Thankfully not a phenylketoneuric, the Ultimate Jaipur Shopping Plan and a shameless crook (Jaipur)

I really enjoyed my breakfast this morning.  Not for the buffet featuring samosas served with KFC coleslaw-like coconut sauce or for the delicious masala chai with quick-forming skin islands, but for the fascinating sugar substitute packets. Marketed by Zydus Wellness Ltd., it was a great example of Indian mastery of the “spin”:

Sugar Free – Gold – India’s #1 sweetener.
SFG is your healthier alternative to sugar.  It is made from Aspartame – a protein derivative!

I had no idea Aspartame could be so good for me! But wait.  A closer look reveals unsettling ingredients: Lactose, Aspartame, Polyvinyl Pyrrolidone.  Now, maybe it’s just me, but I’m not sure I want to eat anything containing the word “vinyl”.

Finally, the last words in small print: Not recommended for children, and definitely not for phenylketoneurics. What a great product! How could Indian civilization have flourished for thousands of years without Sugar Free Gold? Must have been thanks to the phenylketoneurics, whoever they are.

Wind Palace, Jaipur

Once thoroughly entertained by fake sweeteners, I was ready for the drive to the Wind Palace, an ornate pink façade of scalloped windows used by the women of the harem, encarcerated by gender and status, to watch longingly as life passed them by. I suggested to my guide Jitendra that we try to climb up to the roof of the building across the street in order to get a better vantage. He didn’t want to. In fact, he was so resistant that I really had to push, but it paid off. The roof view was fabulous; I felt quite clever. Not two minutes later a father and son appeared, doing the same thing.  So much for originality.

Nandu drove us to Amber Fort where, for 570 rupees (~ $13) we could ride up by elephant.  Waiting for our turn was like a cross between standing in airport taxi and roller coaster ride lines. Luckily it only took about 15 minutes in line, a far cry from the hour or more those foolish tourists

Elephant convoy up to Amber Fort

wait during high season. Our elephant’s name was Bodi and was driven by a humourless man. As our linked conga line of elephants gallumped up the hill, we were passed by a surprisingly fast pachyderm whose older Malaysian passenger looked positively petrified. Her white knuckles were wrapped possessively around the iron retaining bars while tiny panicked squeaks escaped from her mouth.

As we entered the square the drums and horns heralded our arrival. Feeling regal, on Jitendra’s advice I offered our driver 30 rupees.  He refused. A brisk exchange between him and Jitendra followed, later translated as “Why didn’t you tell her to give me 100?” to which Jitendra replied, “Are you out of your mind? 100 rupees?” I was starting to get a sense of just how little most Indians actually made.  It occurred to me that to get the purchasing parity I could divide by four rather than by 40.  For example, riding the Delhi Metro costs 8 rupees; divided by 4 that is like $2. The recommended daily tip for a driver is 50 to 100 rupees, like $12.50 – $25.  Lunch for 40 rupees is like $10, etc.  It brought a measure of relativity.

Our first stop was the temple of the goddess Kali where we rang the bell to disperse bacteria (can you imagine shopping malls and hospitals with bells instead of anti-bacterial dispensers?), and where Jitendra and I crossed wires of misunderstanding when he was talking about Rajputs (warrior caste) eating “he goats” and I somehow thought he was referring to cannibalism and eating his grandparents.

The palace reception area was teeming with tourists, most of whom were Italian or Spanish.  It was surreal to be in India where I was spoken to in Spanish by Indian souvenir sellers and understood what they were saying. My world wobbled on its axis.

Hall of mirrors, Amber Fort

We saw the hall of mirrors where the officious guard took his duties far too seriously and whistled menacingly at anyone who dared look at themselves.

A tired Jitendra sent me off to take photos without realizing I would go all the way to the harem.  The women’s quarters were massive, and predictably I got totally lost.  I stumbled upon a young Indian couple kanoodling in the furthest corner of the building.  I tried to leave them in peace but my maze brought me right back.  Finally, 45 minutes later I returned to Jitendra, worn and dripping with perspiration.

“Okay, now we to the harem!” he proclaimed happily.  Err…

Rejuvenated by the prospect of shopping, I returned to the car and off we sped to Saurashtra Oriental Arts, a shop recommended by one of the guidebooks. I immersed myself in the most fabulous array of antique textiles, bed spreads made of antique cloth and seven kilogram Pakistani jackets coated with coins.  I put aside a selection of potential purchases, but I wasn’t comfortable buying with Jitendra around. My purchases were none of his business.

Back in the car Jitendra was frank. He said he gets paid a commission, so he wanted to join me that afternoon for my shopping. Ugh. I suggested we go to the bazaar. Comparatively speaking, it was more relaxed than Chandni Chok in Delhi, but crossing the street was decidedly more manic.  We saw Rajastani women from the countryside buying their fabrics, a man selling ice, a large sliced melon engulfed by flies.

After our walk I worked up the courage to say that I wanted to be alone in the afternoon.  He still tried for the commission, explaining that he would only get 3 – 4% which I wouldn’t be saving if he wasn’t there because they’d charge me regardless.  So I’m thinking what the hell use are you to me if you won’t help me negotiate a discount? But in the end he took my rejection well.

Back at the hotel I gave him one of the photos taken by the photo touts at Amber Fort (again, Jitendra’s uselessness – I paid 100 rupees for two photos when the next guy tried to sell me five for the same price. Thanks for the help, Jitendra.) I told him that Nandu had told me that 200 – 300 rupees was a fair rate for a guide, but I gave him 500.  I gauged his reaction; he seemed quite pleased.  In fact, next I know he’s talking about starting up an import business with me.  Hmmm….

I bid Jitendra goodbye and called Aslam from whom I was buying the custom-made Punjabi suit (salwar kameez).  It was still not ready. Would I be at the hotel around 6:30 pm? Hmmm…

I returned to Nandu with my Ultimate Jaipur Shopping Plan and Map. Poor guy was at my mercy: no one shops with such energy and determination as me. First stop was Tholia’s Kuber where I drooled over a diamond and sapphire ring in 18k gold for US $1200, but as I had no idea of value I forced myself to back away, slowly. Next was Anokhi, full of foreigners whose comfort and relief at being among Western-ish surroundings was palpable. I loaded up on scarves and boxer shorts and was shocked when it came to nearly $100!  As it was 4 pm and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I grabbed a spectacular organic hummus sandwich with fresh veggies for myself and some savoury cilantro and onion muffins for Nandu which were a hit.

“That’s it?” Nandu asked optimistically, referring to a hopeful end to my shopping.

“Nope! Here’s where we’re going next,” I pointed to the map.  The hummus had energized me.

The trip to Soma was a bust.  Back in the car, Nandu asked, “Now we’re done?”

“Nope! Back to Saurashtra!” I smiled.

He laughed in his Nandu way.

En route I realized my camera lens cap was lost.  Not wanting to damage my lens, I used instead a soft fabric case which I had been using to store my sunglasses.  So now my camera looked like a short, thick cock wearing an XXL Jumbo Trojan condom. I wished I could take a photo of how ridiculous it looked. And sad.

Ice seller in Jaipur

At Saurashtra I flexed my negotiating muscles, but I realized too late I had made a mistake.  I started with my top three items and sweetened the deal by offering to bundle the fourth, but I should have done my two most expensive and sweetened with the third. [Incidentally, I later discovered in the colder weather that my fourth item, the black wool shawl with orange embroidery was phenomenal.] I got 33% off the bundle – and the owner was still laughing to the bank.

Nandu came in just as I was finalizing my selection, and so began the pas-de-deux. I did not want him to see how much I was spending, and he was equally determined to snoop. He used the cardommon snacks by the cash as an excuse to linger. So I said, “I’m almost ready, Nandu. I’ll meet you outside.”

He inched closer.

When the owner handed me the credit card receipt, I immediately covered it with my hand and signed it standing up, hunched over, using the credit card itself as my hard service.  Nandu leaned in.

That was it. I finally said politely, “I just need another minute. Nandu, can you please warm up the car?” and, with that direct instruction, he backed off.

The goods were to be couriered home.  I crossed my fingers.

I returned to the car.  Nandu looked at me. “Now we’re done?”

“Yes, now we’re done.”

We returned through the old city. I wish I had a video camera because still photography could not capture the mayhem: bikes, scooters, motorcycles, auto

Melon engulfed by flies

rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws, tricycles (seriously), cars, trucks, buses, horses, camels, pedestrians all flowing like spaghetti without pause. The driving was even wilder than in Delhi. Nandu’s repeated sudden stops were followed by my reflexive gasps as motorbikes wove through traffic aggressively.

After Nandu dropped me off I went to track down Aslam at his shop.  The Punjabi suit was there and looked very nice.  As I started to get undressed, I noticed the mosquitoes. And the fact that it was dusk. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!” I cursed, hopping and rubbing the bite.

The top was okay, but the pants? So tight through the calves. Dude, did you really think my legs were the size of pipe cleaners? I mean, WTF? And by now I realized the quality was very mediocre.  The scarf, which I had let Aslam provide in good faith, was light yellow chiffon and it went okay, but wasn’t great.

When Aslam and his nephew re-entered the shop, we discussed the tight legs. There was nothing I could do because letting out the pant would create holes from the original seam. Aslam then offers to show me bed covers.  What was wrong with me? I ended up negotiating for a pink beaded table runner for Flobie (my mother).

Of course, with this new purchase I didn’t have enough money on me, so we returned to the hotel where trying to find small bills was an exercise in frustration I prefer not to relive. I finally had the appropriate payment and exited the front door at the same time as an Indian family.  Aslam reached out his hand without looking at me while focusing only on the family.  He takes my money and walks off with them.  I figure he’s going to turn around, but no. For a full minute I watch stunned as he walks away without so much as a backwards glance.  Transaction over.

At this point going out would be too complicated a process, so I have dinner again at the hotel’s rooftop restaurant. It was the same dancers and, oh god no, the same puppeteers waiting in the wings. I tried to keep my distance politely from both. I ordered much better this time: rajasthani kadhi, gram flour dumplings cooked in spicy curd gravy; dahi baingan lazzatdar, sliced eggplant in cumin-flavoured yogurt; naan and lime soda for 400 rupees ($10).

Unfortunately I couldn’t escape before the puppet show. “no no nonononono” I started moaning quietly as the juice harp sound effects filled the air.  The puppets danced over fire, alas not in it.

Back in the room I reviewed my purchases.

WHAT THE….??!!!

Numbers are hand-written in ballpoint pen on the scarf. And in red marker.

The scarf is a piece of garbage.

And Aslam is a crook.

If you stay at the Shahpura House in Jaipur, beware the shyster with the black teeth!

AVOID THIS PLACE

Aslam Khan – CROOK!!!!
Meer Handicraft and Textile
D-261, Devi Marg, Bani Park
Front of Anurag Villa, Jaipur

I went to bed, happy only in the fact that when trying on the Punjabi suit in his store I had to remove my shoes and my feet smelled appalling. Almost punishment enough.

Palace garden, Amber Fort

View from inside the harem, Amber Fort

Cooking dal in Jaipur