Ajmer was awesome, Pushkar was pretty lame

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I definitely need a massage.  My bags are getting heavier and my back is killing me.  The other day I had a great idea: half-day at the spa the day after Christmas.  Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh yes please.  I have a massage appointment in March in Chicago already, too.  Oh yeah. 

In a rare showing of punctuality, the train gets to Ajmer right on schedule…at 3:30 frickin’ AM.  Again, if there weren’t someone else in my cabin getting off at my stop I probably would have totally missed it.  I think there’s a little guardian conductor looking out for me, because when before I went to sleep I was talking to the other couple in my cabin about how to know when to get off the train and when I woke up it was a totally new person who said they were going to Ajmer, too.  Anyway, I decided to sleep a bit in the ladies’ waiting room (in an impressively painful metal chair) before getting chai and toast and putting bag in the station’s cloakroom  The cloakroom is a seriously awesome idea from the IRCTC: you pay Rs10 per bag per day and they lock it up for you while you go around the city or even leave town for a few days.  Cheap, secure, practical and profitable; too bad only the latter describes the IRCTC at large, as well.

My touk-touk takes me to my further destinations first, the gardens Subash Bagh and Dault Bagh along lake Ana Sagar.  I’m pleasantly surprised to find that not only are they in great shape—landscaped, clean and well-maintained—but that they also have several interesting things to look at.  The lake itself is beautiful and stretches over hundreds of acres.  There are fountains out about 100m from the shore and boats strung along a rope leading out to a small island.  Fishermen cast their nets into the water, looking for all the world like they’re going to flip their boat and topple in to join their gear.  There’s a large walkway with white marble pavilions overlooking the lake and as I stroll along I get the urge to call home and talk to mom.  Anytime I’m near the water like this I think of Higgins Lake which makes me think of mom which makes me want to call home…you know how it goes.

After a quick chat to let her know that all is well, I let mom go and continue to explore the gardens.  I come across only the second kids’ play area I’ve seen in India, and even though it’s shabbier and smaller than the one in Udaipur, it looks like at one point there were attempts to make it very appealing: decaying, duck-shaped paddle boats; fountains painted with cartoonish figures; rusty swings and slides; etc.  It’s when I wander into a small greenhouse that a thought races from my subconscious to the front of my mind: I’ve only seen three women, the ones here stretching and doing yoga, along all of these gardens and walkways.  I’m not sure if the exclusion is self-imposed, but I wouldn't be surprised by any answer.  Women don't seem to be in a huge hurry to mix with men in general and if the guys are willing to stare me, a complete stranger, down the way they do then I'm sure they make even more clear to their own ladies when their presence isn't appreciated.

I take a quick walk down the road to a large red Jain temple built in the 1500s that takes up its own triangular block.  It’s in this temple that you can find a gigantic diorama made entirely of gold.  It depicts the Jain view of the ancient world, complete with 13 continents and oceans, flying boats, soldiers being led by commanders on elephants and the city of Ajodhya, where a holy city in this religion.  This whole thing must weigh hundreds and hundreds of pounds, because it’s about eight feet tall at a few points and fills the space of a living room in someone’s home.  You can walk upstairs and view it from above, and while I’m up there I notice that the room itself is intricately painted with bright colors and gold filigree.  The whole thing screams spoiled royalty, which admittedly gives it a pretty exciting panache.

I waste about ten minutes checking out Akbar’s Palace then turn right and walk along the infinitely more interesting bazaars that will lead me to an important Muslim site, the saint Khwaja Muin-ud-din-Chishti’s dargah (tomb).  These markets are where all the action is: flower stalls selling baskets of pungent petals; sweet shops that display their goods vertically in glass cases; fishmongers gutting what they’ve received from the fishermen on the lake only a few hours ago; vendors selling prayer beads in a rainbow of colors and others selling caps for the mosque as well as the ubiquitous shawls and fabric; groups of men standing in the street to watch a movie playing behind a shop counter; beggars and lepers rolling (literally) down the street banging tin cups to attract donations.  A few people look at me in confusion; they don’t get many foreigners in this city and I’m sure very few of the ones that do come are ever that interested in the bazaar. 

All roads lead to the dargah, though, in the heart of the market, and you couldn’t miss it if you tried.  Pastel blue with bright green accents, it draws you in from the street by tempting you with the smell of roses and splashes of color.  When you walk in, you pass two gigantic iron cauldrons easily weighing 300 pounds each (they’re meant for people to put donations for the poor into).  You can buy fragrant plates of fuschia roses and white carnations in concentric rings to place as offerings to Allah and leave notes to the saint to intercede on your behalf.  The flowers are a very Indian take on Islamic tradition, as is the fact that no woman is fully covered as she walks around, let alone wearing plain black.

Past the cauldrons and up some steps to the right is a large, 20’ square pool with a fountain and marble seats for people to sit and wash their feet or drink at.  On the left is a large open space with some cushions under a tree growing through the tile; here imams give counsel, teach about Islam and lead music lessons.  Vendors are pretty much everywhere in the mosque, and winding from room to room you see them along with a Muslim version of a barbershop quartet, men sleeping, the actual tomb of the saint in a gold-painted sanctum, worshipers touching their heads to the ground and children either playing with each other or helping their parents make a sale.

Just up the road is another ancient mosque that is now a protected monument.  At this point, I decide to take a bus to the nearby town of Pushkar rather than a touk-touk to Ajmer’s palace up in the hills.  Pushkar is famous for its small lake, which is almost entirely surrounded by ghats.  The town also has 500 temples and, being an oasis in the desert, an extremely large camel festival in November.  Walking along the street, though, means repeating the following scenario about fifteen times:
Rickshaw-wallah: “Auto-rickshaw madam?”
Me: “No.”
R-w: “Where are you going?”  (start to follow me)
Me: “I’m okay thanks.”
R-w: “I am hotel dropping or also go to train station.”
Me: “I’m not going there.  I’m fine just walking.”
R-w: “What is your good name?  Which your country?”
Me: “Leave me the hell alone, okay?  I’m fine.”
R-w: (grumbling to himself) “Why so angry?  Tourists  all so angry…”
It’s annoying as hell and I rarely tell them my real name or real hotel when they ask me about it, but at least it’s good practice for my teacher look before the school year starts.

I find the bus to Pushkar easily enough, but it leaves 30 minutes late and the conductor charges me double until I point out the disparity between my fare and everyone else’s.  You know, it really does get tiring to have to make sure you aren’t being scammed every other minute and I’m looking forward to the relative ease of getting answers from people in Singapore.  At least the ride is relaxing, winding up and back down the mountain that separates Ajmer and Pushkar. 

Unfortunately, though, due to the late departure, I now have less than an hour to see the lake, ghats and as many temples as I can.  Thinking I have an accurate map of the city in my head, I set out, promptly walk past the sign pointing where I want to go and get myself turned around.  I try to ask a few people if I’m headed the right way, but I don’t see any tourists and very few of the people here seem to speak English.  I’m on the outskirts of a very small town, walking up and down small sand dunes that make me think the lake has to be around here somewhere.  These and the dirt roads and camels go a long way towards reminding you that you passed into the Rajasthan desert sometime during the train ride.

I can’t complain that much, though, because the buildings and temples are all decorated in that gorgeous, colorful Rajasthani style that I first encountered in Udaipur.  What’s most impressive is that they’ve kept everything up in such great shape: the paint is fresh and touched up, there’s almost no construction going on and there’s relatively little garbage marring the colorful of the streetscape.  I’m mostly left alone by the vendors and I start to wind my way through the maze of alleys that make up the bazaar.  Between waving at children, looking at toys hung up for sale and I almost miss my chance to see the lake!  But then, through an arch in a temple on the street, I can see the steps of a ghat—the cow ghat as it would turn out—and I make my way down to the water.

THAT’S IT?!?!  That murky little puddle that I could swim across in a couple of minutes is supposed to be some great sight that you just can’t miss?  True, it’s ringed by a very quaint crescent of ghats and temples, but with the smog being what it is in this country you can’t really make out any details.  I would really enjoy a chance to explore the alleys of the bazaar more, but of course now it’s time to head back to the bus (the state bus, this time, which of course leaves on time, costs less and makes the trip ten minutes faster).  I’ve got just enough time to snap a couple of photos and shoot down a few offers for a rickshaw before I retrace my steps back to the main road.

I get to the station with plenty of time to pick up my bag and freshen up, but two girls about my age openly stare as I brush put on deoderant, wash my face with toner and rinse with mouth wash (Okay, so maybe doing this on the platform asks for a little attention…).  It’s only a few hours to Jodhpur and in an attempt to stay awake and type up everything that’s happened this week I start to jam to my running playlist.  It surprises me how badly I want to go out running; for the last couple of days I’ve really been missing Chicago’s lakeshore trail.  My legs are itching for a good 13-mile run. 

The rest of me is in no shape to do anything overly physical, though; I’ve developed a whopper of a headache and it feels hella hot on this train.  My face is burning, I can’t stop coughing, I’m about to blow my nose into a piece of paper if I can’t find some Kleenex soon…  Ohhh, please don’t let me be getting sicker…  Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got this plan to make tomorrow a “sick day” and relax as much as possible in an attempt to knock this cold down a few notches.  I’m going to spend one less day in Jaipur and add to my time in Jodhpur instead so maybe at the very least my voice will sound like it’s supposed to.  Maybe I can use all the free time to finally upload some pictures…