Curry on Camping (Chhatra Sagar Hotel (Rajasthan, India))

Member Name: duncantorr

Product:	Chhatra Sagar Hotel (Rajasthan, India)
Date:	10/10/06 (408 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: Exotic, educational, extraordinary

Disadvantages: Expensive

It would be easy to say that the experience of arriving at Chhatra Sagar isn't everyone's cup of tea, except that the tea one is eventually given is rather good, and accompanied by a selection of delicious nibbles. This aids recovery from the initial impression, for which some help is definitely required.

It would be easy to say that Chhatra Sagar is in the middle of nowhere, but not quite true. It's in the middle of Rajasthan, half way between Ajmer and Jodhpur, each about a hundred kilometres distant, to the north-east and the west respectively. On first acquaintance this seems uninviting country - dry, fawn in colour and sparsely populated.

If you are lucky enough to spot first time the sign for the turning off the main road, you are led down five further kilometres of progressively deteriorating side-roads and dirt-tracks. At last, a couple of lurching turns bring you to a sandy open space amidst fields and rough grazing. Ahead, the view is blocked by a long bank covered in shrubs, and neem trees with creepers trailing down. To one side, a half dozen men and women pay no attention to you as they work on building a edifice in stone, the women's saris swaying in the sunlight as they carry bowls of freshly mixed mortar on their heads.

Probably the edifice is to be a new entrance to the campsite, but we didn't know that then. Behind it, though, we soon notice a path slanting up the bank, and at its top a man gesturing us to ascend. He is tall and rangy, clad in a sleeveless safari jacket and a wide-brimmed hat, the leather band of which is decorated with animal teeth. At least, I assume they're animal and not human. Swarthy and unshaven, he looks like an Indian reincarnation of Crocodile Dundee.

Without welcome or introduction, he leads us to a table under a broad canvas canopy, like an open-sided marquee. We sit down. Now we are on the top of it, what has appeared to be a bank is revealed as the rear of a long dam, with a reservoir beyond. The water level is low, several metres below where we are seated. All the same, it provides a scenic foreground to a view that stretches away over open country for many miles. Glasses of fresh lime juice are brought, which are welcome and refreshing.

"You can choose between numbers two and eleven," offers our host, without preamble.

"What's the difference?" we enquire.

"Oh, they are the same. Only, number two is nearer, eleven at the end, so that is quieter but further away."

"We'll take number two," I say with uncharacteristic decisiveness, for reasons that have nothing to do with proximity, but which I know my wife will understand.

We have been vaguely aware of the line of tents along the top of the dam behind us, their awnings tethered with ropes and wooden posts. Now that we enter one, we find it is spacious, the main living area dominated by a huge bed, but with plenty of room to move around. Tables and chairs are plain, but functional. The floor is hard, and stained in deep red, perhaps with henna. Arabesque and floral patterning decorates the interior, which is lit by mosquito-meshed windows that can be covered by lowering canvas blinds.

"Bathroom?" my wife enquires.

"Oh, we just go out into the bush," replies our host, dead-pan, but he is only joking. The bathroom at the rear is big and well-appointed, a more permanent structure than the rest of the tent, lined by slate slabs, which stay cooler than the canvas during the day, warmer by night. The shower, basin and loo all work efficiently, as do the electric lights.

Soon, we are relaxing in front of our tent, sipping tea and nibbling nibbles, both sweet and savoury. For the first time we are able to absorb the view: the wildfowl on the surface of the lake, a few people and animals tending the crops on the flatlands beyond, the rampart of hills on the distant horizon. All is silent until, with a flurry of wing-beats, a flight of bar-tailed geese takes off in unison, wheels round honking into the wind, and then descends with a sudden splash onto the water.

*

All right, I admit it: I have a soft spot for unusual places to stay, and Chhatra Sagar is unquestionably out of the ordinary. It was founded and is run by two brothers, Harsh and Nanda Singh, scions of the local land-owning family, with a lineage going back for centuries to the time when their ancestors were ejected by the invading Mughals from lusher estates further to the east.

It was, we later discover, Harsh who met us on arrival. His initially distant, even daunting, demeanour becomes much more affable with acquaintance. Nanda, also impressively idiosyncratic in style, we hardly meet. Working with them to manage the campsite is a well-mannered young man called (if I heard his name correctly) Dushi, earnestly eager to ensure that guests are at their ease. And, this being India, any number of waiters and porters, of course; plus two dogs, who come to greet us at our tent, and the site cat, Kitty.

Chhatra Sagar is in the Marwar, the arid area of Rajasthan to the west of the Aravelli Hills, where it is only possible to scrape a living from the land with constant conservation of the scarce supply of water. Hence the hundred-year-old, stone-built dam on the crest of which the campsite is now perched. Hence also the deep wells and carefully-tended irrigation ditches that we were to see the following day.

On the afternoon of our arrival, we have only time for a stroll around the lake, in its shrunken state a distance of only two or three kilometres. At the far side we meet a party of bird-spotters from the camp coming the other way, guided by Harsh, with a turbaned bearer carrying a telescope on a tripod, ready to focus in on any rare sightings. We pause long enough to have several pointed out to us, and Harsh presses a spare pair of binoculars into our hands when we continue on our circuit.

We return at sunset to be greeted with moist towels to help wipe away the dust, and more fresh limejuice. Already there is a scent of spices in the air, as the kitchen prepares dinner. Soon, this is augmented by wood smoke. Flames flicker up through neatly stacked pyramids of timber in open hearths, around which guests foregather for an evening drink. With only eleven tents, numbers are limited and it is easy to socialise. The guests are international in origin - while we were there we met British, French, American, three ladies from Kenya, a young Indian couple from Mumbai - and it was pleasant to exchange travel tips and anecdotes with them.

For the meal itself, though, we have separate tables under the communal awning. Beside each table, embers from the fires glow in little braziers to keep away the evening chill. The food is excellent, with the one proviso that goat curry, however well prepared, might not suit everyone as the sole meat dish, which it was on both nights we were there. This lack of variety is more than compensated for by the wide range of vegetable accompaniments, all locally grown and piquantly spiced, and choice of wheat or millet chapattis, and crisp dry poppadoms. Plates are replenished as often as one wishes, and it is hard to resist excess. There is also soup to start and pud to finish, but the highpoint is unquestionably the vegetables.

Dinner over, we are given torches to help us find our way back to our tents. Once away from the restaurant's table-lamps and smouldering fires, entering the darkness is like passing through a curtain, abrupt, although the night sky is pierced by innumerable stars. Staring out over the black lake we can discern just a few faint sparks of light from nearby settlements or herdsmen's camps, and the faint shimmer on the horizon of a distant town. The night is cold, and it is a pleasant surprise to find that hot water bottles have been provided while we dined.

*

We are awoken early by the arrival of "bed tea", closely followed by the dawn. The site faces due east, and you can open up the canvas to sit propped up in bed, sipping your tea and watching the darkness drain from the sky until the sun eventually climbs over the crest of the Aravellis to fill the tent with light. As you sit, you listen to the initial chorus of birdsong slowly giving way to the sounds of stirring about the camp.

Breakfast consists of a concoction of fresh pomegranate, cereal, yoghurt and local honey mixed to order, followed by "rumble-tumble" - eggs scrambled with whatever extra ingredients one desires.

Then it's time for another choice: to lounge around the campsite, relaxing, or to join a party setting off by jeep for a guided tour of the locality. We opt for the latter, and are taken first of all to a nearby farm. This is centred on a well-head, from which water is pumped into a deep trough where women do the washing, and thence out along ditches into the fields. Here are growing the chillies, fenugreek and cardamoms that have flavoured our dinner the night before. Where the fields are irrigated they are intensely cultivated, with, for instance, a catch-crop of potatoes emerging beneath the fenugreek, and the land is evidently precious, the fields demarcated with fences formed of upright shards of slate.

The farmyard has its share of the usual animal dung, inevitably so with water-buffalo, goats and dogs all in evidence, but is otherwise quite tidy and is no more smelly than a farmyard anywhere. The equipment is archaic - the seed-drill surely Jethro Tull's original design - but looks well-kept. Chillies are spread out to dry in a courtyard, a bedstead beside them to help someone keep an eye during the heat of the day.

Beyond the irrigated fields, the crops quickly give way to dusty, unfenced scrubland, shaded only by the deep-rooted khejeri trees. You see locals carrying long-handled bill-hooks with which to lop foliage from the highest branches to feed their goats. We are assured that the farmers and goatherds live in harmony, the former relying on the latter for meat and for dung to use as fertiliser. Goats, of course, can thrive on fodder which would suffice for no other domestic animal, but there is generally a cost in loss of vegetation. "The goat is the father of the desert," as the Arabs put it. Perhaps here they have learned to keep the two in balance; I don't know.

*

The nearby village, when we reach it, immediately provides a contrast to others we have seen in India. No one begs, tries to sell us anything or engages us in conversation to practise their English. Whatever one thinks of the lingering traces of Rajasthan's feudal past, being perceived to be the guests of the local squires evidently has its advantages for tourists. I bring out my camera and ask Harsh whether the villagers will be offended if I take photographs. "They will be offended if you don't," he assures me.

We are shown the village school, its classrooms arranged around a courtyard, with some classes being taught indoors, others outside. The equipment is basic - wallcharts, blackboards and chalk - but the children in their neat blue uniform shirts seem attentive and enthusiastic despite our intrusion, and there is evidently learning going on. Uplifting slogans in English and Hindi are painted on the walls: "Play the Game in The Spirit of the Game", or "Success is the Child of Audacity". At one side of the courtyard, two women cook a school meal in cauldrons over an open fire. Most probably rice, lentils and vegetables, we are told. Jamie Oliver might well approve.

Attendance at the school is said to be voluntary, which I assume means voluntary as far as the parents are concerned. It is noticeable that the majority of the pupils are boys, whilst out in the village girls of a similar age are carrying pots, sweeping or attending to other chores. Some cultural habits take a lot of shifting.

Crafts are male-dominated, hereditary, and distributed in time-honoured fashion. Thus, the cobbler, working as he does with unclean, smelly animal skins, is located just outside and downwind of the village. The potter is kept well away from the presser of mustard-seed, lest dust and ash from the clay-pit kiln be blown into the oil. And so on.

We stop and watch for ten minutes as the potter works, which is all the time he needs to fashion one pot on his wheel and then to beat another, partially-dried, one into finished shape with a rounded stone and wooden paddle, while his wife applies the final decoration to a third. It all looks easy, but I dare say if one tried one could spend hours without achieving so tidy and exactly-proportioned an outcome. The villagers change their water-pots twice a year, apparently, at the festivals of Holi and Diwali, so he is always sure of fresh custom.

We watch also the carpenter hew a ladle from a solid block of acacia wood with an adze, an old man hand-spin a rough yarn from goats' hair, and the silversmith at work on bangles and ornaments. The silversmith, it appears, also acts as the village pawnbroker and banker. Trade within the village is mainly by barter, with little need for cash. If it is necessary to buy goods in from outside, then the women will raise funds by depositing their jewellery with the silversmith, to be redeemed later at a premium.

All in all, we are treated to a fascinating insight into how life is lived in rural Rajasthan, which would not have been possible just by stopping off at villages while driving through the region. For this alone, staying at Chhatra Sagar would have been worthwhile.

*

It was, though, worthwhile in many other ways as well: for remote relaxation away from the hustle and bustle of Rajasthan's main tourist sights; for freedom to wander in the countryside and feel safe in doing so; for wildlife - mainly birds, though wild black buck and blue bull antelopes, gazelles and jackals also roam locally; for excellent cuisine and hospitality in a most unlikely setting.

Of course, the activities available are limited. When the lake is full, I understand, you can take a boat-trip out to picnic on an island, intriguingly girt with stone-work, but while we were there it was perched on a rather sorry hummock amid the mud. Excursions are also sometimes organised, for example to a 10th century temple and an old hunting lodge in the vicinity. These did not seem to be on offer while we were there, but since we were only there two nights and the intervening day, I'm not sure we would have found time to enjoy them to the full in any case.

Two nights seemed to us to be about the right amount of time to stay there, before the sense of novelty, which is half of Chhatra Sagar's appeal, had worn off. Probably, with the temple outing, we could have also enjoyed an extra day. Overnight alone would certainly not be long enough.

The time to go is winter, as with the rest of Rajasthan. It would be best to avoid the hot weather (April-June), while during the monsoon (July-September) the tents are taken down and Chhatra Sagar is closed. Probably, it would be best of all soon after that, say November, with the tents newly re-erected, their floors freshly painted and patterned, and a good chance of finding the reservoir still full, and the waterfowl there in even greater profusion than we found in January.

As one who has camped at every kind of campsite in many different countries, I can unhesitantly say that Chhatra Sagar is the most unusual at which I have stayed. It is also the most expensive. At 10,000 rupees (£130) a night for a couple, 8000 rupees (£105) for single occupancy, it is certainly not a cheap option. Indeed, it was possibly the most expensive place at which we stayed in India, though it is hard to make exact comparisons because the Chhatra Sagar tariff was inclusive of all meals and outings - everything in fact except for alcoholic drinks.

Chhatra Sagar was a rare experience: a mix of the informal and the educational, the back-to-nature and the refined. An odd mix, but one that happens to appeal to us. If you think it might appeal to you too, Chhatra Sagar is well worth a visit.




© First published under the name torr on Ciao UK, March 8th 2006

Summary: A unique way to experience rural Rajasthan