Jaipur 

Photo album link:https://picasaweb.google.com/116253494913081133936/JaipurSeptember2011

11/9
 We had to be up at 3:00am to get a pre-reserved taxi to the station to catch a 4:40am train. Amazingly, even at that time in the morning, the 24 hour activity at the Golden Temple complex was as frenetic as ever with early morning prayers and pilgrims on the move.  

 On arrival at the station, we showed our tickets to a soldier to ask for help on locating the train. Going beyond the call of duty, he took it upon himself to look after us, leading us from one station offical to another, trying to get our reservation confirmed in to seat numbers, succesfully in the end. He then directed us to our train - we were one of the first on it, and it was only beyond 4:40 that people started to climb on - a little strange with hindsight seeing as the trains run with punctuality and normally passengers board well in advance of the departure time.
  Then someone arrived with the same seat number as ours leading to discussion and a mutual inspection of tickets, with the  requisite small crowd of interested onlookers gathering around to offer their opinions or at least follow the saga. We shortly came to the sobering realisation that we had been directed to the wrong train by the soldier. I had had some doubts when the number of the train looked inconsistent with our tickets, but not enough to challenge his direction. One of the relations of one of the real passengers climbed off the train with me to ask a station master - we had now missed our reserved train, and the best bet for us now was to get off, and book another ticket to Delhi. We were all livid - particularly as our almost adopted train was a very smart modern one.

  Huffing with the frustrations of India, and unsure now whether we would still be able to travel to Jaipur that day or not, we hauled our bags off the train and went to join the funnel shaped queue at the ticket office.
 To nurture our seething tempers further, the station master in the ticket office was curt, and did not hide his own frustrations at my apparent incompetence and lack of understanding of the protocol of booking and travelling by Indian trains. But just as my temper was strained to its limit, he looked at me as if suddenly realising something, and asked if we had been to Dharamsala.
  "Yes" I said "we were just there for 9 days".
   His face suddenly changed completely, and a big smile opened up,
"My home town is Mcleod Ganj - in two days I will be returning there to see my family". Suddenly I was no longer the annoying ignorant customer and became his best friend. He beckoned, inviting me round the side door to enter his ticket booth. It wasn't easy with my heavy wide rucksack on my back but not wanting to shirk any sign of friendship at this critical stage I shuffled through the narrow gap to be able to reach him, then stood at a slight angle, unable to straighten because of my wedged back pack, shook his hand and started to listen attentively to his life story while Jacqui and the girls looked in at us from the other side of the glass, joined by other rushed travellers needing tickets, who were obliged to wait patiently for the end of our banal chit chat. He was all smiles after this, and explained clearly everything that I needed to do, dismissing anyone that tried to interrupt him. In the end, we lost some money but managed to get another train in time for our connection to Jaipur.

 This time we were on a sleeper train, though we would be leaving the train before the evening. We had a full carriage, including a large man, with excellent English and a self professed wide knowledge on everything and everywhere, which fascinated us before it started to annoy us. The girls climbed up onto the bunks to catch a nap, while we sipped tea out of miniature plastic cups and fed on a dry omelette from the passing train stewards while chatting to our co-passengers.

  We had to change trains in Delhi, requiring a painful rucksack-encumbered maneouvring of the metro to get across to another station. Dripping in sweat, we rushed into a sort of upmarket indian fast food joint at New Delhi station, then onto the platform to get our next train. This time our seats were all together, and apart from a couple who joined us briefly we had the section to ourselves. Jacqui slept, and then I climbed up onto a bunk and had a sleep while the girls were having a distracted french lesson. The time passed quickly.

Jaipur, Rajasthan

  Knowing that we would arrive at 8:30 at night and not fancying the usual deluge of touts around us taking us to their preferred hotels or tourist offices we decided to book a room in advance and in so doing having someone pick us up at the station. It proved to be a wise move, as we were whisked away from the madding crowds, and climbed into a worn but charismatic Ambassador car. Ours was only 13 years old but the design, including its nostalgic and guileless interior would not have been very different from the first model that left an Indian production line in 1958, produced by Hindustan motors based on the Morris Oxford car. The cars are ubiquitous in India, as taxis, personal vehicles and in particular for politicians, who bring cities to a standstill as they are raced around officiously with flags waving from their wings and surrounded by convoys of siren blaring police.
 Salim, the driver, who also ran a tour business in Jaipur, was very friendly and immediately passed us his "visitors book" so that we could browse the hundreds of multi-lingual messages that western tourists had written, singing the praises of his tours. We made the right noises, which unleashed a predictable determination to book us up on his services: "I pick you up 9:00 tomorrow". We had to patiently endure, humour but ulitmately turn down his sales efforts repeatedly before we were allowed out of the car.
  The Pearl Palace hotel was delightful - well maintained, with an overall pink feel befitting of the pink city, (as Jaipur is called since 1876 when Maharaja Ram Singh had all the walls literally painted pink as a welcoming gesture on the visit of the British Prince of Wales, later to become King Edward VII) and decorated with character by murals of iconic indian images, brass and wooden artisan sculptures, wall hangings, brass elephants etc.

 The faces that greeted us were so engagingly friendly that we were disarmed of any of our usual negotiation tactics and we moved into a lovely ac room. It was immaculately fitted and tastefully decorated with painted insets in the walls, a peaceful ceiling, antique style ceiling fans, wooden furniture and topped off with the towels wrapped into the shapes of swans sitting in the middle of the beds.



 On the roof was a partly covered restaurant terrace, dimly lit, with a cool Rajasthan evening air brushing through the plants, and overlooking the ancient walls of the nearby fort.
  In short, we loved the hotel - it was an "almost budget" hotel (though by no means the cheapest) but with the trimmings, the attention to detail, and the service of a luxury hotel. Apart from the Raj Palace in Mandi, which was an unprecedented explosion of our budget, this was certainly the nicest place we had stayed so far.
   We went to eat in the restaurant on the roof terrace, but the girls were understandably exhausted after our 3:00 am start and our 17 hours on trains, taxis and metros, and were not on good form, with complaints of sore throats and ears, so we all had an early night.


12/9
It was not a good night - both girls were up with sizzlingly high temperatures, sore throats and ears. I have to shamefully admit that I was completely unaware of the drama until the morning, but Jacqui was up most of the night, comforting and  administering dispirin to one or the other. They were no better in the morning and spent the day in bed (apart fom a short interlude when we changed room to a family room that had two double beds), and with Jacqui and I mostly floating around the room.
 I found a pharmacy, and bought some antibiotics, and by evening time they were both looking much more lively, so we ventured out for a little wander aound the streets. We found an "English wine and liquor store" - a shop selling alcohol, and bought two bottles of beer, wrapped up in newspaper and stuffed into my bag, giving a suitably illicit feel. We had aperitives and played cards on the balcony in the balmy warmth of the evening before heading upstairs to the restaurant for a delicious tandoori dinner, with the girls allowed for once, under the cirumstances, a plain pasta.
  We were now in prime tourist territory - from the worn, bohemian, dreadlocked Israeli travellers that we had come across in North India, the tables around us were now alive with clean-shaven faces, chatting ethusiastically in familiar Engish and european accents, dressed in smarter clothes fresh from new-looking rucksacks, and poring over still un-tattered Lonely Planet Guidebooks. For the first time in our travels we came across another family - with children even younger than ours. We were on the famous golden triangle, between Delhi, Jaipur and Agra which makes an excellent itinerary for a visit to India for people travelling on more normal timescales than we were.


13/9
  We took it fairly easy in the morning, with Fia and Tamsin still in recuperation phase, but then headed into town to replenish our medical supplies, visit our first tourist office (we had avoided until then anything with the word "tourist" in it, but after the incredible information we received at this one, vowed never to miss one again), and then book tickets at a seemingly reputed cinema before walking on to the old town.
  The glittery streets of glass-fronted brand shops, coffee house chains and marbled hotel lobbies disappear when you pass through the time-warping gates in the old city walls and enter into the old town, which with chaotic bazaars of carpets, textiles, pottery and jewellery, latticed windows of crumbling buildings unchanged in 250 years, cycle rickshaws over-loaded with boxes fighting through the crowds of sari-clad lady shoppers, and the bustling noise of indian life is evocative of something out of the Arabian Nights.

  We sat in a small clothes shop, fighting for space in the air-current from the fan, while a moustachioed shop-owner dispatched instructions to his boy workers to pull out different variations of indian pyjama-like trousers and tops for the girls, which were laid out in front of us, one on top of the other, for our approval.

After a miniature fashion show, and a session of good hearted haggling, we walked out with a bag of clothes and two smiling children, impatient for a night out when they could dress up in full Rajasthani style.            
  As we wandered further along the bazaar, a man on the street beckoned to us and pointed up a narrow staircase that led between shops. We recognised the name of Ganesh restaurant written on a barely noticeable dusty sign, and followed the steps leading up onto the top of the old city wall, with views out to the modern metropolis in one direction and the historic past in the other. In the hot balmy night, we sat at simple metal tables in this magical atmosphere, while our meal was being cooked in a make-shift looking kitchen of pots and coal fires, then fed on curried vegetables and rice, while the mosquitos fed on us.


14/9  
We found a tailor working at his sewing machine in a room hardly wide enough for my shoulders, in a dilapidated part of town.

 My shorts were nearing their last days, with holes worn in them and the zip broken, but for 20 rupees (0,25 euros) this industrious tradesman picked and stitched while we waited, and with a new zip and patches, gave them a last breath of their now hard-wearing life.
  We accepted one of the many overly persistent rickshaw drvers that hung outside the hotel like vultures, then regretted it when he stopped his rickshaw cutting our much needed lifeline of cooling air flow, to allow us time to browse his visitors book of glowing comments of his day tours to local sights, written in all languages. Managing to restrain our tempers we repeatedly declined until finally, as our bodies were reaching boiling point, he restarted the engine and we moved on.




 We visited the City palace, a beautiful architectural example of the era and full of fascinating paintings of Rajput rulers and life. This proud clan has inhabited the Rajasthan area for more than 1000 years, leaving a historic legacy that fulfills our most romantic visions of India's past: fabulous palaces with stone and wood latticed wondows and giant brass doors, warriors whose courage, dignity and honour are the subject of fables, maharajas bathed in extravagance, majestic clothing rich in characteristic reds, yellows and gold, thought to have originated as a contrast to the dry dusty desert landscapes, mounted on elaborately decorated elephants as part of the all-important tiger hunting expeditions. The Rajputs ruled in independent, sometimes warring states, initially resisting when the Moguls conquered most of India in the 16'th century, before finally acquiescing and co-habiting with Mogul rule. Similarly, the British allowed them to maintained their positions of royalty, and sumptuous lifestyles in exchange for a convenient allegiance to colonial rule.

 Jaipur, the capital of Rajsthan, was named after its founder, Maharaja Jai Singh II, who moved his capital here from nearby Amber hill in 1767, shortly before work started on this palace. His huge silver urn is on display inside. It took Jaipur's silversmiths two years to make, in time for him to carry sufficient supplies of holy water from the River Ganges to last him on his trip to England for the coronation of King Edward VII, it's recorded in the Guinness book of records as the largest object made from silver.  
 Hot and tired, we stopped for a fruit lassie on our way back, served in throw-away terracotta conical beakers, while we stood in the street. This creamy, lumpy curd drink was so delicious that we never forgot it, and on our return to Jaipur several weeks later, we hunted out this stall, salivating in anticipation, only to find that they had finished their curd for the day.


After some catch-up on the diaries and a little snooze, we were ready for our night out. Fia and Tamsin looked like two Maharan princesses in their new outfits, as we entered the mythical Raj Mandir cinema. Reputed to be the number one Hindi cinema in India, the outside is retro cinematic style with 70's neon and coloured lights, and the inside decorated in theatrical elegance, velvety seats, high swirling ceilings and pink walls lined with lamps.
  We saw "Bodyguard" (a recent Bollywood blockbuster and not the Whitney Houston one). It was all the rage while we were there, with posters of the much adored Karine Kapoor, staring down on every street, and the upbeat modernised Hindi soundtrack dominating air waves. It had everything we could have hoped for - soppy romance, fast action fight-scenes where the hero defies overwhelming odds to send goofy baddies flying in all directions, dance scenes where whole villages join in innocent synchronised movements behind the heroine, and farcical comedy, and we cheered and clapped with the rest of the audience. Fia and Tamsin absolutely adored it, as did we. It was of course, completely in Hindi, but the mostly predictable story was easy to follow, except for an unexpected twist at the end which left us a little confused. We sat afterwards drinking pomegranate juices at a street shack, far from the escapist world of Karin Kapoor's character, and crowded around Jacqui while she googled on the phone to clarify this last tantalising link. The girls were glued to every word that she read, and that night, went to sleep with the joys of Bollywood romance in their hearts.


15/9
The next day we fumbled our way through the buses to get out to Amber fort, visible from Jaipur on its gracefully elevated position on a surrounding ridge, but 11 km out of town.
The fort was built in 1592 by Maharaja Man Singh and served as the palace until Jai Singh moved the capital to Jaipur when Mughal power in India started to crumble. We climbed up a steep path to get there, pausing to wait for a train of regally decorated elephants to pass, with sheepish looking tourists clinging onto the platforms saddled to the elephants' backs.  
 The fort-palace was beautifuly integrated into the rocky hillside with defensive walls snaking along the ridges in either direction like the Great Wall of China. It was a labyrinthe of pinkish sand-coloured stone walls, courtyards and corridors, with audience
halls gridded by grand pillars, and elephant-sized entrance gates, intricately decorated in magnificent mosaics.

Fia and Tamsin were able to run around and explore secret passageways before donning Rajasthan turbans to sit down and join our first snake charmer, who whined away on his pungi while a bored looking cobra wiggled its way upwards out of his basket, before being stuffed back in again with the lid.

In the evening, we dropped in to the rotating restaurant, the top level of an expensive hotel, and built on a cirular platform that gradually rotates to give you the full stunning panoramic of Jaipur and the surrounding hills. The price of our longed-after aperitive was prohibitively expensive so we ended up drinking a dreadful cup of tea, just dragging it out long enough to see the sun set over the horizon. Dinner was then at LMB's - a slightly more reasonably priced restaurant in the old City, but the exaggerated number of smartly uniformed stern-faced waiters managed to create a suppressively stuffy atmosphere with their own sense of self-importance, and we were glad to leave as soon as we had eaten.

  16/9
After strenuous negotiations with the gaggle of trickster rickshaw drivers outside the hotel, we went out of town on a  long rickshaw ride to the temples at Galta.

It is known as the monkey temple, not because of any worship to Hanuman, the Monkey God, but because it is inundated with hordes of monkeys. Nestled into rock faces, this amazing, dry and dusty complex of crumbling walls, cupola towers and bathing pools feels like the lost city, with the scavenging, nit-picking monkeys adding the final touch to complete the picture of Rudyard Kiplings Jungle book hideout. We wandered around the ruins, passing only a handful of pilgrims coming to pay their respects, and a group of locals enjoying the bathing tank - the men and boys stripped down to underpants with two fully-clothed ladies showering themselves from a bucket.

 Later we went to the Hawa Mahan - the palatial residences built in the midde of the old city for the ladies of the royal household to indulge in their frivolity, playing games, taking scented baths and dancing to musicians, and to observe major street events through eye-sized holes in latticed windows while remaining hidden from the harsh world outside. The circular steps up the 5 floors were accompanied by a ramp to allow the servants easier access when the ladies, too encumbered by their own weight and their jewellery to mount the steps themselves, needed to be carried.

 We had a night train to Udaipur to catch, and went back to the hotel to pick up our rucksacks. Mr Singh, who together with his wife, was the impressive owner and manager of the Pearl Palace Hotel, insisted on taking us to see his new development, the Pearl Palace Heritage hotel, just opening. We agreed, and left with him in the car to share his enthusiasm for this new project of extremely well appointed rooms, styled in Indian themes, and adorned with archaeological touches, before heading to the station.