added to the serenity. The outer wall had murals of large Arabic letters. It
was very quiet and peaceful, and the building was really impressive.
Next to it
stood the mausoleum of Ahmed Shah, along with his son and grandson. The graves
were revered daily and covered with coloured cloths. This building too was a
masterpiece of architecture and sculpture. We sat for a while on the steps at
the entrance and saw a miniature neighbourhood before our eyes. Right
next to the mausoleum, laundry hung out to dry above a couple of anonymous
graves, girls were getting ready for school, women sat on the street baking
chapatti's on a wood fire. Goats were herded (one baby goat carefully
kept in a crib), cats strolled at ease on the street. It was a lovely homely
and relaxing scene, you would want to move here instantly.
Once this
had been the core of it, now it was a different world than the metropolis
Amdavad had become in those six centuries. The day before in the bus we drove kilometre
after kilometre along industrial complexes, then large areas full of modern
offices, before we entered the city centre where the traffic was crawling along
poor neighbourhoods. It was a lively, almost boiling city full of vitality and
contradictions, poverty and opportunity, tradition and progress.
Next was the
mausoleum of Rani, the wife of Ahmed Shah, also completely hemmed in by the
encroaching city. Again the building was superb, with lots of fine sculpture,
but it was much less maintained. The elevated walkway around it even housed a
family. Still they were better off than the family we saw on the sidewalk not
far from our hotel, covering themselves up for the night.
We walked
through the maze of alleys. Motorcycles and bicycles zigzagged around the cows
and the potholes and us. Houses, shops, workshops. Close together were concrete
buildings and old stone houses with havelis, overhanging balconies of carved
wood. Some well maintained, most neglected. We stood there admiring a
facade when an old lady motioned us inside. Her shabby courtyard
also had a facade full of carvings. Just down the road was a square with
a bench where we could sit down. In two hours we had covered 200 meters as the
crow flies. But zigzagging so much and seen so much, that we were fully
saturated.
We went to a
restaurant for lunch by auto-rikshaw. The four of us crammed in the back, the
small tricycle overloaded. A kamikaze ride through crazy traffic, steering left
and right to avoid collisions, diving into each gap, braking and acceleration.
Scruffy males cheerfully waved at us from other rickshaws and freight cars. For
contrast two beautiful girls in modern dress, all made up, sat on the back of a
motorcycle. When we stood still in traffic we inhaled pure exhaust fumes.
Stepwells
A stepwell
is a well with stairs dug until the ground water level. That sounds easier than
it is. To gradually descend to the depths required, 20 to 50 meters, you either
have some sort of spiral stairway, or build a long straight slope. This one was
of the latter type. The slope and the pit themselves were fully ornamented with
statues, arches, platforms. Over the full length that gave beautiful vistas,
the full depth of about five floors with balconies above the well. Deep
underground it was a relatively cool place, and thus a sort of village
square, where gossip and news was exchanged. The overall design, the elegance
and the details of the stonework were gorgeous. Actually, it was a kind of
three-dimensional, inside out, underground, oversized artwork.
We visited
seven stepwells in Junagadh, Amdavad and Patan. 950 to 500 years old, simple to
richly decorated, in good and in bad condition, with slope and with spiral
staircase, deeper and shallower. This variety gave a good idea of the
differences and similarities.
What we were really concerned with
All these
sights are a good excuse to travel through Gujarat, but actually we were more
concerned with: Where can we buy dahi
(yogurt for breakfast)? What are the toilets of the bus station like? How clean
is the bathroom in the hotel? Is there hot water for the shower? Where do we
have lunch? Did we get bananas? Do we have Wi-Fi? How hot / cold is it? What
time do we have breakfast? How often have we been addressed / stared at /
photographed? Who is sick, weak or nauseous today? How much can we get off the
fare of the auto rickshaw? At what time does the bus leave?
North - South
Amdavad was
a worthy conclusion of Vibrant Gujarat, as the slogan of the tourism office
goes. It’d been a long time since I've experienced India so intensely, and we were
ready for a quieter stage to digest it all. No better time or place than our
friends down south.
The sheer size and diversity of India was evident once
again. Language and ethnicity in the north is close to European, while the
south is Dravidian. Even though the Muslims are a minority in Gujarat as well,
they are much more visible there, both in architecture and dress – maybe
because of several centuries of Moghul rulers.
Gujarat is semi-desert rather than tropical. Wheat and
cotton in stead of rice paddies and coconut plantations. Camel carts in stead
of oxen carts. The infrastructure was better and the road discipline was even better (that
is: less suicidal than in the south).
On average the ladies in Gujarat were dressed
more modern, their hair done more fancy,
and blue jeans were no exception. People spoke less English, but as they were more
extrovert, you engaged in a conversation more easily. But once you got to know
them, people were equally as friendly all over India.
The weak instant coffee was no match for the real filter
coffee in the south. Then again, the Gujarati thalis were much better than the Tamil
meals.
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