After a breakfast of “vegetable crooked” (it was actually a veggie croquette, but “crooked” was curiously appropriate given my experience with the salwar kameez scallywag, Aslam) and pakora-style French toast, I went to check out. At the reception counter I tried helping a French family whose kids had been vomiting all night and whose parents were trying desperately to find a doctor and suitable medication. Those poor kids looked tres malades. After they left I decided to show the staff the yellow scarf I had bought from Aslam in good faith, the one covered in inked numbers and scratchings of various colours and for which I was embarrassed to admit I had paid 200 rupees ($5). They didn’t seem to understand (or have the interest in) warning other tourists against this rogue, unscrupulous Aslam Khan of Meer Handicrafts.  Their advice? Don’t buy from guys in the street. Ha!

On a mission, I directed Nandu to drive around the corner where I entered the grounds of the offending shop. A neighbour in typically-curious Indian fashion came up to me and commenced the interrogation:

Take a close-up of me!!

Where are you from?
Are you married?
How long for?
How many kids?
Why no kids? Are there problems?
Take a picture of me.
Why isn’t the picture a close up? Take another one.

By this point Aslam’s nephew had arrived, but Aslam was nowhere to be found. I explained to the neighbour, the neighbour’s husband, the nephew and Nandu why I was there.  I was assured, as I knew I would be, that Aslam was on his way.  Sorry, I said, I don’t have time to wait.  I demanded my money back.  The nephew said he had no money, could I wait for Aslam. Sorry, no, I responded, and I gave him a choice: either he gives me my money back or I exchange for another scarf. Looking worried, he unlocked the shop and I perused the selection, dissatisfied by the ugly parade of scarves. Instead, I picked up a beaded bag (for my niece) and ask that I take this instead.  He agreed.

And then, the most amazing thing happened.  His furrowed brow relaxed into a massive smile and he stuck out his hand.  This absence of hard feelings and genuine warmth following a negotiation was something I experienced more than once in India, and each time I was surprised and completely charmed.

Our eastbound lane on the Agra Road from Jaipur was under construction, so we essentially shared it with oncoming traffic. I watched in horror as one motorcyclist who wasn’t paying attention came straight at us.  At the very last minute he swerved and Nandu yelled a bloody tirade at him.  We both laughed heartily, once I started breathing again.

After listening to Nandu’s high-pitched whiny music for the seventeenth time I asked if he sang. “No,” he said. “I am Brahmin. Brahmin don’t sing. It is not respectful enough.” I took this as an invitation to ask him about castes in India. He was part of the Sharma (which he pronounced “Sarma”) caste, number three in the Brahmin pecking order of seven sub castes. He explained that men can marry below their caste, but women can’t, but if you are from Mathura Village you can only marry members of your own caste due to it being the birthplace of Krishna. He spoke of the lowest caste as “the sweepers.”  I asked him if inter-caste relationships were portrayed in Bollywood films, to which he answered yes.  I asked if it happened in real life. “No,” his unwavering answer. Then I asked which was worse: marrying a lower-caste Hindu or a high-caste Muslim?”

“No. Neither possible,” his perfunctory reply.

Leaving Jaipur

Just then a truck nearly ran us off the road.  Nandu squawked, pulled in front of the truck, slowed to a stop, got out and stood in the middle of the highway yelling at the driver. I studied the “Jolly Fat-Go” road sign with great interest.

Back on track I learned that he was a middle child of four brothers and three sisters, all of whom were still living in UP, the nickname for the state of Uttar Pradesh. He grew up in a six-room, one-story house with some land where they ate chapatti, rice and dal everyday. He said he cooked for himself in Delhi. “Better than your mother?” I asked mischievously. “No!” the startled reply. “My mother is, good cook.” We laughed.

His phone rang. Nandu chatted away as I stared at the green countryside. Then he handed me his phone.

“Speak to my friend. He doesn’t speak English.”

“Uh…namaste?” I said tentatively.

“Arrey, dost! Kyaa chal rahaa hai? Kya mein aapke madad kar sakti hoon?” A torrent of Hindi filled my ear. I proceeded to read off every Hindi expression I had thus far written down, much to Nandu’s giggling delight and my unseen friend’s perplexity.

Phone conversation over, I asked Nandu when he was growing up if all castes learned in the same classroom.

“Yes, but Sweeper children stay in corner.”

“Oh. Could you talk to them?”

“Talking ok. But not touch. If they touch you [he demonstrated by tapping my leg] you have to go home, change your clothes and wash.”

“How many Sweeper children per class?” I inquired.

“Three, maybe two, maybe one.”

“If they touched you, would they be punished?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

He wouldn’t answer.  He pretended he was tired and clearly didn’t want to continue this conversation.

I felt profoundly sad.

I watched the scenery slide by. Little children crossing highways alone. Tractors carrying impossibly humongous loads like giant bloated mushrooms. Green fields studded with brown buildings, trees, distant hills obscured by monsoonal mist. Tractors teeming with brightly-coloured passengers. Occasional towns with mechanics, machinery, fruit and vegetable stands, cows, goats, and always lines of people trying to cross the road. Sentries of brick kiln chimneys like rustic versions of the Qutb Minar.

Driving on the Agra Road

The guidebook recommended the Pelican Hotel for lunch. I agreed to the thali, given that was all the one chef was able to prepare. A young guy on a bike returned with a small black plastic bag whose undisclosed contents undoubtedly would comprise part of my lunch. Strange, steam engine noises emerged from the kitchen. Eventually I was presented with a delicious potato curry, un-refrigerated yogurt and fresh chapatti.

My request for the bathroom led me to one of the hotel rooms. It was then I understood why Indian hotels are reputed to have different standards than in North America. The filthy room had a bed of doutbtful hygiene and chaotically-wired 1960’s-issue television. Then there was the bathroom. The toilet seat was covered in unidentifiable liquid and there was a bug party going on in the bowl. The flush was like their Jacuzzi; they continued frolicking afterward even though (or because?) a strong sewerage smell filled the room.

Back in the car Nandu went slap! and showed me the crushed carcass of the mosquito he had just killed.

Aack! Dengue!

I covered myself with bug spray.

We entered the state of Uttar Pradesh and he shouts gleefully “U.P.!” I say, “U.P., I pee, we pee,” and he laughs uproariously. Seems guys all over the world find pee jokes hilarious.

We arrive at the parking lot for Fatehpur Sikri, a mosque and palace built by Mughal ruler Akbar in the late 1500’s and abandoned shortly afterwards for reasons unknown. As soon as I exited the car in the blazing heat to commence the one kilometre ascent I was surrounded by touts. One was particularly clingy.  I tried all sorts of tactics: sympathy (Please, I just want to be by myself); logic (If you won’t take my money, what’s the advantage to you accompanying me?); and slyness (I’m from Goa, leave an Indian sister alone). I finally said, “Look – you’d be better off spending your time looking for someone who will give you money.” They finally gave up.

The imposing heights of Fatehpur Sikri

At the top of the hill was an imposing building and equally imposing staircase to reach it. By this point I am a complete sweatball and climbing a huge set of stairs doesn’t help. At the top I am greeted with a scene of such chaos you cannot imagine. There are old people, young people, healthy people, sick people, beggars, families, goats, people yelling, running, loitering, pleading, jumping, sleeping. I deposit my shoes with the shoe minder and enter the gate. It is even crazier inside. Nothing could have prepared me for this. Nothing – there is no training.  India is crazy, dirty, crowded and Islamic India is the most. And the corners – what a smell!  As long as there’s a corner someone will have already marked it.

Fatehpur Sikri scene

As I start to walk around a guy who wants to be my guide latches onto me. He claims to work for the mosque and not want any money. “No one does anything for free in India,” I answer.  When he won’t leave me alone I finally say, “Please, please, I would like to be alone.  Will you respect me?” He acquiesces and is immediately replaced by two very persistent three year olds. They disperse and are replaced by slightly older children. So I bring out my top secret weapon: I started speaking Hebrew really, really fast, made even more interesting that I don’t really speak Hebrew.

“Manishtanahalailahazehmikolhalailot!” the ritual line from the Passover meal came spilling out of my mouth at breakneck speed.

It worked! I confused the little hustlers into submission.

Unfortunately, I find the whole experience gross, particularly as I am walking around barefoot.  Everywhere smells like urine.

After collecting my shoes I dart quickly to ask a Westerner if he knows where the palace entrance is.  He’s Spanish and, thankfully, provides the directions. I walk there, sweating and seared. I desperately look for my hat which I have cleverly left in my suitcase. I then go into a lotion-slapping frenzy, breaking the heart of a vendor who thought my scrounging was for his benefit.

More civilized: Fatehpur Sikri Palace

As opposed to the Jami Masjid which had no entrance fee, the palace cost 260 rupees and was worth every penny, because entering it was like attaining Nirvana. It was quiet, unpopulated, sort of green and had slightly less urine.

I decided to walk back to the car, even though it was on a different road. How hard could it be? A tuktuk stops and offers to take me back to the parking lot for 50 rupees. I say no thinks, I can walk for free.  30, then.  No thanks, I can walk for free. 20? I say I’ll do it for 10. Agreed.  Good thing because I would have walked the wrong way.

Nandu and I arrive in Agra and we go to my hotel, 8 months old and in the middle of nowhere.  My room is # 209 but I press floor #1 to get there. I was confused.  There was something else a little off about the hotel, but I couldn’t put my figure on it. Then I realized it was the woman working at Reception: she was the first woman I had seen working at an Indian hotel thus far.

Back to the car, Nandu drove me around Agra, described previously by my friend Dave as a “poophole”. We saw the entrance to the Taj Mahal grounds (you cannot drive anywhere close to the building itself), the Red Fort and massive monsoon puddles. I found a tiny Internet provider where the first 15 minutes was spent just trying to get it to work.  He tried to charge me for that time, but he backed off very easily when I challenged him. I was hungry, so Nandu persuaded me to try the restaurant next door to the Internet shack named “Quality Quality Quality Quality Restaurant”. I reluctantly agreed.

It was a small, windowless restaurant with five waiters serving seven large tables, only two of which were occupied, by tourists. Picture bloated upholstered benches, the top half of the backrest covered with a pink fabric condom, orange walls, a blue-lit disco faux chandelier and the steady hum of the pop machine. Zero ambiance, except for the five waiters staring at you. I ordered a Mughali dish of paneer with nine fruits and vegetables which was remarkably tasteless.

Suddenly the electricity popped. In a recessed, window-free room, this was an interesting proposition. Luckily I had my mini headlight flashlight which helped illuminate the room. Chalk another point for the experienced traveller!

An Indian family arrived. Locals?! I was ecstatically shocked. It didn’t bring back flavour to those nine fruits and vegetables, but I was no longer feeling as duped.

It occurred to me that it was six months to the day I would begin my fortieth year. Shit.

The boys from NYC @ the Quality x 4 restaurant

The restaurant was beginning to fill up.  One of the waiters brought three guys to my table and sat them down unceremoniously. Juan and Alejandro were brothers from New York who decided to do a two-week whirlwind trip of India: Delhi- Agra – Jaipur – Pushkar – Udaipur – Mumbai – Kerala – Chennai. Their friend Kurt was a last-minute addition. I guessed his background was Haitian and he nearly fell over when I started chatting him up in Haitian Creole.

The boys had me in stitches with their travel stories. Having no pre-arranged accommodation, the tourist office directed them to a hostel in Paharganj, Delhi, located up a tight alley and with a feature “welcome urinal” outside the front door. Their room was approximately 64 square feet with three beds and no window.  They were supposed to have air conditioning but the power went out, so they spent the whole night rolling over into each other’s faces and waiting for the alarm clock to ring. At 6 am they ran up to the restaurant only to wake up the entire hotel staff who were slumbering on the roof. Then in Mathura, the home of the god Krishna, they were the *only* non Indians and were subject to rather invasive body searches.  I arranged to meet them the following morning at the Taj Mahal.

When I left the restaurant and met Nandu he started walking away from our car to another, similar white car.

“You switched cars?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he replied. “It is my friend’s.”

I waited for more but no further explanation was forthcoming.

Back at the hotel I arranged a 5 am wake-up call.  They asked me if I would need hot water in the morning. “I have to ask for hot water?” I was puzzled. The hot water was evidently turned off at night and then switched on again at 7 am.  Indian quirkiness was starting to make more sense.

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

Packed and ready to go, I hopped in the Nandu Express for the six-hour drive to Jaipur.  We joined the caravan of transport trucks trundling through the space-age sprawl of Gurgaon.  Like Hockneys on wheels, Indian trucks are a riot of colour and creativity, whimsically reminding passing drivers to blow their horns to pass. In between mindless chatter with a view to keeping Nandu awake, I took copious photos of the backs of trucks. Nandu laughed after each snap. I asked if he’d ever seen a tourist take so many pictures. “No,” he answered straight-faced. Then he giggled.

My tour guide was Jitendra who, in Rajasthani warrior caste tradition, wore earrings in both ears. (Learned something new!) He took me on a tour of the City Palace where, serendipitously, I saw the

Jaipur royalty

sister of the late Mahajara, luminous in lilac chiffon, arrive for the anticipated reading of Rajmata’s will.  The 90-year old Maharani Rajmata Gayatra Devi was the matriarch of the Jaipur royal family, the most prestigious of Rajasthan’s 22 imperial families, and had a $200 million fortune whose inheritance was the subject of much gossip and speculation. Alas, the will was not read that day, and I have since lost the thread.

I was then taken across the street to the Jantar Mantar, an 18th century astronomical park full of giant apparati for measuring the skies. To some no doubt it was fascinating, but I was just trying to avoid fainting from the heat.

Inevitably there was a visit to a shop where my guide stood to make a considerable commission from my purchases.  This was a “fixed price” shop (“fixed” being as likely an outcome as drinking Ganges water and surviving) where I was given the dog and pony demonstration of how to do traditional hand block print. The shop was overflowing with male salespeople, and I was the only potential customer. Yippee. Plied with chai tea, piles of Punjabi suits were paraded for my perusal. There were two I quite liked, but for $250 (and that was after the fixed price was bent) they were still too rich.  Out of courtesy I suffered through a tour of the rest of the shop. The gemstones looked deeply suspicious.

The drive through the old city was insane. I didn’t think it was possible, but Jaipur was even busier and more packed than Delhi. The Muslim neighbourhoods seemed particularly crazy with piles of smelly fish and crates of

Jaipur

incarcerated poultry. Relief washed over when I arrived at the hotel, a converted Maharaja’s palace in part of which the Maharaja still resided. Very civilized.

Until I saw the price of water: 80 rupees from the mini bar, 50 from the hotel.  Now, I know this is between $1 – 2, but believe me it doesn’t take long to adjust to local pricing. I walked to the street to find water for 15 rupees, the going rate. Suddenly, and very common for India, I had an escort.  What did he want, I wondered.

He walked me to the corner where he took care of the water transaction. What did he want?

Aha, the pitch.  He had a textile shop around the corner, commission free, minimal overhead, low prices. I was reluctant. Then he pulled out his business card. Oh, the confidence and respectability a business card engenders. I bit.  Twenty minutes later I was off to the tailor’s in his tuktuk, a tiny sewing operation barely six feet wide. A little voice in the back of my head reminded me of the red leather coat I had made in Argentina in 2007 which I still haven’t had the heart to wear. I ignored it, to my peril.

On the way back to my hotel he says he wants to take me for beers and dinner. As if. The dude’s lower teeth were black!

I elected for dinner on the roof, arriving just as the dancing show was beginning.  The young performers were lovely and very engaging, inviting me to take their pictures and genuinely interested in the photos I was taking. Then, whoops, I was swept up to participate in the dancing.  I’m sure the other diners were ecstatic at seeing a large, ungainly white woman thud around the dance floor while they were trying to eat.

Finally allowed to rest, I finished the rest of my meal with the objective of escaping before the puppet show started.  With relief I left just as they were emerging.

Jaipur

Shopping mecca