Splendours of Rajasthan

We move on to Pushkar, for the camel fair. Since there are still few tourists (the crowds are expected in the last days, for the full-moon rites), we skip the tented camp and stay in a comfortable hotel. The village has a bazaar rich in goods, where it's pleasant to choose and haggle; adjoining the market the numerous ghats descend into Lake Pushkar. The place is one of the holiest in India and attracts pilgrims from every region. But here too, as in Delhi, the sacred includes misery, filth and promiscuity; treading barefoot - as respect for the holy place demands - the stone stairways is an act of true heroism and boundless faith in one's own immune system. Then we plunge into the fair. The sandy hills surrounding the town are covered with tents and herds of horses and camels. The spectacle is extraordinary.

The men, dressed in the most varied styles, with large colourful turbans, squatting, smoke and watch, without showing it, the animals on which they have set their eye. The bargaining is slow and complex, interrupted by horse races, camel polo matches, songs and dances. Indeed, for the occasion, ethnic groups of every kind gather in Pushkar; a caste of nomads who call themselves "gipsy", Roma, entertains traders and tourists with music: the men play string and percussion instruments and the girls, with big bright eyes and supple movements, dance and offer themselves, with natural grace and youthful freshness, to the camera. The sadhu holy men, professionals of the sacred, sit in hieratic immobility in the shade of the few trees that take root in the sand or walk with solemn tread, untouched by the colourful confusion.

Under makeshift shelters, camel harnesses, whips, saddles, musical instruments and fabrics are made and sold; in the big patched-up tents that serve as restaurants, water boils for tea and pots of soup steam. The world of the fair is predominantly male; the women peek from the tents, cook and sew, look after the numerous children. But the riders gallop to boast the excellence of their steed; lean and vigorous men, with large curved daggers at their belts, watch in silence; others talk busily, bringing their red, yellow and turquoise turbans together. We try to immerse ourselves in this world so distant and so fascinating; we feel accepted with benevolent indifference, sometimes with mild curiosity. Only the sellers follow us tenaciously, to snatch from us the day's earnings. On the afternoon of 1 November, we move on to Udaipur. India's so-called motorways deserve a mention.

They have only the toll of a motorway: they are, in reality, a ribbon of asphalt on which pedestrians, bicycles, motorcycles and carts drawn by men, horses and camels circulate. The latter are truly singular: wooden vehicles, with very high wheels and very long shafts, to which the camel is yoked, and which, majestic and indolent, seems to accept the toil of hauling with disdainful tolerance. From the side lanes, without any precaution, men and animals merge onto the wide and chaotic artery; the driver must have eyes everywhere and drastically limit his speed. In any case, we reach Udaipur without accidents. The hotel check-in is cumbersome and the usual welcome refreshment drags on beyond all reasonableness. In the end we are assigned truly extraordinary accommodation. We will stay in the royal apartments turned into a museum.

Our rooms are arranged around a spectacular hall completely furnished with crystal furniture, which the whim of a maharaja in the early twentieth century ordered from England without ever being able to use them because of their absolute discomfort. The accommodation is sumptuous, but almost inaccessible: the entrance staircase is very steep and made of steps so high that you have to climb them using your hands; the rooms are furnished with opulent knick-knacks and equipped with monumental beds provided with canopies and curtains, a receptacle of age-old dust; but so be it, this is India.