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...

Who spent only $25 and got a ton of new clothes today? This girl

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Since this is my last day, I’ve talked Bhav into checking out the restaurant my guidebook most highly recommended, Devraj Coffee Corner. We’re going for a proper breakfast and to enjoy the view out over the river as we eat (we really can’t get enough of the Ganges). We’re very nearly knocked over when we leave the dorms, though, because the mother of all winds has is blowing angrily and chillingly through the valley. I’m fighting great bouts of panic as we walk across the footbridges that are now bouncing slightly. If you’ve seen the video of the oscillating bridge that collapsed in Minnesota, you’ll know what I am thinking about.

Devraj looks like everything Lonely Planet promised. Fresh-baked goodies in the case (Nutella croissant for me and jam croissant for Bhav), piping hot chai, homemade brown bread served in thick slices with yak cheese (DELICIOUS) and toasted under the broiler, porridge with honey…there is absolutely no way I’m going to lose weight in India if I spend much longer in Rishikesh. We’re both in a much better mood this morning, but even if we weren’t there is no way to stay unhappy with all of this delicious food in front of us.

After we’ve feasted the day is still quite young so I order a cup of coffee (Real! Not instant!) and Bhavesh and I talk about what we’ve learned here in India. So I present to you now, in no particular order and with the last 5 added solely by myself, the ten lessons India has taught us:

1. Rupees go a long friggin’ way. Our breakfast today was a little over $4 total.
2. Not everyone dressed as a guru IS a guru (see post from 4 days ago)
3. There’s nothing wrong with chillaxing and gathering your thoughts in the Himalayas for a while sometimes.
4. A blog is an awesome way to release thought-traffic.
5. Bhavesh is a poser and totally annoying when he makes fun of my accent. 
6. You don’t really need that much to be happy and live a good life.
7. Always make friends with the locals, or at least a good look-alike.
8. There’s a fine line between negotiations and getting taken advantage of.
9. A lifelong friendship can start with the most innocuous of sentences.
10. You can be subconsciously spiritual without practicing a religion.
11. This country is colder and less mosquito-y than expected this time of year.
12. Trust is a very valuable commodity.
13. Little white lies may be expedient, but they don’t feel good to say.
14. You don’t have to cross everything off of your list to be able to say you’ve “seen” a place.
15. It can be tough to be alone, but it develops strength, friendliness and appreciation.

After so much introspection, I think it’s time to be a little materialistic and shop. Bhavesh has been looking for a knit hat with a little tassle on top and strings that hang down past your ears (all the rage here) and I need to pick up some Indian-style clothing so I get treated more like a local on the rest of my travels, Our first stop is at a nearby ashram’s textile store, where I finally find an attractive blouse and some scarves for Rs660 (about $15). I’m not getting pants because they aren’t ready made and I don’t have time for the tailor to make them for me. It’s nice to find a store with fixed prices, though, rather than worry about having to haggle to get a good deal. While Rs660 is a little high, it’s still a good deal and I’m happy to pay a little more to support this kind of practice.

On our way back to Rishikesh proper, Bhav gets a shirt for his mom and I pick up a couple more for myself. I even manage to beat the deal he got because I held out basically all the cash I had and asked the vendor if he’d take it. Before you know it, I’m walking away having paid Rs355 for two instead of his 300 for one. Love it. Unfortunately, it means I won’t have quite enough to get a phone card and talk time in town, but I’ll get my phone sorted so that all I have to do tomorrow is buy talk time and start calling the US!!

Rather than return to the ashram for lunch, we decide to walk along what appears to be a local farmers’ market lining an alley near the phone kiosk. The vendors are packed in, side-by-side for a good quarter mile. The produce is stacked in gigantic piles of vibrant reds, oranges, purples, greens and whites. Giant bags of spices, beans, lentils and chilis practically overflow onto the road and I fight the urge to grab a handful and let them spill out between my fingers. This is a REAL farmers’ market and the food has obviously been pulled from the ground in just the last few days. We each buy an orange and as we walk along dropping the peel where we please and spitting seeds into the gutter; I’m almost starting to fit in here.

For some reason, though, as we head back to the ashram I start to get this sick feeling in my stomach that my train tickets aren't going to make it off the waitlist.  The feeling only gets worse when I get to internet cafe and there's a power outage that prevents me from getting onto the IRCTC's website.  My subconscious must know that something has gone wrong, because sure enough when I get online I find out that neither of the two tickets I booked for the early train has been confirmed.  I've also bought tickets for the later train, though, so there's still a chance I could be leaving tonight. 

A couple hours later I realize that I’m hoping I DON”T make it onto the train today. I’m sure I’d be able to get onto one tomorrow, and I could be happy enough with just one full day in Khajuraho instead of two. Lo and behold, when I log-on again I find that the chart has been prepared and I didn’t make it off of the waitlist again. I’ll be automatically refunded for both of today’s tickets so I go ahead and book two more (one 2nd class and one 3rd) for tomorrow’s train. I feel comfortable sitting at waitlist 2 and 4, but to get rid of any nagging concerns I find the street vendor selling hot sugar cookies baked then and there on his cart under a small fire. Mmmm….toasty.

I catch Bhav at the evening aarti (river ceremony where candles are lit and Mother Ganga is thanked for her gifts) and we randomly stop by the office where he finds out not only did his orientation meeting get moved ahead a half-hour and is just finishing, but the course is going to cost a lot more than they said. Now he understands the frustration I’ve been feeling about being told different things by different people and the outcome being very different from what anyone said. He’s fuming and says he’s seriously considering joining me for the next part of my own trip. He’d be very welcome company, but he’s loath to give up his harmonium lessons because he’s found an excellent instructor at the ashram. The course is also a big part of the reason he came to India and he’d feel like he was giving up and missing out on a great chance to learn about the yogic lifestyle.

After dinner we enjoy one last late-night (here 8:30 means late) ginger lemon honey drink as we look out over the Ganges under the moonlight and a few unexpected fireworks. Around 9:30 he stops by my room to tell me he had a conversation with the ashram office manager about his course and that they’re willing to let him pay the lesser amount as long as he helps out a bit in the ashram (his first assignment: data entry, perfect for an accountant-in-training). He’s decided to stay, which I think will turn out to be the right choice for him in the end.

By this point Kim has wandered into my room to recommend a bookstore down the lane where I can pick up a few books by her favorite swami so I can use them to kill time before the train. So here’s my tentative plan for the morning: yoga, internet café to blog and check train and hotel reservations, breakfast, get books at bookstore and read by beach, lunch with Bhavesh at Devraj, finally dunk in river, check-out of ashram, get online if needed, yoga, auto-rickshaw to Raiwala, train. Let’s see what it turns into.