Asia
Residents go about their daily lives in the Indian city of Ahmedabad, Gujarat. Source: Supplied
I HAVE always sworn I wouldn't travel as part of a group. Didn't fancy the enforced sociability of shared meals, being herded or waiting for the inevitable straggler during a headcount on the coach. The lack of spontaneity of a scheduled itinerary surely negates part of the point of travelling.
But when friends start raving about small-group cooking classes, art and walking tours with expert guides and good company, I begin to think that maybe I'm missing out.
I'd heard of Marieke Brugman in her foodie incarnation running Howqua Dale gourmet retreat in Mansfield, Victoria. Now she's reinvented herself, taking small groups of visitors to Turkey and India with an emphasis on food and traditional culture. She has a formidable reputation for attention to detail and the quality of her local guides.
So when Brugman announces she's leading a group on a textile safari through the rural Indian state of Gujarat I am tempted by her promise that it will be far less touristy than Rajasthan. The 14-day itinerary is to avoid cities and her copious travel notes warn accommodation will be modest.
I meet my seven travel companions (Brugman's minimum is six; maximum, 12) at the airport in the state capital of Ahmedabad. No surprise that we are all women. Mostly newcomers to India, we've come armed with expensive probiotics and long camera lenses. Garlanded with marigolds, we are greeted by Brugman's right-hand man in India, the statuesque Durga Singh. A Rajasthani prince, educated at the Indian equivalent of Eton, Singh is Brugman's secret weapon, navigating every situation with Brahmin charm and authority. We soon come to think of him as a living encyclopedia of botany, geography, history, politics, culture, food, religion, etiquette and even weather. A devout Hindu, he somehow manages to persuade us of the advantages of arranged marriages.
Before we set off each morning, he gets us to chorus a Hindu chant to bring luck on the journey. No subject is taboo on our long and dusty rides across the barren desert landscape of the earthquake-ravaged Kutch district where we visit mud-hut villages, weavers, dyers, embroiderers and textile collectors. An introduction from Brugman and Singh carries weight: we are treated everywhere as if we are curators and collectors rather than ordinary travellers who might do a bit of shopping.
Singh, dressed each day in a fresh, uncreased kurta, sees it as his mission to entertain and educate us about all aspects of Indian life, from the practice of suttee (widows sacrificing themselves on the funeral pyres of their husbands) to the rituals of a Hindu pilgrimage. He tries to persuade us that camels are charming, tells us family stories, jokes, gossip and recipes. One night he gives us a turban-tying demonstration. It is as if we are living in the pages of Vikram Seth's weighty novel, A Suitable Boy.
Grooming us like debutantes, he arms us with appropriate manners for meeting everyone from maharajahs and their mothers to desert tribespeople. We learn when it is appropriate to cover up, offer compliments, make a donation, how to eat from a thali plate, accept a drink of camel's milk from nomads, not to barter when we buy and how not to cause offence at temples. When we need a toilet stop, he even goes so far as to check the facilities to see if they are suitable (they rarely are and we soon opt for going behind trees, warned by the ever vigilant Singh to stay clear of thorn bushes).
He is also infectiously enthusiastic, moved almost to tears at the Gandhi ashram and again when he introduces us to his family's personal priest. He beams when we spot endangered wild asses on a brief safari drive and a flock of pink flamingoes picking their way across an expanse of water like a mirage of ballerinas. After five hours of serious bush-bashing, we track down elaborately dressed and pierced nomadic Jaht people he has been told are on the move. His delight is genuine.
"Ladies, this is a one in a million experience," he says as these usually shy, proud people agree to be photographed, some for the first time.
At restaurants he and Brugman work like a SWAT team, ordering and marshalling typical local dishes we could never decipher on a menu. When there is nowhere to stop, picnics materialise from our support vehicle, which also carries a medical kit and more water than we can ever drink.
While Singh shows us the sights, Brugman discreetly works her mobile phone, calling ahead to organise ice to be made from potable water so we can have the sundowner cocktails she takes great pride in making.
Gujarat is a dry state, but Brugman, knowing the journey will get arduous and could produce unpredictable hiccups, insists we spend most of one afternoon in Ahmedabad negotiating our way through the byzantine rules for buying alcohol. This involves heated exchanges, a lot of queueing, waiting and signing forms in triplicate, together with the payment of a handsome amount of baksheesh. Anyone else would give up, but the petite and feisty Brugman is adamant the trouble is worth it.
She is vindicated almost immediately: as soon as the plumbing gets a bit temperamental and we have to adjust to hot water and flushing toilets not being available on demand, a cocktail provides more than adequate solace. Heading for the holy Hindu town of Dwarka, she confesses this is the only place where she has been unable to check out the hotel personally and anticipates it will not be up to scratch. She sends crisp new sets of bedsheets ahead. We think this might be overkill, but it turns out to be the right decision. We are its first Western visitors since it opened four years ago.
The place is a dump, but we don't care because we have clean sheets, a hidden stash of vodka and the spectacle of the temple makes it all worthwhile: thousands of pilgrims dressed in an amazing array of traditional costumes. Men are in tiny white smocks and long dhotis worn with felted headgear that looks like chimney pots; women in saris of saffron and amethyst dance down the street in ecstatic trances, semi-naked holy men wash themselves in devotional rituals along the ghats at sunset.
We, too, are an object of fascination, frequently pinched gently to check the texture of our pale skin and asked to pose for photos.
The tireless Brugman reads and anticipates our moods. Seeing me at dinner one evening looking less than thrilled about my accommodation, she slips away from the table, sizes up the situation, swiftly repacks my bag and moves me to another hut before chastising the management in no uncertain terms about the lack of lighting and unfinished path that has caused me to stumble in the dark. She writes a critique of the other aspects of the place she has found wanting. I have a feeling the next group will not be staying there.
When a desert camp at Hodka turns out to have been booked out by a large Indian wedding party, Brugman swaps us over to a more expensive, more luxurious tented camp and bears the difference in cost herself, without mentioning it to the group.
Then she goes one step further. Reading our mood, she guesses we are longing for a day off and changes the schedule. Instead of piling back into our van, where we spent seven hours on the previous day (often on unmade roads), she invites local craftspeople to come to us by the pool.
So the bellmaker and the lacquer worker set up under a raised and shady canopy to demonstrate their skills and sell their wares. They are fascinated by the sight of the swimming pool, we are delighted with their workmanship. Everyone wins. I start fantasising about what it would be like to have Brugman run my life.
The dynamic between Brugman and Singh is like that of a married couple: he likes to get to the airport early, she does not (she wins). He likes early starts, she'd rather skip a temple and do some yoga stretches (they compromise). Between them they show us an India we otherwise never could have seen.
Caroline Baum was a guest of India Tourism and Marieke Brugman.
