If you travel at all by road in India, you'll soon get to know the Ambassador. It's a medium-sized vehicle, usually white, that looks like it was styled sometime in the '50s. It's manufactured in India and, as any of the drivers will tell you, perfect for India's roads - that means it's a sturdy little devil. They also say it's easy to get parts for, even in the smallest villages - another admirable feature if you do any cross country travel. The drivers all seem to be in love with them and will carry on at length, singing their praises. One driver, who had owned three different Ambassadors over the last 15 years, even told me a little about each - like they were members of his family or something.
Jaipur, February 22
We arrived in Jaipur in the late afternoon. The driver, who spoke very limited English, stopped at a hotel on the outskirts and asked me if this was the one I wanted - not a good sign, I thought. Again, I showed him the name of the hotel that was written on my itinerary. He took it and went to talk to a couple of pedestrians. He came back smiling, apparently they had given him directions. We drove on into Jaipur and finally arrived at the Alsisar Haveli hotel. The driver apologized saying, "Six Haveli's here," meaning in Jaipur.
It's a small hotel so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that he didn't know the way. I had been staying in the multi-star type hotels up until now, but here in Rajasthan I was planning to frequent some smaller ones called Heritage hotels. They are usually royal residences that have been converted into hotels and they tend to be both charming and small.
In the past I have found I tend to meet more interesting people in smaller hotels. The bigger ones tend to cater to large tour groups and they don't seem to be as friendly - or maybe it's just they have had all the company they want. Traveling alone all day, I usually like someone to talk with in the evening.
The Alsisar Haveli is conveniently located just outside the west walls of the old city. There is a patio and garden in front where you can get food and drink. The rooms are arranged around a bird-filled court yard and have brightly painted designs on their walls. It's a very casual place.
After I settled in, I walked over to the nearby Chandpol, a gate that leads into a busy commercial area. Outside trucks were being unloaded and goods moved to camel cart. Inside there were shops selling everything from brass-ware to sacks of rice. One of the things I noticed was how wide the streets were - something unusual in the India cities I visited. In front of the shops were vendors, beggars, snake charmers and, of course, touts. One of their favorite lines was, "Why won't you talk to me? Don't you like Indians?" This after you have already talked for ten minutes and are trying to move along without visiting their craft shops. India could be a very difficult place to visit if you have trouble saying no. (32k picture)
Back at the hotel I met Bridgette and her mom, both from England. They were on their way to visit their brother/son who was staying in southern India. They were great company. I just love the English accent and would ask them questions simply to hear them talk. They had just arrived in India so I told them about my trip and gave them some tips - me, the old India hand, after just one week! We were enjoying ourselves so much we decided to have dinner together on the patio. Afterwards we were treated to a little puppet show while drinking a few bottles of Kingfisher, the local brew.
Next morning I was met by my guide and we headed north to the Amber fort. On the way we stopped at the Hawa Mahal. If you know anything about Jaipur, you have seen pictures of it. It's a five-story pink facade that was used by royal ladies to watch the goings on in the streets without being seen themselves. If you have seen the pictures, you won't need to visit it: there's not much more to it than that. Well, of course, there are loads of camera toting tourists.
Amber is a palace/fort complex that sits on a ridge behind Jaipur. One of the tourist attractions here is the elephant ride you take from the parking area up to the palace. On my own, I suspect I wouldn't have done anything so blatantly touristy, but it came with the city tour I had booked. Looking back, I'm glad I did it, if for no other reason than to say I did.
Anyway, when we arrived there was a long line waiting for the ride. My guide pushed his way to the front and up a raised stone platform. It's from there that you board the elephant - no, they don't pick you up with their trunks. That's just a story the guides like to tell to tease the tourists.
My elephant had his face and trunk painted with bright pink, yellow and blue floral patterns. There was a padded box on his back which can accommodate up to four passengers. I was alone, so I rode in the middle of the box. The elephant has a funny, rolling gate - it's not a particularly comfortable ride. In addition, this animal did something odd that threw me and the driver roughly from side to side. In response, the driver banged on his head with three foot long (one meter) steel bar. Not a tap, tap, tap, mind you. He would raise his arm completely over his head and bring it down full force on the poor elephants head with a dull thud. I felt for the beast and was tempted to ask the drive to stop but, I will say, it did made the elephant walk more evenly. And after all, what do I know about driving an elephant? (24k picture)
It's only about a ten minute elephant ride to the palace. Here you disembark against another stone wall and head in. I found the palace itself, which was begun in 1592, a bit boring: it was mostly empty chambers. While probably quite speculator in its day, it is a bit run down now. The view of the nearby lake and village, on the other hand, was spectacular: it made the visit worthwhile. The sky was crystal clear and the day was getting decidedly warm. (28k picture)
Our next destination, after the obligatory stop to look at ceramics and appliqués, was the City Palace and the Jantar Mantar. At this point I was starting to fade. Something I had eaten earlier was arguing with my stomach. The guide lazily walked me around the Jantar Mantar in the burning sun, much to my distress. It's an 19th century astronomical observatory and is more interesting in concept than to visit. It's a group of rather plain structures used to measure the position of various planets and stars - it was cutting edge technology in its day.
Next we took in the City Palace and its museum: it has a fascinating collection of pictures taken by Maharaja Ram Singh in the 1860's. He was both the ruler of Jaipur and a great amateur photographer. The pictures show the royal family as well as life in Rajasthan in the late 19th century. But I was having a hard time paying attention: I was dying to get back to the hotel. Thankfully, this was the end of the tour and I decided to take the rest of the day off. In the morning I felt much better.
I had front-loaded my trip with guided tours. I figured that would give me a chance to become accustomed to India and, after I had learned the ropes, I could take care of myself. True, with a guide you see things that you probably wouldn't otherwise, but in a strange way you also see less. There is very little time allocated to just wander around, follow your whim. Anyway, I had no more tours planned and that suited me just fine: I was getting real tired of being led around.
Next day, after a late breakfast in the hotel court yard, I took another walk into the old city. When I got back, my driver offered to take me on a little driving tour. We rode around and he pointed out sites to me. We stopped a few times and among the more notable places was the Albert Hall Museum set in a fine garden. But I think his real purpose was to try to get me to go shopping with him. His pitch was that he only took a 5% commission while the guides got 25%. I was becoming more resistant: I was planning on doing my serious shopping in either Udaipur or back in Delhi, and I had seen enough to satisfy my curiosity.
That evening I was met by the TCI rep who escorted me to the train - I was heading on to the desert city of Jodhpur. When we got out of the car at the train station, the TCI rep gave my rucksack to a porter. It's quite small and I prefer to carry it myself, but I didn't want to make a scene - the porter already had it. He then headed to the platform with it on his head and I was obliged to tag along.
When we arrived we discovered that the first class coach was still locked, so we stood around waiting. At this point the porter sat my bag down, something I would never have done - the platform was filthy. So I picked it up myself, much to the porters chagrin. Then there ensued a short conversation between the porter and the TCI rep: the upshot was the rep gave the porter a five Rupee note and he left. I was happy: I had my pack back.
Now more confusion arose: the first class coaches were marked C1 and C2 with my reservation being for C1. What could be simpler, right? While the number had been correct for the arriving train they were now, for some reason, reversed. The problem was that no one had bothered to change the writing on the side of the coaches. Everyone except the tourists seemed to understand this and when we boarded the train there was mass confusion. A member of a large tour group even tried to tell me I was sitting in the wrong seat.
In the end it was all straightened out and we were on our way. The five hour trip to Jodhpur was very slow, as the train was often on a siding. At regular intervals vendors walked through the cars shouting the names of the goods they were selling: this made it impossible to nap. It was dark outside with nothing to see so all I could do was read a book I was carrying.
At about 11:30 P.M we arrived and I was driven to my hotel by the TCI rep. It was late so I jumped directly into bed and called it a day.
Jodhpur, February 25
I was staying at the Ajit Bhawan hotel, another of Rajasthan's excellent Heritage hotels. It's made up of a series of stone cottages grouped around a large garden and is in the quiet suburbs just east of the old city. In the afternoon there was a guy wearing a turban who played a fiddle-like instrument in the garden. My spacious cottage had a swing on the porch and a view of the garden. This was my favorite Heritage hotel.
After breakfast, I took an auto rickshaw to the imposing Mehrangarh Fort north of Jodhpur. It was the best fort I visited in Rajasthan: it looks like it actually grew out of the cliff it sits on. It had everything you possibly could want in a fort: imposing walls, winding corridors, palatial chambers and impressive vistas.
It's a quick, short ascent to the fort from the parking area and, looking up, I could see the marvelously carved balconies of the palace above me. Inside, some of the chambers have been turned into a fine museum. There you can see miniature paintings as well as the costumes the royalty wore, baby cradles and gem-encrusted swords. The museum alone is worth the visit for its view into Rajasthani history. But best of all was the sight from the wall at the south western end of the fort. There, high above the city, a fresh breeze was blowing and hawks were soaring on outstretched wings. I could occasionally hear the sound of voices from the city far below. Looking out I saw that many of the houses were painted sky blue. They were the houses of Brahmins, I was told by an India family that came up and started talking to me.
Later I went walking in the lively bazaar in the old city. I had my camera out and was taking pictures. As so often happens in India, three young men stopped and asked me to take their picture. After I did they asked me to send them a copy. I again agreed and started getting their address. This involved one fellow dictating - he knew the address - and one of the others, who knew English, writing it down. It was slow work but I was in no hurry.
As this was happening, a small crowd of young men started collecting around us. There were probably 10 or 15 and, as nothing was really happening, they started a little horse play. I was just standing in the middle of this group watching it grow. Soon, an older man maybe 45 or 50 walked into the group. He didn't say anything: he just looked around. His presence immediately quieted the crowd and some wandered off. The older man and I exchanged nods, but then he too wandered off. About this time the address dictation was finally completed and I continued on my way.
I have often wondered about that older man: what was he doing? Was he trying to make sure I was OK in the middle of those rowdy young men? Or was he simply checking me out too? It's another India mystery.
This brings up the issue of safety: I can say without reservation that I always felt safe in India, no matter how far off the tourist path I wandered. One reason was that there were always people in the streets. The other reason is that Indians don't seem to ignore each other like we do in western cities. Maybe I'm wrong, but I felt that if I got into trouble someone would come and help me.
Next morning my driver picked me up and we set off without any discussion: that turned out to be a mistake. To my surprise our first stop was the fort that I had visited the previous day. I explained that I was expecting to visit the temples at Osain and the tombs at Mandor. He looked surprised and shook his head in that particularly Indian way - side to side - that seems to neither affirm nor negate. He then thought for a minute and headed to a phone. While I waited, he called the TCI office and things were quickly straightened out. We then headed north.
It was a pleasant day for a drive - sunny and not too hot - and, as always, there was much to see along the road. One sight sticks in my mind: a truck was approaching us and I noticed that there was something hanging out of the passenger window. When we got closer, I realized it was a pair of trousers that were being dried: they looked like twin brown windsocks.
After a few hours, we arrived at Osain, parked in a crowded little court yard, and I went visiting the temples. I liked one in particular: the Sachiya Mata. You enter up a long stairway lined with intricately carved sandstone columns. Inside the building it was also full of columns, many of which are covered with mirrors, giving the place a strange chrome-like sparkle. Looking out from the walls that surround the temple compound, I could see the Thar Desert that stretches east to Pakistan - that same brown sand all the way, I guess.
On the way back, we stopped at Mandor which is famous for the tombs of the past rulers of Jodhpur. Here, beautifully carved cenotaphs sit in a garden filled with bright red bougainvillea. There was a group of young school girls that shyly giggled as I walked by. They were looking at a display of brightly painted Hindu deities that I also found fascinating: the gods were all riding horses. (32k picture)
Ranakpur, February 27
In the morning we set off for Ranakpur to visit the famous Jain Temple there. We traveled on a narrow, rough road and passed many small villages where kids in blue uniforms were on their way to school. When they saw me looking, they would always wave. More than anything else, I'll remember the happy, smiling children in India.
There were also carts pulled by camels with their heads held high, giving them an oddly dignified look. The carts were piled with local produce: bright red peppers and white cauliflower. Later, two men with a bear jumped up when they saw us coming and yanked the bear to his hind legs, dancing I guess. There was also a skinny old man walking a bicycle with a huge block of ice strapped on the luggage carrier: it was leaving a wet trail as it melted in the sun.
We drove through an area where the land was irrigated by water wheels. They seemed to me something from a different century. They were operated by a man, or less often a woman, who would sit behind a pair of oxen that pull a great arm around and around. That arm drove a gear that lifted a string of buckets full of water. At the top, the buckets splashed into a trough that directed water into nearby fields, where the crops were lush and green.
After a drive of two hours we reached Ranakpur - it's literally at the end of the road. The temple was built in the 15th century and is noteworthy for its 1444 white marble columns, each carved with a different design. It's a huge place and looks like it was added onto in stages: in one area there is even a large tree growing. Around the outside wall are chambers with the statues of the 24 Jain deities, which I was asked not to photograph. (34k picture)
The visitors were mostly Indian tourists and, as usual, they were taking pictures of each other - and I was even invited into a few. As I was walking around admiring the carvings, a priest came up and dabbed a little sandalwood paste on my forehead: it left an orange mark there. The priest then asked for a donation and I gave him 20 Rupees - he seemed happy and left. Later, to my surprise, the mark simply flaked off, leaving no trace.
Back on the road my driver stopped in a small village. Beside us on the shoulder was a wooden-wheel wagon, the kind that might be pulled by a horse or bull ox. An old man sat under the front, beating on a piece of metal. It looked like he was making a spoon. He didn't look up even though our car was inches from him. Behind him, under the center of the wagon, lay two women in filthy dresses, who I took to be mother and daughter. They were eating something that looked like carrots. When the younger one saw me looking at her, she held out the half eaten carrot to me and smiled a big grin. Her companion laughed. I was surprised how seemingly happy and carefree these people, who appeared to be homeless and destitute, were.
"Indian gypsy," my driver commented. I heard that claim often in India: that the many families camped along the streets and roads were gypsies. I once read that the European gypsy were in fact originally from India.
I was staying the night at the Maharani Bagh Orchard Retreat, a few miles from Ranakpur. It looked to be a converted country estate with a few large buildings that house the staff and three groups of four cottages each. Near my cottage someone had created a small temple to Ganesh, the elephant-headed Hindu god. There were garlands of marigolds and sticks of incense burning next to his image.
When I arrived a late lunch was being served to a large group. As soon as I checked in, I joined them for a delicious buffet. I assumed they were also staying so I was surprised when, after lunch, they all jumped in their bus and headed off. I now looked around and discovered I was the only guest.
Later as I was trying to explain to a waiter that I wanted a beer, one of the managers came to see if he could help. He was a young fellow who lived in a nearby village. As we talked I noticed he had a newspaper with him and I asked if I could see it. I work for a newspaper and enjoy looking at the local product as I travel. This one was the Rajasthan Times (circulation six million!) and was written in Hindi. Seeing my interest the manager guided me through the paper, explaining each section.
He also mentioned that he was a member of the "priestly" cast. I asked him what members of that cast do. He told me they put the mark on the foreheads of kings. I was intrigued. "Is that what your father does," I asked, thinking that there weren't many kings around. "Yes," he answered proudly. "And is that what you will do?" I inquired. He looked away and said, "I will just work here." It's a changing world and, I guess, there aren't many job opportunities in his line of work.
Udaipur, February 28
We continued on to Udaipur the next morning with one stop at the Kumbhalgarh Fort. It's a spectacular sight: the fort sits on a high crop of rock surrounded by rough stone walls. It's a steep walk up to the fort, and as the day was hot, I was sweating by the time I got there. While the outside is quite dramatic, the inside is rather dismal - all the chambers are empty and many under repair. I was taken on a little tour by the watchman - he even showed me the royal toilet which was simply two holes in the floor and a long, long drop.
From the walls there was a great, clear view of the surrounding rolling hills - which I noticed were strangely devoid of vegetation. It looked like all the trees and bushes had lost their leaves. Maybe it was the hot, dry weather - it looked like fall here in North America.
We continued on and a couple of hours later arrived at Udaipur, a lovely city situated among three lakes. I had chosen the Laxmi Villas Palace Hotel which sits on a hill overlooking one of the lakes. It's one of those hotels that is somewhat past its prime, but scruffy in a comfortable sort of way. My plan for the next few days was to wander Udaipur, get a start on my travelogue and rest up before the trip home. I had picked Udaipur because I had heard that it was laid back - as it turned out, I made a good choice.
The main attraction in Udaipur is the City Palace and, although I headed there every day, I must admit I never made it inside. I would usually stop at the café just outside and sit for awhile: then something would call me off. I guess I had seen enough palaces.
Outside the gate leading up to the Palace was a group of vendors, one of whom was selling fruit. As I, or any tourist, would walk by he would shout out, "Hey banana, hey banana," in a sing-song voice. As I'm tall and skinny, my first thought was he was talking to me - it made me laugh. It was one of the many pleasant memories I have of Udaipur: "Hey banana." I sang it to myself for days.
One day I wandered off toward the edge of the city and, as I was getting tired, I decided to take an auto rickshaw back to the hotel. I realized I was outside the tourist area when I couldn't find a driver who spoke English: all I got were blank stares. I have learned to carry a card with the hotel name written in the local language for just such occasions. I showed this to one of the drivers, we agreed on a price and I got in.
As we were driving along, he kept talking to the other driver. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but it was clear that he was asking directions. It was also clear we were heading in the wrong way. I was a little concerned because I had heard stories about drivers who take passengers deep into the slums and then ask for enormous ransom to take them to their original destination. I was trying to tell the driver to turn around but he just kept smiling. After a short while we arrive at a small hotel. The sign said it was the Laxmi Palace, not the Laxmi Villa Palace.
Soon the hotel clerk appeared and explained to the driver his mistake. The driver then turned around and smiled sheepishly at me. Now he understood why I was trying to get him to turn round. The clerk then gave the driver directions to the correct hotel: I'm sure this wasn't the first time that had happened. In due course we arrive at my hotel. I was feeling a little bad for the driver: he had made an honest mistake and had made a rather long detour, so I tipped him for his trouble and got a toothy grin in return.
At the hotel there was a grass covered patio with a marvelous view of the lake - it was a perfect place to unwind at the end of the day. One evening I met an elderly Indian couple while I was watching the sun go down. They were returning from a religious pilgrimage and taking a short vacation before heading back to their home in Mumbai (Bombay.) A couple of things struck me about our conversation. First, they always referred to the English as "Britishers." I took it to be a kind of condescending term and it reminded me that not all of the legacy of the British occupation was positive. The other was that the woman would hardly talk, always deferring to her husband, even when I directed my questions to her. That's a legacy of a different sort.
As I walked around Indian cities I was often accosted by beggars. I don't like to give in the streets as I think this only reinforces the idea that westerners are a walking source of money. I figure I would give at the temples and mosques where, I was advised, I would find plenty of opportunity to enhance my karma. In fact, there were lines of beggars at most temples. They would often shout to get my attention if I tried to pass them by. There are also lepers who would hold up their misshapen digits to press their case. In addition, there were holy men who also wanted some of my largess.
That was the plan anyway. The reality in the streets was something else. You see real need in India: the most touching are the raggedy little children. In Delhi they approach your taxi and hang on the window. No doubt some are career beggars - as I was told repeatedly - but it is hard to look into those large, dark eyes and say no. But I never gave to the beggars who insistently follow me around tugging on my shirt sleeve: that reinforces their rude behavior.
Delhi, March 3
The flight back to Delhi stopped at both Jodhpur and Jaipur, giving me an aerial view of these cities I had visited earlier. It also dragged out what I hoped would be a quick trip. Oh well, I had three different seat-mates to visit with on the trip back.
After I checked into the Ambassador Hotel again, I took a taxi over to the Central Cottage Industries Emporium. It's a huge, five-floor fixed-price craft shop run by the government. There are branches in most cities I had visited but they were quite sad. Here I found a well-lit shop that had most of the craft I had seen in the stops I made with the guides. It was also full of tourists loading up on gifts - me too.
That evening I met up with Michael van Verk, an on-line friend, from Holland. I know him from a travel discussion group I belong to on the Internet called Travel-L. I had mentioned that I was going to India and, as it worked out, he and I were going to be in Delhi at the same time. I was ending my trip just as he was beginning a month-long journey. We met at the Ambassador bar and swapped travel tales until the place closed: it was a good last night for a superb trip.
Next morning, my last day, I hired a taxi and headed to Old Delhi. I walked the narrow lanes and once again marveled at the vitality of the place. Porters with loads on their heads, small shops selling strange looking food and activity everywhere. This is a place I could have wandered for days but my time in India was running out.
On the way back we stopped at the Safdarjang Tomb. It's the usual deal: a large garden with a tomb in the center but it's kind of run down and would probably only be of interest to a Islamic architecture nut like me. There in the garden I saw Indian couples hiding in the bushes: they were, no doubt, whispering sweet nothings to each other.
Later that evening I was picked up by the TCI rep and driven to the airport. As we rode out I reflected on my trip. It had been hard at times - the dust, the crowds, the confusion - but it had also been the single most interesting trip I had ever taken. Every moment seemed to hold some new wonder to challenge me. I was glad I had booked Travel Corporation of India: the transportation, the guides and the hotel reservations made the trip much easier. The down side was, of course, that I was at times a prisoner of my own schedule.
I was already late when we arrived but my flight wasn't scheduled to leave until 1:30 A.M. - I knew it would be a long, long time before my head hit my pillow. I quickly cleared immigration and then there was one last security check before I could enter the departure lounge.
It has been a long time since I have had my bags so closely scrutinized. The guard was friendly, unlike many Indian officials who go stoned-face about their business. First, he asked me if I had any batteries. There is a great interest in them by the airport security - I guess they are worrying about bombs. I said yes and offered to show him my small flashlight. He declined and continued digging in my bag. Soon he came on a carved wooden box I had bought the day before. He opened it and inside he found another of my recent purchases: a small sandalwood Indian deity. When he recognized it, he held it up and smiled. "Indian," he declared proudly. "You like?" "Yes," I said, "It's Ganesh," as if he didn't know.
So here he was again at the end of my trip, the Hindu god of luck. I had run into him often and he had brought me luck. This had been a wonder filled and very lucky trip.
Ann Arbor, MI
May 1997
Part one - Delhi, Varanasi and Agra
Making Indian travel arrangements
Read Michael Van Verk's India travelogue
Read more of my travelogues
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