Road Trip!

We left Jaipur today for the first of three, six-hour drives into the desert. Traffic thins out considerably as we leave the city. It’s just me, Melissa and our driver, C.P. (which stands for Chandra Prakesh) and eventually we all start to chat. We find out he has two sons, ages 5 and 10 and that he does this drive a few times a month. He’s an excellent driver, cool under pressure and he glides around massive trucks piled with goods soaring two stories high, cows and camels. I realize why the Indian taxi drivers in New York are so good; because our traffic is nothing compared to this. He barely speeds up when he passes, just shifts gears and gently glides around the vehicle and slides back into place. I must say that having driven in Asia was a fortunate precursor to India; we barely flinch when he swings into the other lane where a large, mutli-colored bus is barreling toward us, and then neatly slips back in between another car and a camel pulling a wagon. Back home, my heart would be pounding and we would have been jerked to one side as the car was yanked back into its lane. But here, you barely feel the motion. It is surely a skill.

The crumbling buildings end abruptly and suddenly there's just miles and miles of country. No suburbs to ease you into the nothingness. Trees and scrub give way to dirt. We're heading towards my first real desert and I’m pretty excited to get to the part where it’s nothing but huges dunes. But right now, there is still vegetation; although I’m not sure how so much grows in the sand. Every half mile or so we spot a woman walking out in the sand, a large pot or bundle of twigs perched on her head. It seems she is coming from nowhere and going towards nothing. There are also fewer cars and increasingly more camels. They are smaller than the ones you see in the zoo or ride at a fair and are pulling carts on two wheels that seem to be balanced between the pulling and the load on top. Those loads often extend far over the sides of the small cart, but they don’t tip over or dislodge the driver sitting high on top. We watch one driver get off; he simply slides down the side of his load from a height that must be at least two stories, just slides down like he’s on a water park slide and hops lightly to the ground.

When we make a stop three hours into the drive, we’re expecting the worse in bathrooms. But C.P. is watching out for us and they aren’t that bad. I mean, I wouldn’t breathe through my nose or sit on the seat, but they are western toilets and there’s no mess on the floor, and we’re thankful for that. We buy masala magic potato chips for the road and they’re spicy and full of bite.

Three hours later we arrive in Bikaner, the midway point on our way to Jaisalmer. It’s pretty busy for being the middle of nowhere, with children just out of school running along the road and camels plodding along as they deliver and pick up packages. As we swing into our hotel our mouths drop open. It turns out that we’re staying at the Lallgarh Place, which we had checked off as a sight to see! It’s a magnificent sandstone monstrosity, with wings spreading out in several directions. We climb a grand marble staircase and sit down to check in. There are no fewer than five men waiting to attend to us and it’s a bit awkward for a moment. Two double doors swing open into our room, which sits off a long marble hallway lined with photos of the royal family; the 82-year-old maharani still lives in the back part of the property, confined to the palace as she is a widow and they are often shunning by Hindu society, even if they are a queen. Across from our room is a central courtyard filled with chattering birds and greenery. And the room itself is massive, with soaring ceilings, a separate sitting area and gigantic marble bathroom the size of my entire apartment with a tub that I take full advantage of.

Our guide meets us later in the lobby and he certainly promises to be the highlight of the afternoon. He is wearing knock-off designer jeans, and a tight black blazer with Michael Jackson-esque diamond designs on his lapels. He talks fast and loud and has a lot to say. He brings us to the town’s fabulous fort that we had been tempted to miss and shows us secret passageways filled with stain glass windows and a stairway that leads to a roof surrounded by turrets and intricately carved towers and sweeping views of the city and the desert beyond.

He talks to us about his life, his wife and his two daughters and one son. He says that his daughters are smart, his son not so much. That his daughters will have arranged marriages just like he did, but if they continue to do well in school they can wait to marry and go to university first. Clothing from the royal family is the highlight of the museum, with displays of saris in fiery orange and red, indigo blue and lush greens. One of the museum workers follows us for the last 20 minutes; we can’t tell if he’s listening to the guide to brush up on his English or if he’s watching us.

Later, Michael Jackson (who’s real name is Jeetoo) takes us to an artist’s studio. It’s sometimes annoying to go to these shops where they show you how a local craft is made; we did this in Asia also. But sometimes they are interesting. This guy is in the Guinness Book of World Records as the first miniature artist and the world’s smallest painting. He is soft spoken and calm and offers us tea while he shows us how he paints itty bitty landscapes. Some of them you can only see with a magnifying glass. It’s really amazing to watch and my eyes start to hurt as I squint to see the images. He says his eyes don’t hurt; he paints for a while and then takes a break. I buy a tiny painting of the Hindu elephant god, Ganesh. He stands for good luck and prosperity; I think I could use some.