The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

CHAPTER NINETEEN - PUSHKAR

Our driver was in his mid-twenties, tall and slim. He looked for all the world as if he had been scrubbed up by his mum and sent out to work that morning in his freshly laundered shirt and neatly pressed trousers. He was as proud as punch of his shiny cream Ambassador car, and he jittered about in his seat nervously when he saw me fiddling with the curtains that covered the windows to block out the sun.
It was only the knowledge that the car probably meant more than life itself to the driver that convinced me we would make it to Pushkar.
The drive was the most terrifying, nerve-racking, nauseating, prolonged, death-defying three hours we had endured.
The problem emanated from the fact that the road was straight and wide. This meant that for the entire joy ride we were able to join in with all the other vehicles on the road that were playing chicken. We overtook in a series of sharp arcs, screeching out from behind heavily laden lorries and swerving back in front of them, missing on coming vehicles by inches.
Within 30 minutes our happy chatter and comments on passing scenery ceased as we stared fixedly at the road in front. At one point I was so terrified that I asked the driver to slow down. He seemed a little crestfallen. Perhaps we were supposed to be mightily impressed by his car handling ability. He did do as I asked but it made little difference. The technique remained the same and the drop in speed merely made the journey longer.
To add to the discomfort, we could see from a thermometer on the dashboard that the temperature inside the car was now
40 C or 105 F. My sweat was not from fear alone! Never, never, never, would I take a car on a trip of any length in this bloody country ever again. And we had looked upon the ride as a luxury.
We were going to Pushkar because we had heard that it was interesting; that it was a great alternative to sitting in Delhi waiting for a flight home and it was possible to buy all manner of stuff there, from clothing to drugs. But we had really chosen to go as an alternative to Delhi and also because with the time we had left we couldn’t reach the other places we would have liked to see such as Jaisalmer and Udaipur.
Pushkar sounded O.K. in the guidebook but so had Gokarna, and if it hadn’t been for the journey from hell we would probably have arrived feeling far more anxious than we did. In fact we were glad we had arrived anywhere at all, other than a hospital.
Billy Bunter had given us two tips for accommodation in Pushkar and Robin and Pam had insisted there was only one place to stay and that was The Pushkar Palace.
It was rather late in the day to promise myself not to listen to other people’s recommendations, but in retrospect we had usually done well when we found places for ourselves.
We had an added annoyance on arrival at Pushkar. When I directed the driver to the first of Billy’s recommendations, he tried to jump out of the car before me and beat me to the reception. If I had allowed him to do that the hotel would have given him a commission for delivering us, and that price would be added to our bill.
Brian yelled: “ Oy, just a minute.” as I made good my escape. In his brief moment of hesitation I was out of the car and asking the porter to show me a couple of rooms.
They were fine. They were clean and basic, but when the shutters were opened and I was asked to admire the swimming pool I decided that the likelihood that we would ever use it was nil. Therefore I didn’t see the point of paying the extra it would inevitably cost to stay in a hotel that offered the facility.
The pool was the size of two large saloon cars. A small rectangle of blue water in the centre of baking concrete, surrounded by walls glowing with the heat, looked more of a threat than a pleasure.
The next hotel was rather rowdy with scruffy westerners jumping in and out of a square of water the size of a plunge pool. It looked like it could be the communal bath.
To fool the driver for my next two visits we asked him to pull up on the side of the road and I walked off leaving Brian in the car.
I could immediately see why Pam and Robin had liked Pushkar Palace. It had an attractive ambience and a beautiful setting and could best be described as Rajasthan’s answer to a country house hotel in England.
The prices were potty, although we could have slept on the roof for about £1! The cheap rooms were very small but they were charming and most importantly had air conditioning.
I would never have contemplated such extravagance at the beginning of our trip, but it was much hotter now and we were both past the stage of suffering for a few extra pounds. It also meant the difference between misery and enjoyment during our final days.
I booked in for two nights and walked back to the taxi for Brian. When we pulled up outside, the driver jumped out and went to the reception and began a heated discussion. He was clearly asking for a hand-out for delivering us, but the smartly dressed manager appeared to be telling him in Hindi to “‘sling his hook.” An excited exchange of words took place as we nonchalantly unloaded our baggage, and when the driver realised he was going to get nowhere he turned to us hoping for a tip.
He was disappointed.
Before we could stop him, a porter grabbed our luggage. He would also want a tip and the only thing that made us feel better was the fact that he nearly gave himself a hernia when he lifted up the boxes containing the bathroom fittings.
Pushkar was very small, not quite large enough to be a town and too big for a village. It was built around the edges of a small lake which was hardly bigger than a boating pond. Five minutes in a rowing boat would have easily taken us to the other side.
Pushkar Palace stood at the side of the water and commanded a view of all the points of interest, the ghats and the temples and rooftop restaurants, all of which were clinging to the shoreline. For India it was picturesque.
Pushkar was on the very edge of the desert and was an important pilgrimage place for Hindus. There were also plenty of sadhus. It was famous for its Camel Fair which attracted thousands. It was now a mammoth tourist attraction as much as a traditional event. Because of that, we were told, it attracted hundreds of thieves and pickpockets.
Before even reaching our room I fell victim to the hotel’s tour organiser. He could tell from one glance that I was a woman hankering for a Camel Safari. I eagerly listened to his sales pitch and within moments was 1200rps lighter.
He assured me that I wouldn’t find better value elsewhere and that the camels were of the best quality. I contented myself with the fact that it wasn’t much to pay for a morning on a camel for two, but I also acknowledged that we were now spending more in a day than we had been spending in a week. Either Rajasthan was expensive or I knew that we were on our way home soon and the penny-pinching seemed pointless.
The room was cool and comfortable although it was a very tight squeeze. We crammed our bags into any available spaces, showered, and immediately went out to explore.
A short distance along a dirt road were steep steps leading down to the water’s edge. Opposite the steps and set out like a continental street café with wicker chairs and tables with bright yellow tablecloths, was the aptly named Sunset Café. We did go there later to watch the sunset, which resulted in making us feel more annoyed than relaxed.
It had been full of irritating westerners ‘‘ I’ve been to India, man, and I’ve got the nose studs and henna tattoos to prove it, man.’’
They had all tried hard to look like individuals and all looked exactly the same.
We were further exasperated when one scruffy Herbert decided we would all benefit from his playing a large set of bongos to accompany the vanishing sun. He was quickly joined by a young girl of sizeable proportions, dressed in Seventies hippy uniform, who wafted about to the rhythm of the drums, attempting to emulate something ethereal and failing miserably. Everyone around was trying so hard to be so cool and the atmosphere was crackling with the effort.
Turning left from the hotel we headed for the heart of Pushkar. The road and was lined with stall after stall containing merchandise to tempt the traveller and pilgrim. Close to the temples were stalls selling religious paraphernalia and trinkets aimed more at the Indian market, but for the most part the stalls were geared to the foreigner.
Silver jewellery was in abundance and the craftsmanship and the designs were brilliant. We could see why people would come here to buy for their businesses. With clearly a long history of trading with such people, the Indian storekeepers were easier to deal with. Initially their prices would be ridiculous but once they realised that we were serious and hadn’t just stepped off the aircraft they got down to business.
There were some unusual clothes, undoubtedly copied from foreign styles, but the stock at most of the stalls was dusty and faded. It was the end of the season in Pushkar and many of the traders were grumpy and out of sorts. It had been a bad year for them as they had lost trade with the lack of tourists at the height of their season because of the Millennium.
We were inundated by offers to ride camels and all at a fraction of the cost I had paid. We realised that whoever sold the safaris was irrelevant; the camels were all supplied from the same source. 600 rps for two bought us a camel ride for four hours the next afternoon and Brian retrieved our money, with menaces, from the tour guide at the hotel. We formulated a new saying that day. To be ripped off would henceforth be known as being “ Pushkar Palaced. “
As there was little air to breathe by 2pm we went to look at the only swimming pool that we hadn’t already seen. It was at the Hotel Sarovar. The pool was very nice, a medium-sized expanse of cold water liberally sprinkled with dead leaves, the occasional beetle, and an unusual breed of swimming ant.
However, it was surrounded by grass and flowering bushes and had a pleasing view of the lake, the desert and a tiny temple balancing precariously on top of a tall thin hill.
We collected our swimming tog, paid our entry fee, and stood up to our necks in the blessedly cool water for the rest of the afternoon.
Later that evening we dined on a rooftop at one of the restaurants overlooking the water. I was still avoiding Indian food wherever possible and was therefore enjoying a diet of boiled rice and bananas, but Brian knew no such restraints and ploughed into the menu. Sadly it did not satisfy his Desperate Dan appetite and as we were walking back to our room he stopped at a street stall, and bought a chapatti-type snack stuffed with cheese.
We were unable to decide later whether it was that which made him feel ill or the food in the restaurant. Either way, it was only by the administration of several doses of Imodium that we made it to the camel safari.
The next morning we tried a place close to the hotel for breakfast. It was called Shiva’s and had buffet breakfasts, lunches and dinners. We had shied away from buffets as food would not be freshly cooked and could have been reheated countless times. We thought that we couldn’t go far wrong with breakfast. Not that Brian had much of an appetite. His interests lay in the availability of a decent toilet.
Shiva’s was large and part of it was open air with tables extending into a scrubby garden area. A long table was laden with dishes covered with stainless steel domed lids. We sat at an adjacent table out of the sunlight, close enough to the exit for Brian to make a mad dash back to the hotel if necessary.
The drill was to pay 80rps each and then eat and drink as much as we liked. I realised that I had arrived in veggie pig heaven when I lifted the lids covering the dishes.
There was every type of fruit, honey, jam, brown toast [which was delicious], white toast, corn flakes, tomatoes and yoghurt. Brian sat with porridge and water while I scoffed bananas, oranges, cornflakes, toast and butter, toast and honey, toast and bananas and toast and tomatoes. I love toast. I was like an alcoholic in a brewery. I then drank tea, tea and more tea and then I exploded. It was lovely. I thoroughly enjoyed every mouthful.
If it hadn’t been for the setback in Mamallapuram I would have continued to eat Indian food, but there was no escaping the fact that wherever we ate there was the same taste, and my stomach still wasn’t ready for it.
Brian, on the other hand, lost all interest in eating, as I assured him that large helpings of spicy food would not help his stomach upset. He hated ordering bland dishes and he survived the following days on porridge and rice pudding.
We spent the morning at the pool and at 2pm left to prepare ourselves for our expedition. Poor old Brian was feeling really uncomfortable but was determined to participate. It was the last opportunity we would have.
At 3 pm with the temperature still high we presented ourselves at the beginnings of a track close to the lake. Here we met Gopal and VeeJay, two scruffy young boys who were to be our guides, and Hare and Krishna, the transport.
The camels were not a pretty pair and Krishna’s stumpy teeth, green tongue and foul breath did not endear him to me. They were both sitting down and so we were able to climb aboard straight away and it was only when they stood up that I realised that they were 30ftt tall.
I was sitting on Krishna and he was the taller of the two. I couldn’t understand why they had not given him to Brian. It was such a long way down to the ground and the saddle had no hand-holds. As we set off I decided to plan an emergency escape. I removed my feet from the stirrups so that it would be easier to dive over the hump and into the sand if Krishna tried to make a bid for freedom. As I became more used to the camel’s gait and began to relax I could see that the reins were attached to the camel’s nostril by means of a rather deadly-looking spike. It occurred to me that, should the beast decide to gallop off, providing I had the presence of mind, a sharp tug on the reins would pull him up very quickly. It would be like tugging on a string attached to a pierced ear. Ouch!
Brian was well out in front and I had no idea whether or not he was comfortable, but he certainly looked the part. The two young boys led us along for a while and I felt really guilty and uncomfortable with them trudging through the sand beside us as we rode. I momentarily felt more uncomfortable when they bade us farewell and shouted that they would catch us up and the camels knew where they were going. Then I remembered the spike.
I loved every minute of it, although I am not sure I could make a four or five day safari as, when we spoke with the boys about it, it sounded like a giant booze up in the desert. Personally I couldn’t think of anything worse than waking up in the blazing sun in the middle of a desert with a hangover.
I felt very sorry for anyone who took a camel ride who was not accustomed to the sun. Mr Now-I’ve-got-my-base-colour-I-won’t-burn was a tad crimson in parts by the time we returned.
Apart from a great deal of sand and a very nice sunset, I did point out a large lake among the dunes and I wondered if it was an oasis. When we rejoined VeeJay and Gopal they said they always stayed away from it as it was all the waste and sewage from the hotels in Pushkar.
When we rode back into the town it was dusk and from our vantage point we couldn’t help but look down and see that men and boys were squatting down behind the walls along the road, poohing. I have heard of a call to prayer, but a community pooh was something I had never contemplated.
I could imagine the fathers and sons as the sun went down, and dad saying: “Come on then, son, it’s that time of the day, time for a bowel movement, get your turban and let’s be off.’’
We came across two groups of people standing beside large bonfires, but there were no sausages or hamburgers so we guessed it wasn’t a barbecue. Gopal and VeeJay happily informed us that it was a couple of cremations, and said that there was one there most evenings. I thought there would be a smell but there wasn’t. And there wasn’t much of a turn out either.
The next morning Brian was feeling better and was almost able to damage the breakfast buffet at Shiva’s as much as I did.
We needed to buy some strong tape to secure one of the packages and we were instructed to walk along Sweetie Street where we would find the shop we needed.
It was early and there were no other westerners about, but the Indians were rousing themselves and a little girl came out of her house right in front of us and did a giant pooh on the street. The fruit and veg man was right next-door and he could see that I was less than impressed.
We found Sweetie Street and it had the same smell as LMB, like boiled sugar and butter, but there the similarity ended. It was a narrow alley and the vendors and their wares sat on platforms 3ft above the street.
Below the platforms were fires that heated the ingredients for the delicacies, so in addition to the sickly smell the alley was very hot. Sweets and woks of boiling oil with sugary dollops floating in them were displayed, as were large dishes of something that resembled solidified rice pudding. Swarms of flies buzzed around, confused as to which sticky thing to sit on next.
We walked between the stalls and along the street, avoiding the open drain that ran its length and dodging between the cows that had decided to wander down towards us. I would be sticking to Thornton’s for my sweets.
By the time we had returned to our room we had another saying. If anything was less than savoury, we would say: “ Lovely. Just like sweetie street.’’
Having packed our bags yet again we carried them to the reception and we took a taxi for the 15-minute ride to Ajmer where we would catch our train to Delhi.
We were about to board the Rajasthan Express. It was a long journey, eight hours, but we would be in the air-conditioned chair car carriage and we were sure we would be comfortable. I was going to stock up with provisions in Ajmer so we would have food and water for the journey. Then we could sit back and relax.