I'm on new ground here: I'm not following THE PLAN

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Marco’s alarm goes off at about 4:45 and I want to say goodbye to him one last time so I’m up, too.  As we’re talking, I say how much I’ve enjoyed spending time with them and wish out loud that he and Marc were going with me to Jaipur.  Marco counters by asking why I don’t just join them in Jaisalmer.  I take a second to come up with a good response, but instead I find myself wondering, ‘Why not?’  Would it be so horrible to miss Jaipur and instead see a city that so many people have said they really enjoyed?  It could be pretty fun to ride camels, bake bread in the sand and see the honey-colored fort and city, and let’s not forget that I’d be doing it all with two attractive men.  It takes me about five minutes to decide: screw Jaipur, I’m going to the desert. 

I start frantically throwing things into my pack and we’re checked out and out the door in twenty minutes.  Our hotel is right next to the train station, fortunately, and ten minutes later I have a ticket and we’re sitting on the train waiting for it to pull out.  I’m not sure why, but Marco suddenly gets a weird feeling that we’re on the wrong train.  He goes to double check the marquee and I talk to a few men on the train.  Even though he comes back convinced again we’re in the right spot, the locals say this train is headed the opposite way and I’m inclined to believe the experts.  In a flash, we throw our packs back on and track down the conductor.  We are definitely in the wrong place.  Running as quickly as I can with more than a third of my weight hanging off my shoulders, we scramble to the right platform, nearly running Marc over in our rush (who apparently had an interesting night…something about drinking a bit, getting followed by stray dogs and sleeping on the street after being locked out of his hotel).  Well, I guess he’s a pretty good sign that we’re finally where we’re supposed to be.

The three of us grab berths next to each other in the sleeper carriage and the boys pass out almost immediately.  Marc finished reading the book he’d been telling me about, Shantaram, and passes it on to me.  It’s the story of an Australian man who breaks out of prison and moves to the slums of Mumbai where he becomes the doctor for the thousands of residents, gets involved in the Bombay mafia and is finally recaptured and sent to Australia to serve the remainder of his sentence.  Marc thought it was excellent and he’s the fifth or sixth foreigner I’ve met who’s reading it as they travel India, so I’m pretty excited to start it myself.

A couple hours outside of Jaisalmer I start coughing like crazy, out of the blue.  This feels different from the last few days, though, and I can’t figure out what’s going on until the coughing gets so bad that I stand up to get some Kleenex out of my bag.  That’s when I notice that the air in the train has gotten very hazy and realize that the air is saturated with swirling clouds of dust.  Well, duh, Lauren, you are traveling through the desert so there’s a good chance that sand is going to start blowing in through the windows.  Soon I’m nearly choking as Marco and I struggle to lower the shutters and lock the windows closed.  They keep popping open, though, and each time they do the strong wind blows new clouds of sand into the compartment, coating every flat surface and my airway with a fine layer of silt.  It’s starting to get desperate when another passenger, coughing loudly as well, comes over and finishes the job for us.  Marc somehow sleeps through all of this.

Shortly after we regain control of our cabin, a foreign woman asks to sit on an empty berth and starts up a conversation with us.  She’s Norwegian and has just moved to Jaisalmer to be with her new husband.  Together they own a hotel called Anand Villas and she’s stopping by to tell us about it and invite us to stay there.  It seems like a good deal and she seems nice enough and to be honest it’s just nice to have a plan established, so we tell her we’ll see her at the station for a ride to her hotel.  When we arrive, though, it’s pretty clear we have lots of options of where to stay.  We walk past a long line of about 25 men, shouting and waving signs in English and Hindi advertising different hotels.  I’m really glad we don’t have to deal with these guys, though, and can go straight to Annette’s place.

At first they offer us a room with three beds, which gets a bit of a laugh from us.  It’s not exactly the arrangement we were thinking of.  Eventually, though, we work it out: Marc and I are staying in neighboring rooms on the upper floor and Marco will be downstairs. It’s about 1 when we arrive, but all we can think of is getting a hot shower and settling in; the sights will have to wait until after lunch.  But it turns out the hot shower will have to wait for another day because the heater isn’t working.  Just one more thing to look forward to in Singapore, I guess.

After lunch Marc has some errands to run so Marco and I visit the large Salim Sing-ki-haveli that turns out to be really interesting for such a small building.  A guide takes us from room to room pointing out some unexpected features: safes built into the walls that used scorpion-shaped locks; bricks interlocking like Legos; sandstone flowers and decorations that could be screwed in and out to customize the look of the haveli; trinkets like incense holders that spin open and convert to candle holders (note to self: buy one of these tomorrow!); and the mirrored dancing hall where the prime minister would sit for a night’s entertainment.  It’s no fort or palace, but it’s still going to stay with me as an example of the beauty of simplicity.

Afterwards, Marco and I take a nice walk around our neighborhood.  The architecture and design are just as enjoyable as they have been in other cities, but it’s definitely a different style from other parts of Rajasthan.  The buildings are the natural color of the desert, with geometric decorations mainly painted in white.  The children, of course, come running when they see us and a particularly pushy group of girls demands lots of photos.  They don’t seem to want any money, though, so I’m happy to oblige until they start making fun of me!  “No, Hindi?  That’s no good!  Madam needs Hindi in India!  And your eyes!  So small!  Where is your hair?  Nice ladies need nice long hair to get nice husbands.”  How the heck do they know this much English to begin with?  And why do they have to say these things in front of a guy?!  I’m dying here, but Marco is laughing and obviously enjoying my discomfort (which helps soooo much).

After I get over the blows to my ego and finally manage to shake my critics, we stumble upon a scene that’s uncomfortable for another reason.  A group of about fifteen women are sitting on blankets in the middle of an empty street rocking slightly and wailing and moaning while five men sit off to the side watching.  It would seem that someone passed away, but we’re not sure what’s really going on because after a few minutes the women stop and simply sit in silence.  They’re dressed in their usual colorful saris, too, so maybe it’s something else?  Fear of disrespecting their customs outweighs our curiosity, though, so after I take a few pictures of nearby buildings (all right, I admit, I also shot a quick, surreptitious video to capture that heart-breaking sound) we turn around and walk towards Kenchan Shree ice cream shop to meet Marc.

Well, this ought to be an interesting experiment.  Milkshakes in the past have been inconsistent, at best, so let’s see what the highly-lauded Kenchan Shree can produce.  Between the two us, Marco and I order the specialty, a makhania lassi with ice cream, a cheeku lassi, kulfi and a special kulfi.  Marc sticks to his personal favorite, a chocolate milkshake.  I’m not sure how to describe the flavor of the lassis, unfortunately; I lack familiarity with the spices they used and all I can tell you is that they were delicious!  The makhania was thick, more like real yogurt, and it came in a shallow bowl topped with two squares of ice cream that had obviously been carved off of a homemade block.  Kulfi and special kulfi are made of sugar, milk, pistachios, butter, cinnamon and other spices (the latter also has coconut and a few other extra ingredients), the mix of which is frozen into a popsicle.  If you ever get the chance, do yourself a favor and get any or all of these dishes.

And now the time has come to make a new plan.  We’re headed back to our hotel to talk about taking a camel safari for the next couple of days and find out information about when the trains and buses leave each day.  Marc and I both need to get to Delhi in a couple of days and are trying to fit in a 2-day camel trek as well as some time driving motorcycles.  I think I’ll be able to do it all: camel riding tomorrow and the next day then head out on the motorcycle early on the third day and return just in time to catch the train.  Wow, that’s a good-looking plan. 

With that settled, I manage to convince Marco to go with me to check-out the fort.  It’s close to sunset, so I doubt we’ll get into the small museum and temples there, but the cool thing about Jaisalmer fort is that it’s actually a lively neighborhood, with narrow, twisting streets packed with shops, homes and small temples.  Going along we turn left and right whenever we feel like it and just walk towards whatever looks the most interesting.  We pass a group of boys wrestling and karate fighting, as all 8 year-olds like to do, then find our way to the wall where we’re just in time to see the daylight die as a red smudge along the horizon.  Even though it’s dark the fort is very lively and shopkeepers still try to lure us in to buy shawls, journals or other trinkets.  The sales pitch continues as we walk down from the fort and into a bazaar before returning to the hotel to pick Marc up for dinner.

“America happy?  England happy?  Australia happy?  You pay me, I very happy!”  How many times did we hear this at dinner?  How was I supposed to know that smiling at the musical entertainment would bring us so much personalized attention throughout the evening?  All I did was bob my head a little and smile at the kids playing castanets and singing while their father played the harmonium.  And it was not my choice, I might add, to sit at the table right next to them (at least, I don’t think).  AND we’re eating at Saffron, which is quite an elegant restaurant; why would management allow the musicians to bother the customers, anyway?  Marc, nice guy that he is, gave them a small fortune of slightly-ripped bills in an attempt to shut the guy up and pass on some notes he probably couldn’t spend in a store.  Oh, but the food…the food….

Starters: bruschetta for Marco’s Italian heritage (wow, lot of galic), lemon and cardamom soup
Main course: mutton briyani for Marco, chicken mughlai for me, and butter chicken for Marc
Dessert: butterscotch and chocolate ice cream (pretty crappy, though, after this afternoon)
Drinks: Kingfisher beer (courtesy of Marc; will probably only taste good if I drink just this for a year)

Yes, now America, England and Australia are very, very happy.  Back at the hotel we sit with a  group of hotel staff and visitors to watch some a movie and have a late-night snack.  My pot of chai and apple crepe most definitely hit the spot and the low-budget comedy we’re watching is funny enough to be entertaining.  And, to top it off, I have a puppy to play with!  This adorable little guy lives at the hotel and will melt your heart…at least until he nips you and pees on your rug, both of which I got to enjoy earlier today.  After playing in Marc's room for about fifteen minutes, he sent the little guy next door to my room to see me for some lovin'.  The dog walks right past me to my bathroom rug, urinates, then walks back over and starts licking my leg.  What?!  Why'd you do that?  You can't just expect me...to forgive...you...  Oh, it's okay, you're the cutest puppy in the whole world!  Yes you are!  Who's a cute puppy?  You're a cute puppy!!  Like you would have done anything differently.

After I toss the pee rug outside my room for the hotel staff to take care of, I crawl into bed and try to read more of Shantaram so I can talk to Marc about it tomorrow.  This isn't going well, though; early morning, long train ride, full belly, getting up early to ride camels...

All I want for Christmas is a Vespa

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It’s really nice to be able to say that I had a great night’s sleep last night: my bed was comfortable, the room had heat, the only noise came from my iTunes and there were glow-in-the-dark plastic stars and moons on my ceiling to take me back 20 years.  I’ve also been practicing a technique that I learned in my yoga class in Rishikesh: you start by relaxing your toes then your calves then your thighs, etc and as you go you say, “I relax my toes.  My toes are completely relaxed.”  There’s one line that I always save for last because it encapsulates exactly what I’ve been trying to learn to do here in India: “I relax my heart.  My heart is completely relaxed.”  Here’s hoping that my mind can convince my body.

And then, wonder of wonders, a piping hot shower!  And it lasts as long as I want it to.  There may be something to this idea of paying more than Rs150 a night; by upping my budget from $3.50 to $7 per night I’ve gotten some pretty fine perks.  As if things weren’t good enough, there’s a knock on my door and the manager drops off my laundry, neatly pressed and smelling like flowers.  It’s probably the nicest treatment those tattered old jeans have ever received.  Into my pack they go, with all of my other stuff; I’m loading up to check-out since I have a late train tonight.

On the rooftop café for one last meal, I plan the route I’m going to take on my scooty today.  I’m going to ride a fairly large circle around town and see some of the sights on the outskirts of town and up in the hills.  The store that rents the bikes and scooters is right next to my own hotel, so five minutes after I pay for my chai and toast I’m picking out a 70cc TVS Scooty.  Not the most horsepower in the world, but a. I’m a beginner and b. I’m stingy with my rupiya.

I start to get nervous just sitting in the back alley testing the accelerator and kick-start and all of that.  I start to wonder…If I fall over here will they give me my money back and say I can’t rent it?  Indian traffic is the definition of ordered chaos; what if I get in an accident?  Should I ask about that or will it just make me seem like a bad driver or make them nervous?  My biggest fear is that something on the scooty is going to break.  I can handle running out of gas and walking for petrol, but I don’t have the mechanical knowledge or funds to take care of any major repairs.

But the time for deliberation is over.  They take my passport, wish me a happy journey, and point me towards an alley that slopes fairly sharply downhill and will dump me straight into cross traffic.  Oh dear god.  Well, nothing like a little trial by fire.  Here we go.  With my eyes only half-shut I ride the brake, drag my feet for added stability, send up a quick prayer to whoever is in charge up there and blare my tinny little horn as I make a sharp left onto the street. 

Success!  I am now a part of the problem, not the solution, when it comes to Indian traffic.  The street I pulled onto is extremely quiet at the moment, but as soon as I turn left onto the main road, I'm one of hundreds of people, animals, car, cycles, touk touks, cows and bikes navigating narrow roads without traffic lights or crosswalks.  I picture the road map to the royal cenotaphs in my head and start driving from landmark to landmark: the clocktower; Delhi Gate; bridge over the river; the second roundabout with the statue of Chetak.  I do lose my way a few times, but after stopping a couple times to ask for directions I get there twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

Just to sidetrack a bit, I have a method of finding someone who speaks English that doesn’t require me to eavesdrop.  My tactic is to look at someone’s shoes and glasses; if they’re nicer/clean/stylish, then I assume that that person is probably a bit more educated and maybe even a bit more wealthy than some of the other people around me.  Classist and occasionally wrong as it may be, 9 times out of 10 it helps me find someone I can easily communicate with and get help from.

Back to the cenotaphs.  These are white marble pavilions built in the 13th century that were used to burn the corpses of nobility and royalty (in separate areas, of course) before their ashes were taken to Varanasi to be dumped in the Ganges.  None of them were (supposed to be) used twice, which means that after a couple hundred years you start to run out of space.  These beautiful domed platforms were crammed in wherever they would fit, which means that in a few acres there are 369 cenotaphs to look at!  You could almost walk from platform to platform on the nobles’ side.  On the royal side, though, there are only a few, much larger memorials to the king, queen, princes and princesses.  They’re ornately carved and the sheer number is stunning.

I start talking to the caretaker, the source of the information above; he’s a jovial man with a big smile.  He asks the usual round of questions about me as I get my scooter started again, including my personal non-favorite, “Oh, you are a teacher?  Really, you’re not a model?”  Why?  Why does it always go here?  Even nice conversations with nice guys ends up including something about my looks.  There is no way they’d say these things to an Indian woman and they know full well I’m not model material, so why does it go here?  Why?

Back on my scooter I feel very un-Indian.  You think a white woman walking alone gets stared at?  Try one on a scooter.  Some people don’t know what to make of me; a couple guys almost crash their motorcycles by looking back at this crazy foreign lady putting around like she owns the city and looking a little scandalous.  I’m wearing a tank top that shows my tattoo, my pants are rolled up to the knee showing my other tattoo, my short hair doesn’t flap around in the wind much and there’s no man for me to sit behind.  In other words, I am a liberated woman and proud of it.  Grr!  I’m a strong, independent female who can handle herself in India.  I kick touts’ asses and take cute boys’ names and emails as I rev all 70CCs of my engine up to 35km/hr.  My next thought only knocks my mood down a few pegs as I quickly banish it from mind: Is that why I’m single?  Ugh.

But no time for glum thoughts, this is just plain old FUN.  Definitely one of the 3 coolest things I’ve done in this country.  So the roads are a little crazy—cars passing into oncoming traffic; cows, horses, goats and dogs running or sitting in the streets; no blinkers or traffic lights; everyone honking their horn so everyone else knows they’re there, but Mondays are actually quieter so it’s a good day to be driving.  Sometimes when I get a little flummoxed I instinctively try to drive on the right, which doesn’t help the situation.

After getting money from the ATM, a man guides me to Saheliyon gardens, made to entertain the 48 maidens that came with the dowry of a Moghul princess.  My new friend leads me there on his own scooter then gives me his card (he’s a building materials distributor for construction sites and so basically a god in this country) and says to call him later.  He’d like to have me over to dinner with his family this evening.  I tell him I honored and grateful, but even though I can’t make any promises that might be pretty cool and I will definitely consider it.

The garden is small, but I take my time to sit in the sun, accidentally overhearing the story of a woman who almost drowned in one of the fountains (apparently the main fountain is ten feet deep and the plants that grow in the water make it difficult to surface if you go under).  It’s fun to imagine dozens of women in the finest, brightly-colored silk saris with bangles on their limbs walking from fountain to fountain while peacocks scatter at their feet.

There are two lakes in Udaipur and going back into town I get to drive the coastal road along the more northern of the two, lake Pichola.  The sun and wind on my skin feel incredible (the grit and dust maybe not so much), despite the knowledge that I’m just making my terrible dry skin even worse.  This road will take me to one of the key locations from the movie Octopussy, the Monsoon Palace.  It’s on top of a mountain in a nature preserve just outside of town, and while a few doubts about my scooter’s engine power pop into my head on the way up—then about its braking capabilities on the way down—it’s a marvelously peaceful and scenic trip.  The palace itself is shabby and basically falling down, but the views over the hills, lakes and city are second to none.  Without the smog, it would be perfection.

To return to town, I have to ride in through the old city gates and then along the walls of the original fort.  Suddenly, instead of paying close attention to the road I’m back to imagining what it must have been like to live here when it was first constructed.  I doubt the roads have changed much, either in their condition or general layout, but I’m sure the mess of cars and the electrical wiring creating a dangerous lattice above my head are new.

Before I head south past my hotel I have just enough time for pit stop back at Café Namaste where they have more warm date and walnut pie.  Friggin’ delicious, I’m telling you.  I also have a rose lassi that unfortunately I can’t taste because of my cold.  But I can tell you it was a lovely light shade of pink.  Moving south I stop to buy a ticket for a sunset boat ride later today then go to the haveli (insulated home) heritage museum, one of the most pleasant surprises I’ve had in India.

The museum is in a haveli that has been meticulously reconstructed and furnished with authentic artifacts from the 1400s and 1500s.  There are quarters for the men, women, in-laws, children and servants, and each room was reconstructed to give an accurate picture of daily life in Udaipur five hundred years ago.  Colored glass, toys, kitchenware, clothes, paintings on the walls, games, bathroom and toilet accoutrements…it’s all there for you to put yourself back in the time of maharajas and courtesans.  Possibly the best part of the museum, however, is only about ten years old.  They’ve turned the basement into a surprisingly large and well-stocked modern art gallery.  The paintings and sculptures are from Udaipur’s young and upcoming talents, and I would have paid even more just to see the ten rooms given lowest billing.  If I didn’t have a boat to catch, I would stay for hours.

“Lauren!”  I come to a screeching stop--no small feat in a narrow, crowded alley with foot-deep open gutters on both sides--and look over to see a scruffy-looking foreigner in jeans and a t-shirt.  “Marc!  Oh, my god, you made it!  Want to go on a boat ride?”  I’m still thanking the gods for their generous nature as Marc, the cute Australian guy I met in Varanasi, hops onto the back of my scooter (built for one, incidentally).  I have a lot to apologize for as I drive: not emailing like I said I would; looking and probably smelling like a hot mess; being in a hurry to make the boat ride.

I also need to apologize for my driving.  Oh, my god sometimes I’m such a girl.  As soon as I’m around a cute boy I apparently lose all hand-eye coordination and only help support the stereotype about female drivers.  Okay, that’s not true; it’s actually due to the fact that he weighs way more than I do and this scooter is only built for one.  I wobble and worry my way down to the boat dock, though, and later in the day Marc admits to being impressed that not only did I manage his weight well and keep us upright, but that I was willing to drive in this country at all.  Yeah, my ego definitely gets a boost when he says he doesn’t know many girls brave enough to do that.

As we go for our sunset boat ride, there’s no doubt that Udaipur is the place to go in India if you’re in love.  Marc is the first to broach the subject of romance and talk about how it would be a great place to go with a girlfriend.  I can only sigh and agree and dream…  All right, anyway, we ride along the City Palace then turn around and head back towards the two islands in the lake.  The first is covered by the Lake Palace Hotel, also prominently featured in Octopussy, which requires either a hotel or restaurant reservation to get to.   The second, Jagmandir, has a palace that has been turned into a hotel, but this one is open to visitors from the boat tour.  It has marble elephants to greet you as you step off the boat and the inner courtyards have gardens and a café.  You can rent little bungalows here that look out over a bubbling fountain decorated with large red, orange and pink flowers for a few thousand rupees a night.  The romantic mood kicks into high gear when the sun finally sets and they turn on colored lights all over the hotel.  There’s also a man using small wood sticks to tap out a beautiful tune on bowls of water filled to various depths.  THIS IS PARADISE.  All too soon the spell is broken, though, and it’s time to return to the dock.

After our ride, Marc and I scoot over the bridge to get twilight pictures of the sights we just saw from the boat.  He’s pretty jealous of my camera, and I admit I like to show if off, so I take a few more shots than I had intended.  He suggests dinner at a restaurant just nearby, Ambrai, which turns out to be totally expensive and hopelessly romantic, with candle-lit tables looking out over lake, palaces, etc.  I get my first cocktail in India, a gin and tonic.  Yum.  A man after my own heart, Marc’s a devoted carnivore; unfortunately, though, he’s one of those freaks of nature who can eat 6,000 calories a day and not gain any weight.  I order govind gatta, chickpea flour dumplings in gravy, but I’m not sure if I can’t taste it because it’s so horribly spicy or because of my cold.

Marc’s really easy to talk to, thanks to our similar personalities and interests, and he’s got a great sense of humor.  I enjoyed dinner immensely, but I’m embarrassed that I couldn’t stop coughing and I’m sure I looked pretty ragged.  But I managed to learn a bit about him: his job is cleaning large events and festivals around the world; he travels as much as he can and he’s been around the planet, both alone and with friends; he’s never had a beard like the one he’s got now; he likes triathlons; he’s thinking about getting into education; he picked up a cough while trekking in Nepal; he’s a definite morning person and can’t stay up past 10 without a good excuse.  But then lets slip two little words that tell me a fact that I was hoping I wouldn’t learn: “My girlfriend…”  He tries to cover and start over, but too late, they’re out there.  C’est la vie.

In any case, I had a great time and we’re going to meet up again in Jodhpur.  It’ll be fun to see the same person for more than a day or two, and something tells me he’s really easy to travel with.  He doesn’t talk your ear off, but you know he’s willing to chat if you want to.  It’s hard to get on the train, though, because Udaipur is difficult to say goodbye to.  Someday, though, I’ll be back and hopefully not alone.