2 Days in Delhi

Imagine you’re stuck in traffic on the Grand Central Parkway in front of LaGuardia Airport. You’re slowly inching past a cow munching on garbage to your right. To your left, a man is sitting on a high wooden stool, his head tipped back as another man lathers his face with shaving cream and prepares to scrape it clean of hair.

Welcome to Delhi.

We did have a lovely surprise when we exited the airport: Our driver, C.P., was there! We had asked the tour company if he could be our driver in Delhi as well, and they said since it was such a busy season they weren’t sure he was free. So it was heart-warming to see his friendly smile waiting for us.

And lucky for us, because he’s a agile driver and the traffic here is horrific. Worse than anything anyone has warned us about. The eye candy makes it all worth it though.

We took a chance in Delhi and booked a bed and breakfast stay ourselves (not through the tour company.) We fretted about whether the beds would be ok, if the room would be clean, if the house would smell.

Lubna is our host and she greeted us with tea and small snacks. When she found out we missed lunch, nothing could stop her from rushing to kitchen and returning with a rice that was both fruity and spicy and layered with flavor. We topped it with a little spicy chutney and some chopped cucumbers and tomatoes (hopefully that won’t come back to bite us in the ass.)

Her house is beautiful and reminds me of a Mexican hacienda. There’s a sky light that shines from four floors up all the way down to the foyer. The first floor has a sitting room with low couches sitting on carved legs and a coffee table with elephants for legs. As we climb up to our room on the top floor we pass by the private living area, through a mini outdoor area filled with plants stuffed into interesting planters in the shapes of frogs, cats and camels, up one more flight to our room. And it’s perfect, with comfy beds, a flat screen TV and free wi-fi! Woo-hoo.

The guides on this tour are almost as much fun as the site seeing. Our man in Delhi is called Lileet Kumar and he is the Indian version of John Travolta. Not only does he hav his face and dimples and chin cleft…. But he arrived to show us Delhi wearing tight shiny pants. (And yes, that is a tiger on the back of his sweater.) He walks with the same strut as John does in “Saturday Night Fever.“ We walk several steps behind singing the song under our breath.

He also has an impressive uni-brow that looks like a fuzzy caterpillar about to jump off his face. We chat about dating in India and he tells us his girlfriend married another man this past summer. He looks so sad when he tells us and we once again wonder about how many broken hearts are left behind by the arranged marriages that are the norm in India.

We nickname him The Mayor, because he seems to know everyone. Everywhere we go he shakes hands, with the other guides, with the guard checking passes at each temple and fort, of the hawkers trying to sell us post cards. He is the only guide that talks to the small dirty children that beg. He takes their face in his hands and tickles them under the chin and makes them giggle. It makes us see a different side to this kids that have mostly been aggressive with us, and also a different side to our guides.

But he’s just 29 years old and has the cockiness of youth. He texts his friends a lot when he thinks we’re not looking.

We visit the massive Baha’is Lotus Temple which looks like an enormous lotus flower growing out of the ground and reaching towards the sky.

Then we sit in bumper to bumper cow-rickshaw-car-motorbike for 40 minutes before arriving at Humayun’s Tomb. This Muslim tomb is impressive and looks a bit like a mini Taj Mahal. In an odd twist of irony, the entire building has the star of David carved into it all over the place. They use it as just another geometric form, rather than a symbol of Judiasm. But I’m sure the irony is not lost on anyone Jewish visiting the tomb (or or any Muslims that are against the state of Israel.) It’s imposing and graceful at the same time.

A girl’s school field trip is in progress and hundreds of young teenagers in uniform are swarming the space. Suddenly, a group of about 6 girls come up to us and say “Hello!” It’s the only English they know and they chatter to our guide who desperately tries to keep up with his translating. They ask us where we’re from, how old we are (they guess 25, bless them.) One in particular reminds me of myself when I was 14; even though I don’t understand I word she’s saying I recognize her spunkiness and need to push the envelope. She’s sassy and it comes through despite the language barrier. They are also hyper and giggly and Melissa and I are completely charmed.

We were worried Delhi would swallow us whole. But so far it’s been nothing but kind, if not a bit frantic.

After a fabulous night’s sleep, followed by cold shower. Lubna’s help make us a breakfast feast: scrambled eggs, toast, Indian bread with onions, hot tea, fresh papaya. (All Indian families have help, even middle class families, because labor is so cheap here.) We talk with Lubna about work, Melissa’s boyfriend Dave, and shopping. The same stuff women all over the world talk about. She offers to take us shopping for an outfit for the night before a wedding, either a Saiwerkamz, which are baggy pants and a long shirt that comes below the knees with intricate embroidery, or a Langa, which is a skirt and top that are covered in beading and shiny stuff. She also says we can borrow some of her costume jewelry!

We meet our Travolta guide and C.P. for another day of traffic, forts and shopping. We visit the massive Red Fort which sits on the edge of the old city, as well as Jama Masjid, the second largest mosque in all of Asia. Indian families often travel together and one large group asks if they can take a picture with us. We agree. It’s not the first family of Indians that have asked to be photograph with us. We seem to be more of an attraction than the mosque.

Then we hire bicycle rickshaws and plunge into the maze that is old Delhi. Every narrow alleyway sells different items: one lane for saris, one for ribbons and trim, another for wedding directions, and yet another for desserts. The rickshaw drivers somehow manage to slip around obstacles where there seems to be no way to move forward. The seats are narrow and we both clutch the handle to hold ourselves steady.

Finally we hop off the rickshaw and walk around the old market. Laleet buys us street food; hopefully we won’t get sick later. First a jalebi, which is fried dough that tastes like a donut soaked in syrup, a hot spicy samosa with minty chutney, a treat that tastes like whipped cream with nuts and a foreign spice we can not identify, then a pured carrot mixture -- I know that sounds gross but it was yummy!

We still need something to wear tomorrow for the pre-wedding party. We slip off our shoes and step into a narrow shop selling Langas. But Indian women are smaller than Americans; it’s comical as we try to stuff our busty figures into tiny tops, the process involving a delicate dance of the shop keeper helping us while not touching us, while we try to keep our shirts underneath in place. As we don’t have enough to have one made, we quickly decide that Langas are out.

After a quick conference, we decide that maybe another sari is in order. We had bought saris in the U.S.; Lubna was shocked and appalled at how much we spent on them, so we knew we could get them much cheaper at the source.

We start feeling fabrics that are flapping from the open storefronts and eventually we’re lured into one shop. Nothing happens in India until you are seated and have declined a cup of tea. After we do this, sari after sari comes off the shelf. Azure blue covered in silver studs, hot pink with gold sequin swirls, royal purple with a princely velvet trim. There are so many colors and fabrics and designs that it’s exhausting to look at, let alone decide on just one.

Mr. Travolta looks like he is in physical pain. This is one shared manly trait; hatred of shopping, especially with women.

We finally choose; royal blue with a pretty silver flower pattern for me, turquoise with gold and black sequin flowers for Melissa. A man from the shop walks us down the lane to the tailor who will make our blouses. Just a little random fact for you non-Indians: all saris are the same size - 6 yards. You just wrap them more or less to alter the fit. And they all come with an extra yard to make a blouse, so that it’s the same color match.

The Gandhi museum provides a welcome break from the sari spectacle. We see the bed he slept in and where he was murdered. It’s familiar from the movie. The entire area is very quiet and calm, the opposite of what lays beyond the walls of the museum.

What do we do next? More shopping of course! And what do I buy? Another linen of course! But even Melissa buys something here, so I don’t feel so bad.

It’s dark when we’re dropped off at our hotel. We tip Laleet and C.P. well; not just for their services but for being silent men in a women’s shopping world.

We love Delhi.

Dining Like a Queen

Another palace today. This one in Udaipur. The city is actually beautiful, marble buildings surrounding a lake. Two palaces sit on separate islands in the lake. One of the them, The Lake Palace, is not open to tourists unless you’re staying there ($550 US a night.) You used to be able to dine there, but everyone we asked before we arrived in India said after the Mumbai attacks last year they now only allow guests.

Not one to be detered by rules (especially in a country that really doesn’t have any) I ask our guide to call the hotel and make us a reservation. After a fast-paced conversation in Hindi, he tells us dinner reservations are booked for a week, but we can have lunch.

First, we visit an intricately carved marble temple. Every inch is covered in elephants fighting and camels carrying cargo, men wrestling and scenes from the karma sutra, battles and Buddhas.

Then we tour the palace. It’s of course as beautiful as they have all been. The same, yet still different. Peaceful courtyards ringed with graceful white arches, framing glass mosaics, emerald green doors and frescos. I am eagerly looking forward to the museum devoted to Ganesh, the Hindu elephant god of prosperity and good luck that’s part of the palace. It’s suppose to have hundreds of Ganeshes in different sizes and colors and poses. I am crestfallen when we arrive to find it closed. I drag my feet in disappointment to the dock where we need to take the private boat over to the Lake Palace for lunch.

Reception is located on the mainland, and we check in for our lunch reservations and walk down to the jetty to sit on colorful cushioned chairs and wait for the boat.

The palace is a creamy vibrant white surrounded by water. While technically on an island, it’s built to the edge, so it looks as if it’s floating. Our little boat rounds a corner and there are steps leading down to the water, where a man waits to help us from the boat. Another man dressed like an manservant from the Raj period and he’s carrying a large velvet umbrella ringed with fringe and mini pom-poms. He holds it above our heads as we walk up the stairs. It’s really hot here, so thanks for the sun protection. But seriously? We’re trying very hard not to laugh.

At the top of the stairs we approach the glass doors to hotel entrance and rose petals start falling from the roof. There is actually a man up there, gently tossing petals off the roof as guests arrive!

A woman in a sari greets us in the lobby and we put our hands together and say “Namistay.”

We have 30 minutes until our reservation so we decide to wander about. Our guide said they don’t really allow you to walk around the property, but until someone stops us…

Past the lobby is a sitting area with plush purple chairs and wood tables set with chess and checkers and bat gammon pieces. Beyond that is a bar decked out white lounge benches and small sitting areas, which lead out to an outdoor patio. It’s the smoking area, but empty, so we choose a spot under an umbrella to drink in the breathtaking view. It’s quiet here and smells like fruity flowers.

A waiter appears with a think drink menu, spiced almonds and wasabi peas. Melissa orders a mango bellini, I have a lychee martini. Both are delicious and before we know it we’re red-cheeked and flushed with alcohol and giddiness.

Soon we’re being lead to the dining room, which is a sumptuous and extravagant with a stand of water in the middle, flowers floating on the top. We’re eating at the tail end of the lunch hour, so we’re able to get a table at the window. Views of the palaces lining the shore. The ridiculously expensive Oberoni hotel with it’s sandstone domes sits on the opposite shore. This is the type of high-end restaurant where the chef sends out free stuff. Ours is some type of grilled bread that smells and tastes faintly of chocolate, pureed beans and chopped apples infused with spices so that it tastes like apple pie filling.

We order a bruchetta sampler that is savory and delicious. We are delirious at the thought of a non-Indian meal. Melissa orders baked eggplant and I get pancetta wrapped chicken stuffed with mushroom. We share our dishes; I think hers is better while she prefers mine. We have a second round of drinks after the waiter insists on escorting first me, then Melissa, to the bathroom. A pecan brownie with cinnamon ice cream is for dessert.

Drunk and stuffed, the umbrella man escorts us back to the boat.

Our guide meets us at the other side with exciting news. The Ganesh museum is open!

We’re tired and have alcohol headaches, but we trudge up the many stairs, through the exit of the palace. And I’m glad. The two tiny rooms are cramped with reclining elephants, art deco elephants, those reading and eating, some sleeping and washing, others walking and meditating. They are made of camel bone, sand stone, marble, metal and plastic. There are book ends and book marks, pictures and magnets, elephants five feet tall and 2 inches high.

I buy one for me, another as a gift, for good luck and prosperity.

Back at our hotel, we stop at the deer park where an older couple is watching two large bucks clashing horns. I’ve never seen that before… not at a zoo, and certainly not in the wild. Their horns banging together is louder than you might expect and as they push against each other you can hear the horns creaking as if they might break. We start chatting with the couple, Gerry and Rita. They’re from California and invite us to join them for dinner.

And we do. They’ve been married 57 years and have traveled through Africa, Asia, South America, Europe. They’ve been to Alaska. They’ve traveled alone, with all and some of their four children and 6 grandchildren. We trade stories about why we all loved Vietnam. Jerry, who is retired but teaches digital photography twice a week, helps Melissa with a camera card issue, then assists me with my card reader. I trade books with Rita; we both agree that we panic a little bit at the idea of being on a flight without sometimes to read. They are beautiful people.

And they remind me why I travel.

There's a Monkey at the Door

We flew to Udaipur today. The city is best known for its white marble palace in the middle of the lake where scenes from the James Bond movie ‘Octopussy’ were shot.

Unfortunately, our tour company representative -- who has already proved herself not to be the brightest kid in class -- had booked us at a hotel outside of the center of town. We vaguely remember her telling us this-- but not that our driver and car weren’t going to be available. This basically means we are going to be stuck out in the boondocks for the night, with no choice but to eat dinner at the hotel, unless we want to pay money for a taxi into town.

Strangely, our representative, who met us at the airport and drove with us to the hotel, kept insisting that we will enjoy some time at the hotel.

(Aside #1: Every time we arrive at the airport, not only does the driver meet us, but a representative from each city greets us, accompanies us to the hotel, checks us in at the front desk, and then calls us from the lobby in our room to make sure everything is to our liking. It’s comical and unnecessary, but apparently how it’s done. We can’t seem to make them stop.)

(Aside #2: Just some background on the area, Rajhastan, that we’ve been traveling through. Each city was ruled by a separate king, or maharaja. They remained in place all through British rule of India, and were removed when India gained independence. Today, they are just ‘kings’ in name (like the queen of England,) although they do have coronations when a son is named king. Some of their properties are now owned by the government for tourists to visit, while others are still owned by the family and operated as hotels. And many of them still live in parts of the properties.)

But I digress.

Our hotel in Udaipur is a former hunting lodge of the king. So, we drive into this valley ringed by tall mountains, up this long, long, long drive and stop in front of a large main cabin-like building. The porters load up our growing luggage count (due to my inability to stop buying linens) and we follow them out of reception and down a path towards our room.

As we turn a corner, one of the porters points to a field that’s about one story down from the path that we’re walking and says ‘deer.’ And spread out before us are about 50 or so large, brown spotted deer. Baby deer, large bucks with spiraling horns at least four feet high. And we realize that this former hunting lodge is now an animal preserve!

Our room looks exactly as you’d expect a former hunting lodge to look: slate stone walls, rocking chair in the corner, plush beds made with blankets that look perfect for snuggling.

And then the porter opens the drapes to reveal a large picture window. Spread below are the deer like a painting in a museum, the yellow of the grass, their brown coats, the mountains beyond clad in shaded purple light.

As a city girl, deer in New Jersey are exciting enough. But these exotic looking deer are even better, especially when they are part of the hotel staff.

We unpack a bit and decide to explore. We open the door… and large peacock that had been perched on the overhang above the door squawks and flies away. We shut the door and burst out laughing.

Let’s try again.

We step through the doorway, lock the door behind us, take a handful of steps down the path… only to be stopped by a monkey. He’s balanced on a tree branch, not more than 10 feet above us. He’s staring at us. And he’s BIG. At least 3 feet fall. We inch slowly past. And there’s another monkey on the wall ringing the property.

Wait a minute. There are monkeys here? And they are just roaming free. Hmmm. The story of that women that had her face ripped off by a baboon ripples across my mind.

We stroll through the grounds. The deer are still munching on tall yellow grass. We’re surrounded by pink light as the sun sets behind lush craggy mountains. This place is also a stud farm and we peek over a stone wall to watch a skinny newborn foal leaning against it’s mother, while another baby walks unsteady on tall wobbly legs. Their brown hair looks soft even from this distance.

The last of the day’s light is fading as we walk back to our room to rest a bit before dinner. And as we turn the corner where our cabin is located, we are confronted by no less than 10 monkeys. Not confronted I guess. They didn’t SEEM like they wanted to spring. But they were sitting there, staring. Some were big. A few smaller babies. Their velvety gray tails all dangling off branches and rooftops and walls like snakes. We ask one hotel worker if they are dangerous. He doesn't speak a lot of English, just smiles and says ‘monkeys’ and then claps his hands, as if to scare them away. They just blink at him. He says 'no door open' ' no banana.' Gee thanks. As if we were going to leave the door open and invite them in for a snack!?

And as the daylight fades away, sounds we’ve never heard before emerge from the dark. Grunting and chattering and squawking. Leaves rustling as the monkeys jump around. We run laughing into our room, shut the door, and look at them through the window.

It’s always been my dream to do a safari in Africa. One day. In the meantime I’m sharing space with dozens of monkeys. That’s not a bad start.

The Day I Fell in Love With India

Sadly, I am a product of my culture and upbringing.

I like to push myself outside of my comfort zone. I need to experience other ways of life, see the poverty that affects so much of the world, marvel at how other people live and breathe every day.

But after a while I need order and a soft bed and quiet, a hot shower.

That’s why I love Jodhpur. It’s the cleanest city we’ve been to so far in India.

Very few cows = less shit. There are more jobs for people here, so there’s less poverty and less begging = more pleasant shopping in the markets.

Our guide, Ragesh, wears an ascot. He’s going for his PhD in history and he’s soft spoken and serious. But he starts to get our jokes and New York/Jewish sarcasm before too long and laughs along with us a lot. He’s been married for five years and has a 2 year old son. And he travels with his wife; they’ve been to Sri Lanka. Very different from some of our other guides, one of which told us his wife doesn’t even know that men wear wedding rings in other cultures. (Men don’t wear rings in Hindu culture. Women also used to burn themselves with their husbands when they were cremated, although that custom is mostly gone today.)

Jodhpur is also beautiful. It seems we’ve done our route correctly so far, since every city has been more stunning than the last. This city also has the ubiquitous fort and castle combo, each set on cliffs on opposite sides of the city. The maharaja still lives in the palace, which was only completed in 1947-ish. But with it’s large center dome and many soaring towers, it’s stunning up close, as well as from various vantage points around the city.

But it was the fort that really amazed us. It’s the best one we’ve seen so far, clinging to the top of its cliff, with so many arches and carvings, marble and gold leaf, that around every corner a natural frame is already arranged for your photographing pleasure. I must have 100 pictures just of doorways and arches. And the views really do steal your breath. Most of the houses in the old city are painted blue and from so high above they spread out like brightly colored building blocks shinning in the sun.

But it’s the markets here that are a joy. The lack of beggers make it easy to walk around at your leisure and haggle with sellers. We first stopped at a man selling bangles made of glass in every conceivable color. Moss green, tangerine, spirals of plum and butter yellow. We dove right in, declining a cup of chai tea, and tried on dozens and discarded just as many before settling on several. We haggled down the price, he took our money and then gave us six bangles for free anyway. As I tucked my bracelets away, I turned to find Melissa being interviewed by a man in a turban. Apparently he was a local reporter interviewing tourists in the market. We’re keeping an eye out for our debut in the local paper. Perhaps it's all a set-up and staged, but we are charmed by the scene anyway.

Then I bought another bed cover. This one snowy white with chocolate geometric cut out designs. I know. I have an addiction to bedding and sheets.

Next we shop for petticoats to go under the saris we bought in New York to wear at Surb‘s wedding. We followed our guide through one narrow street and then another, side stepping dogs and women clad in orange and turquoise saris, determined to keep walking a straight line as honking scooters zoom around us. The petticoat man operates out of a miniature storefront, so small the entire transaction takes place on the front step. We paid about $1 for it; in Queens they wanted $30 dollars. But he didn’t have a string to cinch it closed. So we’re on the hunt for that still. The markets here remind of those in Asia: lively and chaotic and filled with people and animals and dirt and scooters and unidentifiable smells, but also campfire smoke, which is the scent I’ve come to associate with India.

Back at the hotel, we are on the hunt for a sweet snack. Strangely, there is no store in our hotel. But the man with the swirling mustache who opens the door of arriving cars tells us there is a grocery store open next door. At the empty building being constructed next door? Not possible. Oh yes, he assures us the store is there. Fine. We’ll amuse him. So we walk to the front of this 10 story building still being built, surrounded by bamboo scaffolding, construction men framed inside the empty windows as they complete work inside... and surprise! There IS a supermarket. Well, there’s nothing more interesting than shopping in a foreign food shop, especially when your arrival as two large, tall white women bring the entire store to a silent halt. But once the buzz resumed, we had a blast, snapping up masala tea bags, a strange green fruit that looks like a lime but smells like a grapefruit and pulling packages of cookies with unusual flavors like pineapple from the shelf.

And now we’re spending the rest of our day relaxing for a change. We’re sitting in our hotel’s lovely central courtyard. It’s dry and warm outside but still too cold to take a dip in the freezing pool. Several turbaned attendants are standing just within earshot, you know, in case I need the page in my book turned. (Seriously. They run to you for the slightest thing. It’s both embarrassing and annoying.)

I’ve read that to enjoy India you need to surrender to it.

That’s hard when you are being assaulted by noxious smells and grasping hands and deafening noises. But just when you think you can’t possibly take another moment, you find a quiet, calm spot where you can take a clean, deep breath and feel your body settle.

Stunned and Stunning

Jaisalmer is both beautiful and disgusting.

The smell here is rank, like nothing I’ve ever smelled. Cows and shit and wild pigs and urine and rotting trash and bad body odor. And you’re barely able to walk around it all and keep your shoes clean. Yet, you can turn a corner and the air is clean again.

The mornings are cold and our breath made puffs in the chilly desert air while we ate breakfast in hotel’s rooftop restaurant. We wrapped our hands around hot cups of tea and hunched into our sweatshirts and watched the town come awake while waiting for our eggs. The bent old women unwrapping burlap sacks filled with shirts and sweaters to sell on the street. A young man pushing a cart filled with small cauliflower, dirt covered carrots and tiny shiny eggplant. A group of three dogs barking furiously as they chase two rival dogs away from the territory. And the worst job in the world: the trash collector, a young man who looked like 25 but was probably 16, scooping up cow shit with a metal pan and his hands. We stopped watching that long before our breakfast arrived.

We toured the fort today; it’s the only fort in the world where people are still living. We were glad to have our guide because it was a maze of narrow alleys that we never would have ventured down alone. The entire fort is a warren of intricate carvings, entire facades covered in scrolls and shapes and Jewish stars and swastikas, which were a symbol of peace (and still are) throughout Asia hundreds of years before Hitler stole it to symbolize evil. One building will have a dozen balconies, all chipped away into delicate and symmetrical designs, while down below pigs and cows are eating from a garbage heap.

Our guide, Prakesh, was in tight jeans and a form fitting sweater. I correctly guessed he worked out when later, he told us his dream was to visit World Gym in America and that Arnold Schwarzenegger was his hero. He was helpful and charming and friendly and helped me bargain down the cost of (yet another) bed spread by more than half. He also walked us past where all the other tourists were gathered for their view of the city to his cousin’s hotel, where we had our own spectacular private view from the rooftop. Later, he took us to the private home of a silver jewelry maker who poured out hundreds of earrings and bracelets and necklaces for us to look through. I must say it was the most fun I’ve had shopping for jewelry! But unfortunately, India is turning out to not be as cheap as we had expected, so we only bought one piece of jewelry each. But the jewelry maker’s mother did make us a cup of the best Indian chai tea I‘ve ever tasted, spiced with ginger and masala.

As sunset approached, we dropped off our guide and headed into the dessert with our driver. I was about to see my first real dessert sand dunes, and thoughts of Bedouins and ancient spice routes filled my head. The reality was a bit different. Picture hundred of tourists arriving on camel-back and crowding onto the highest dunes to watch the sun set, gypsy children running from tourist to tourist asking for candy or money to sing and dance, and little boys selling beer and soda and chips like on the beach at Coney Island! I sat on one dune and let my legs hang off the edge, my sunglasses pulled tight against my face and my scarf wrapped around my head and mouth to keep the blowing sand out. Some camels looked bored as they sat on their long, folded legs, slowly blinking with thick eyelashes at least four inches long, while others galloped across the sand, their young turbaned riders bouncing in the seat. It would have been nice to have silence up there for just minute, to just listen to the wind softly blowing and breath an air not polluted with camels (which smell badly and fart a lot!)

Still, we were only 50 miles from the Pakistan border. It was the closest I was probably ever going to get to that part of the world. And with soft sand rolling away from us for miles of golden waves, it was a little scary. But also exciting and thrilling and magical.

100 Miles From Pakistan

Today we leave for Jaisalmer in the Thar desert. Our drive today is also long, but much more interesting than yesterday’s.

The area we’re driving through looks less like the India we’ve seen so far and more like… pictures of Afghanistan that I’ve seen on CNN. Most men wear turbans, because of the wind and sand and the trees continue to give way to bushes, which give way to more empty stretches of sand. There are no towns although we occasionally pass rest stops, most of which we would never consider stopping at. Still, we pass people walking on the road, coming from somewhere and going another place. There are small groups of people squatting on the side of the road; C.P. says they are waiting for the bus and by this I’m sure he means the large trucks that we see piled with dozens of people. Giant trucks bulging with grain and hay and other goods roar past us, their good luck charms of one lime and seven chilies wrapped in black muslin swinging widely from their rear view mirrors.

About 3 hours in, C.P. asks if we want to take a 1 miles trip off the main road to see an area where hundreds of birds migrate from Siberia and the Himalayas. We’ve been with him enough days that we trust him not to sell us to gypsies, so we agree. As we head down the road we pass through a handful of dirt clay buildings, more cows, dogs, women with children on their hips, their small heads covered with the end of their bright saris to protect against the wind. We’re starting to wonder if we misjudged C.P. when he pulls up to a small lake where hundreds of large crane-like birds are squawking.

But it’s the small children that really catch our attention. There’s a school across the street where kids are sitting cross-legged outside on a porch. A couple of dirty girls follow us up the hill towards the lake asking for chocolate, then money, then pens. One barefoot girl asks for the bobby pin in my hair and I give it to her. For a while, they mill around hoping for more stuff from us. C.P. says something to them sharply in Hindi, but I tell him it’s ok. I think he doesn’t want them to bother us and imagine it must be hard for him to have what is certainly a respectable job for him and then have people in his country begging from his clients. As we get back to the car I ask him if it’s ok to give them some gum, that I have a lot of packs and enough for all the kids here. He looks a bit uncomfortable but says it’s ok. I should have trusted the look on his face more than the words that came out of his mouth… because when I took the gum out, the dozen kids turned into 30 immediately.

Now, I’ve had kids surround me in Asia and that push for more and more. But these kids were aggressive in a way I’ve never seen. They were pushing at me and trying to grab the gum out of my hand. Melissa just gave hers away and got in the car after a 10 years old girl ripped the pack from her hand. When one pushed at me too hard I had no choice but to push two small little kids back from me. I have to say I was never scared by them, or even uncomfortable. But it certainly wasn’t pleasant. C.P. was yelling the whole time at them to calm down and that there was enough for them all and to step back, but they wouldn’t listen. And even though I had enough for them all, I just gave up and gave them the whole packs, ignoring even the one little boy that started crying, and I just got in the car. The worst part about it is that I didn’t even feel that bad for them. I mean, I feel bad that they are poor and have been taught to be that aggressive to get whatever they can because they have so little. But I realize now why everyone says not to give treats to the beggars in India; that you should give another way like to a school. It’s one of the few countries where they tell you not to give to beggars. If I had never been to a third world country where little kids with such sweet faces cry and beg I would have been really troubled by this. But I was in part prepared for it I guess. Melissa and I used half a bottle of Purel after that incident.

Back on the road, we were only driving for 15 minutes before we hit a train crossing. Everyone was out of their car so I got out also. This definitely garnered a lot of attention as it was all men outside. And the men in India stare. A lot. But I just ignored them. Honestly, it didn’t really make me feel uncomfortable because they weren’t staring in a lewd way. They were just starting because we were different. Suddenly there was a whistle in the distance and everyone’s head craned to the right to watch the train approach. First came a cargo train, about 9 cars loaded high with coal. Then 10 minutes later a dusty blue passenger train with wrinkled faces peering out of windows with no glass. If was amazing to see and impossible to capture with a camera.

Forty minutes later, we were stopped by an accident. Two trucks seemed to have collided, with one turned horizontally across the road and the other tilted off the side, all of it’s lumber and bricks scattered along the dirt. A bus pulled to a stop besides us and the door popped open as all the male passengers hopped off. They joined the other men and our driver walking towards the wreck. A few minutes later the men are pushing this gigantic 18-wheeler truck off the road so that traffic can start moving again. C.P. soon comes trotting back to the car and soon we’re off again.

We arrive in Jaisalmer in the late afternoon. It’s unlike any city I’ve ever been in. It’s feels cramped and like a place where outlaws pass time. People are selling all kinds of things in the street as cows plod slowly around the people and wares and cars. Our hotel is again in a Haveli, a former palace, although far less grand than the ones we’ve stayed in so far. The guy manning the desk makes us write our name, address and passport information in an oversized ledger that looks about 200 years old. The bed is like a rock. Literally. Solid. No give at all. I am certain that I will wake up stiff and unhappy. (Although strangely I do not. Apparently, a rock hard bed and perfect pillow = a great night sleept) There is also no electricity. We’re told it will be back on in an hour and are not surprised because we had heard there are power shortages throughout India all the time. Our room is … interesting. It looks like the inside of a castle, or maybe the wine cellar of a castle, with original stone walls and ancient paintings on the wall. We can also hear everything.

We’re back in the car 30 minutes later and C.P. takes us to the centatophs; tombs containing the ashes of Maharajas. It’s a jumble of sandstone towers and quite awesome. It reminds me a bit of Angkor Wat in Cambodia and has an Indiana Jones feel to it. Afterwards we go to watch the sun set against the massive fort that sits on top of a cliff. We exchange India stories with a Canadian couple and walk back with them to meet our respective drivers in the fading light.

We decide to have dinner in our hotel’s rooftop restaurant. It’s set up under an orange tent and there are a group of kids and one old man wearing a turban playing music. They are really good, especially the young boy who is singing, and I find myself tapping my foot to the beat. One of the smaller boys gets up to dance and invites Melissa to dance with him. It’s hysterical and I have it all on video. As we’re finishing our dinner a group of men come in and sit at the table next to us. They have a mafia-like air about them, and while we’re sure our imaginations are running amok, we also decide it’s time to go. They are about 12 of them, and start drinking whiskey, and they are the most well-dressed Indians we’ve seen since landing in this country… so it makes you wonder where they make that money from in this shitty town, especially living so close to Pakistan.

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.