The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - JAIPUR
(Printable
version here)
The seats were very comfortable in the Chair Car, and we
settled down for a pleasant journey. The carriage was quickly
filled and most of the occupants were middle-aged French tourists
on an organised trip. There were about 15 couples and they
were being shepherded by a tall Sikh. Neither he nor any of
his party spoke English which was to prove entertaining.
The French had been supplied with "le packed lunch"
and within the first hour were dispensing the contents of
these little packages to the beggars at every station. The
station masters and porters were incensed and chased the beggars
away with sticks as they were clearly trying to stop the scavenging.
We smiled at the faces of some of the beggars who regarded
their good fortune with quizzical looks. We supposed that
they hadn’t seen sliced white bread, cut into triangles
with the crusts removed, stuffed with some sort of yellow
paste, and then placed in a plastic box. But then neither
had we, for a long time. Unperturbed by the wrath of the station
staff the French continued to dispense boiled eggs, bananas,
apples and cake. All very philanthropic.
We hadn’t brought much with us by way of provisions
but we expected to be in Jaipur by lunchtime
No more than two hours into our journey we became aware
that the train had been dragging along at a snail’s
pace for more time than was normal when waiting for a signal
change. An Indian went to check things out and came back with
the news of a derailment which would inevitably delay our
train.
After selfishly thanking God that it hadn’t happened
to our train, we considered how long this derailment might
take to clear up. When we thought of the amount of discussion,
paperwork and form filling that would be required by the authorities
before any work was likely to begin, we decided that we should
make ourselves comfortable for the next two days at least.
The Indian passengers were very philosophical which indicated
that this hiccup was a regular occurrence and they were estimating
a delay of a couple of hours. The French were blissfully unaware
of the problem and were cheerfully jabbering on and filming
each other. Occasionally one of the men would return from
a visit to the toilets with a grimace and an "Oh la la."
After a further 40 minutes with nothing to see out of the
windows except desert, they seemed to appoint a spokesman
who approached the Sikh for information.
Galvanised into action, he asked the men behind us who explained
the problem, which was translated, and then relayed to the
tour group. Much more "Oh la la" and "Merde"
but for the most part the men shrugged and the women giggled
and they all seemed to regard it as part of the big adventure.
Not so two hours later. I am sorry to say that their growing
discomfort fuelled our enjoyment. The temperature began to
rise as the air conditioning was switched off and the French
realised that they were getting hungry. The women decided
that they needed the toilets - something they had been trying
to avoid - and then a few of the couples started to argue
with each other.
A rumour flashed around that there would be buses laid on
at the next station to take everyone to Jaipur. We could hardly
believe this but the Sikh informed his group and the statement
was met with nods of approval.
As we pulled in to the next station the French picked up their
hand luggage and prepared to get off. Most of the Indian passengers
jumped down to the platform and went to speak with the station
master. He was surrounded by a mob of men, plus the train
conductor, all wanting to know what was happening. We were
sure he didn’t have an answer but we were equally sure
that he would make something up.
The Indians, who had left their luggage on board [they knew
we were going nowhere], returned to their seats with an array
of interesting possibilities.
Amongst these were: we would reverse all the way to Jodhpur;
buses would come; we would be delayed 4 hours, 6 hours, 10
hours; we must leave the train at the next stop and take a
taxi to our destination, and finally we should just wait.
The Sikh didn’t know which translation to give, and
after another false alarm at the next station we were sure
that there would be a mutiny if the French had dared to get
off the train on their own. They all jumped up and grabbed
their bags again, and half the Indians on the train were agreeing
in English that they should get off and take taxis while the
other half were saying it was crazy; they should stay where
they were.
The Sikh didn’t know what to do, and finally he got
off the train, bought a big bag of oranges which he handed
out to his group and bravely told them to sit down.
More of the couples were arguing by now and some had passed
that stage and were sitting with their arms folded and were
not talking at all. The delay didn’t bother us; we were
being kept fully entertained. We finally arrived in Jaipur
at 4.30p.m. The delay had been about 5 hours
It was, as we expected, even hotter here and we had the customary
battle with porters and drivers but we eventually found the
pre-paid taxi rank and booked a rickshaw to take us to the
hotel.
I had thought that the hotel was quite close to the station
but it seemed to be miles and I was calculating that the distance
would be too far for us to walk into the city.
When we pulled up at the entrance my heart sank. It looked
like a dilapidated pile of bricks. I jumped out and suggested
that Brian and the driver wait; I did not have a good feeling
about this.
I was right. The porter was extremely rude. I did not tell
him that I already had a reservation and I asked to see some
rooms.
I was sure that both of the rooms would have been splendid
50 years ago, which was around the time they had last been
cleaned. I was neither impressed nor amused. I couldn’t
believe that we had been recommended to go to this dump by
the Ajit.
I asked the driver to take us to the Taj hotel, and when
we arrived I could see why he had looked at us strangely when
I asked him to go there. It was mega swish and the tariff
showed we would have to win the lottery before we made reservations.
The driver was overwhelmingly friendly and his sincerity had
absolutely no ring of truth to it. It was becoming nauseating,
but we were now in need of a room and he was telling us he
knew just the place. We knew that this meant he would get
a hefty commission but the city was much bigger than I had
expected and I did not feel inclined to start looking for
a room now.
He took us to a very quaint family run hotel with a mini pool
in the garden and we booked in to a clean and pleasant room
with temperamental air conditioning.
Before the driver left he insisted that we should hire him
to take us shopping. We knew that meant more commission for
him from the shops he took us to.
We did actually have some precise shopping plans for Jaipur.
We had been saving them for the end of the trip and we decided
that given the size of the city this driver could be of use.
We booked him to return in an hour and agreed a price for
the rest of the evening. As his eyes shone with pleasure we
knew that he was not going to be subsidising his fare with
any commission. We would not, as he imagined, be buying the
usual jewellery, fabric and souvenirs.
We asked him to take us to a shop where we could buy door
handles. This tested his English, but by sign language he
got the idea. We told him that we would definitely be buying
souvenirs later.
The original old city of Jaipur was one huge bazaar with
different areas specialising in different merchandise. We
were sure that most travellers went to the jewellery, fabric
or clothing quarter. We went to the D.I.Y. section of builder’s
and plumber’s merchants.
We found a wonderfully smart shop that sold every type of
door furniture that we could ever want. I was ooohhhing and
aaahhing at every box the helpful shop assistant opened for
me. The cost of the items was negligible and our only problem
was going to be carriage. Well, Brian’s problem really,
as he would be the packhorse when it came to this shipment.
With great difficulty I restrained myself in the purchasing
department and we inquired about plumber’s merchants,
as we wanted to look at bathroom fittings. Luckily there was
a plumber’s merchant around the back. Brian made his
way there while I paid for our purchases and watched as they
were securely packed. I left the package and driver at the
shop and went to the plumbers.
For a country that had few decent bathrooms or toilets the
shop was laden with luxury fittings. We bought towel racks,
soap dishes, and even a toilet roll holder. The quality was
excellent and the designs top class.
By the time we had finished all the shops were closing and
it was quite late. Our driver had lost his bonhomie and didn’t
talk quite so much on the subject of being our best friend.
We placated him by telling him he could take us shopping again
and if he gave us a good price he could take us to the Amber
Fort about 11km out of town.
We then asked if he would take us to a good veggie restaurant.
He suggested one close to the hotel, so he definitely wanted
to be rid of us.
We were unceremoniously dumped at the top of the road leading
to our hotel and outside a very average looking snack bar
which was also the local pool hall. Inside it wasn’t
bad at all, the food was fine and the young waiter, although
flustered was very helpful. There was one other westerner
dining. We were too far off the beaten track to see many other
tourists.
Back at the hotel it seemed that we had missed out on an
evening’s entertainment. There had been a puppet show
in the miniscule garden. We were able to catch the last act
and it was amusing and cleverly performed. Flushed with our
success and bargains at the shops I not only tipped the puppeteers
but also entered into negotiations to buy a puppet. It became
yet another act of faith and kindness doomed to lead to aggravation
and disaster.
I negotiated a reasonable price. We had plummeted from 1000rps
to 250 for a tall female dancing puppet. I explained that
it had to be dressed in dark blue and red and no other colours
would be acceptable. I even found examples of the correct
colours and gave the puppeteers 100rps deposit. They said
that they would return the next evening with the finished
item.
The next day we had decided to explore the streets of Jaipur
on our own and to visit the City Palace and the Hawa Mahal,
the Palace of Winds. Already my imagination was in overdrive.
They both sounded romantic.
Within 15 minutes of setting off we were both overcome with
the desire for a loo. We were both suffering from something
- nothing that was making us feel ill, just a little distressed
at being too far from a toilet. That is not the best way to
feel in India. Fortunately we saw a big Ashok hotel so in
we went to use their facilities.
The hotel was large and faded and very tatty around the edges
but it had what we needed. We decided to have breakfast there,
just toast and tea, let our stomachs settle and see if it
would be wise to move on.
The dining room was laid out like a Lyons teahouse in faded
glory. There were six Indian businessmen dining and one western
man. He was the fellow we had seen the previous evening in
the veggie restaurant.
We sat down to order and as the toast arrived the westerner
came over to our table. He reminded me of a Beatnik. He was
very pale with a gaunt face and wispy moustache and goatee
beard. He was smartly dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and
beige shorts and sandals. As he reached the table he extended
his hand to me, looked directly into my eyes and said: "Ve
haf met before."
I was just about to say, yes, you were in the restaurant last
night, when he said: "In a previous life."
Two things happened. I felt my scalp and arm tingle and Brian’s
face froze. I wasn’t sure if he was about to choke on
his toast or hit the man. If I hadn’t been so intrigued
I would have laughed.
We spent the next 40 minutes discussing several topics heatedly
and for 35 of those minutes the man bravely ignored Brain.
He was German, and he said he couldn’t quite pin down
when we had met but it was possibly in the late 17th Century
and he was sure that it was in Italy.
We agreed on so much during the subsequent conversation that
I thought it was quite possible we had known each other, and
what a vile pair we would have made given the topics on which
we so happily concurred. My mind wandered during his ramblings
and I imagined myself suitably attired holding court in some
grand old mansion in the back streets of Venice.
We went on to discuss his loathing of the Indian nation and
their racist policies and he told us a tale in great detail
of his attempts to avoid paying "the white man’s
charge" to visit palaces and museums.
We drew disgusted looks from the other diners when he became
almost hysterical about the graffiti at Amber Fort and litter
in general. I had the chance to add only a few, absolutelys
and a spattering of, yes, yes and quite so's, while Brian
glowered over his cups of tea and eventually made me feel
too uncomfortable to continue.
I bade the German farewell and Brian went to the cash desk
to pay the bill. Outside in reply to my: "Wasn’t
that interesting?"
I received a withering look as he said: "Some bloody
chat up line, that!" And then in a high pitched voice
added, "Haven’t I met you before……
in a previous life? Bloody joker"
After a further 30 minutes of hot foot-slogging through
the suburbs we were sorely tempted to take a rickshaw but
the hassle that came with it made us keep walking.
The City Palace was in the heart of the old city and after
all the rave reviews we had been given of Jaipur we were expecting
great things.
We accepted the inevitability of the exorbitant entry fee
and paid up in expectation of glorious buildings and a sanctuary
from the madness outside in the bazaar. We were beyond disappointment
with the spectacle that greeted us. We were shocked.
The son of the last Maharaja and his family still lived
in part of the palace and his wife must have decided to have
a spring clean. All over the first courtyard were broken carts,
old mattresses and lumps of wood.
The Diwan-i-am, the hall of public audience, was an enormous
raised platform in the centre of one of the courtyards. It
may well have been a point of interest had it not been stacked
to the roof with plastic chairs.
The armoury was dreadful and the palace guards stood around
smoking cigarettes, which they quickly put behind their backs
at any suggestion of a photo opportunity. Having had their
photo taken they stuck out their free hand for a tip.
The City Palace had none of the majesty of the fort in Jodhpur
where the guards were smartly turned out, pleasant and helpful.
We didn’t linger and disgustedly made our way out and
went in search of the Hawa Mahal.
We had difficulty in locating it and eventually we were forced
to ask a stallholder. He looked at us as if we were stupid
and pointed behind him.
If the derelict terracotta-coloured wall with the countless
broken windows was indeed the Palace of Winds, we had been
walking up and down in front of it for the past 20 minutes.
When we had arrived in Jaipur, our rickshaw driver had pointed
out three unusual sites, all of which were used for the same
purpose.
Each site had an enormous wooden façade of an archetypal
Indian palace. They looked like giant cardboard cut-outs.
Windows and doors had been painted on the frontages with varying
degrees of success and in front of these 'sets' were tables
and chairs and garish decorations.
These sites were for hire and they formed the backdrop of
Indian weddings. They gave the illusion of being married in
grandeur and we guessed that the better the cut-out the more
expensive the wedding. We hoped that the photographers would
be sufficiently professional to avoid including in the happy
snaps the alarming angle which the structures made with the
ground and the promise of imminent collapse that two of the
frontages had.
The Hawa Mahal was nothing more than one of these sets,
in fact it was probably the original. It stood like a battered
old advertising hoarding and left us with our mouths agape.
A quick look at the guidebook told us that it was built in
1799 and was one of Jaipur’s major landmarks.. If it
was just a wall why call it a palace?
There were five imaginary floors and lots of windows. It was
originally built so that ladies of the royal household could
climb up the stairs attached to the back and look out over
the city and watch processions.
I took pictures hoping to show what an absolute mess the place
was, but we later discovered that it is almost impossible
to take a bad picture in India. As they say:"You had
to be there!"
We made for the LMB, the restaurant I had tried to make
the driver take us to the previous evening. It was in Johari
Bazaar and not too far away, and was mentioned in the guidebook
as having food that "promoted longevity, intelligence,
vigour, health and cheerfulness." We actually needed
the lot. We were very disappointed with the palaces and feeling
hot and a bit ropey.
Laxmi Mishthan Bhandar was certainly different. The front
of the building opened on to the street and sold Indian sweets
and pastries piled high in towers of sticky sweetness. There
was an overpowering smell of boiled sugar and butter, and
feeling as we did it was rather nauseating.
Inside it was very clean and reminded me of a Lyons or Debenhams
restaurant in the late Fifties. We had a cool drink as we
didn’t much feel like eating. We discussed our plans
for the journey to Pushkar, our penultimate destination in
India. We had heard that there were special tourist buses
from Jaipur direct to Pushkar, and they would be so much easier
now that we were carrying so much more gear, even if we didn’t
like the sound of "tourist bus."
We left LMB and made our way back to the Umaid for a cup
of tea at the side of the swimming pool. It wasn’t much
larger than a fishpond, but the son of the owner, who was
a big lump of a lad, came out and spoke to us. He was pleasant
enough and entertained us with stories of his family and his
school days.
His father had been a senior officer in the army and the children
had been educated in private boarding schools. This particular
son was only 22 but he had played polo for the school and
his family owned a small herd of polo ponies. We had the impression
that he was a bit of a tear-away but he had a very British
sense of humour and made us laugh.
We told him that we wanted to go to Rambagh Palace, once the
home of the Maharaja of Jaipur and now owned by the Taj Hotel
Group.
We knew that it was outrageously expensive but we thought
we would get really dressed up and have a meal and a smidgen
of luxury. It wouldn’t have taken much to put me off
the whole idea as I needed only to recall Bolgatty Palace
and the two examples we had seen earlier that day to realise
that maybe Ratbag Palace may be a more apt name for our proposed
romantic evening.
We asked Billy Bunter, as we had christened him, if he could
organise a taxi for us, as I had no intention of arriving
at the hotel in my bit of finery dishevelled from a rickshaw
ride.
Billy also suggested that we should take a taxi to Pushkar
instead of a bus. We knew that meant "it will be easier
for you and I can earn some money from it too." We asked
him to make inquiries and give us a price.
That evening we went no farther than the restaurant at the
top of the road and when we returned the puppet sellers were
waiting.
I was ready to pay up until I saw the hideous monstrosity
they presented me with. Pea green and pink was nowhere near
red and blue, and I gave my disapproval free rein. I became
even angrier as they gave one pathetic excuse after another.
The truth was it was one of the dolls from the previous night
and they hadn’t even tried to comply with my request.
Practically foaming at the mouth I went inside to fetch Billy
who within seconds reduced them to a quivering heap with a
verbal assault in Hindu.
I had my deposit returned.
We weren’t entirely surprised the next morning when
our rickshaw driver failed to turn up to take us to Amber
Fort and on a shopping trip. The thought of visiting more
D.I.Y. shops had clearly frightened him off.
Within five minutes we found a miserable replacement to take
us. He had a face like a slapped bum, but at least we didn’t
have to endure a 30-minute journey listening to him proclaiming
undying friendship.
As we rattled and bounced through the old bazaar and out
the other side we were treated to glimpses of suburban life
in Rajasthan and I still had the uncanny feeling we were on
a film set for Star Wars. I was sure that at any moment we
would turn a corner and find ourselves in a square populated
by strange creatures. I think it was the camels covered in
polka dots that did it.
We were relieved to reach a parking area at the base of
the Fort, which was evidently the dumping ground for tourists.
The happy cabbie wanted to find us an elephant ride to the
Fort. It cheered him up no end when we said: "No."
We thought we would need at least two or three hours inside
and it looked as if it would take us the best part of an hour
to climb up and walk down. We told the driver we would pay
him and he could go, but he declined. He could please himself
we would be as long as it took.
There were dozens of very large elephants with howdahs on
their backs carrying people, all of whom were taking pictures.
Some of the elephants had coloured patterns drawn on their
bodies and trunks but they all had one thing in common; they
looked knackered.
If elephants sleep walk, that is what 75% of these animals
were doing. Some were lurching along as if they were drunk.
We walked up the hill faster than the elephants. We were not
in danger of being trampled but by being crushed as they staggered
along, banging into the high walls on either side of the steep
trail.
We were customarily ripped off at the gate, paying ten times
more than the Indian tourists, and we looked around to see
if the Amber Fort was going to be worth the effort of the
climb.
We passed through a gate into the Fort itself and we could
see that it was not an ancient ruin but a derelict building
with graffiti on the walls. Patel loves Ranuka.
There was a small area called the Victory room that had been
inlaid with glass and mirrors and was pleasing enough. By
comparison to the Temple built in Bangkok by one of the royal
family it looked like a garden shed.
We had not hired a guide but a Spanish couple who were standing
behind us had. The guide led them to a door with a very tatty
Indian standing beside it and we followed them in. We found
ourselves in a small room with one small window. The ceiling
and walls were inlaid with small pieces of mirror. The Indian
motioned for us to stand in front of the window thereby blocking
the light, whereupon he produced two matches which he rubbed
together in order to light them.
In the time it took for the matches to burn out, about five
seconds, we realised we were supposed to coo with pleasure
at the sight of the flame reflected in the mirrors. As the
door was opened to let us out, the guide [who did not realise
we were British] said to the attendant with the matches; "They
are not with me. Ask them for money."
That’s India. Ripped off at the entrance, and then asked
for money because some old goat had lit two matches.
We’d had enough. The rickshaw driver had known what
he was talking about. An hour was plenty. We cheered ourselves
up at the bottom of the hill when we were accosted by six
men trying to sell Brian a hat. These ranged from baseball
hats to Australian hats hung with corks.
Brian was able to tell them that he would buy a hat if they
had one to fit him.
It was fun to watch as they ran in and out of their shops
with an assortment of headgear, none of which remotely fitted.
They finally became exasperated and we witnessed an Indian
miracle as they slowly gave up one by one.
We began the journey back to town, passing a lot of elephants
on the way. We would have loved to ride into town on their
backs, but we would have been fried alive in the hot sunshine.
We had heard that there was to be a magnificent procession
of elephants and camels through Jaipur, but no one knew when
it would take place. It all depended on the planets and the
stars.
My idea of a procession, which was along the lines of a Metro
Goldwyn Mayer production, was unlikely to be realised when
the cast of thousands weren’t even sure of what day
to turn up.
Brian wanted to find a barber. Within five minutes he was
sitting in a barber’s chair and I took a slow walk down
to LMB to wait for him there. I felt quite safe loitering
outside the restaurant as there were guards to keep the beggars
away.
I watched monkeys jumping along the rooftops opposite and
observed wealthy Indians and their children arriving for sweetie
treats.
But after more than three months in India I was about to witness
true need and poverty and I was too slow to do anything about
it.
A boy of about 12 was walking along the pavement towards
me. He was thin and his hair was long and matted. His clothes
were brown with grease and filth and over his shoulder he
had a bundle that must have contained all his possessions.
The look on his face as he approached LMB was one of pure
longing as the sickly sweet smell of the pastries was evident
for yards. As he came closer his expression became almost
rapturous. He suddenly stepped on to the road in front of
the building, staring hard at the people inside. He trudged
past and, with one final look over his shoulder, disappeared
into the crowds beyond.
It occurred to me that he did not walk past the frontage of
the shop and along the pavement because the guards wouldn’t
have allowed him to. He didn’t stop and bother anyone,
he didn’t beg, he just looked as if the smell was enough.
It was a really sad moment.
That boy would never know what one of those cakes tasted like.
I wished I’d had a bagful to give him, but I hadn’t.
We made our hot and sweaty way back to the hotel and convinced
ourselves that we really did want to dress ourselves up and
hit the Rambagh Palace.
Our driver for the evening was Billie Bunter, no less. Before
leaving he called his mother to look at my dress. She said
she had never seen anything so beautiful. It had travelled
well and I was glad I had carted this little designer number
halfway around the world and that it was going to have an
airing.
I was sadly lacking in the handbag department and had to wrap
all our valuables in the calico bread carrier.
On the way to the Palace, Billie entertained us with more
stories. One concerned the lack of driving tests in Jaipur
and possibly the whole of India. The essence of the driving
policy was that if you could afford a car you probably had
sufficient funds to bribe an official for a licence or to
get yourself out of an accident.
We asked what would happen if you killed someone and Bill
thought that was quite funny. He said: "No problem."
He hinted that if the victim was walking he was a peasant
anyway, and money would always buy off the family and police.
We hoped Billy was joking but thought probably not.
As we drove into beautiful lawned gardens through an intricately
designed metal gate, we agreed to let him organise a car to
take us to Pushkar the next morning. He dropped us off by
the reception and my handsome escort and I walked up the steps
to the Palace like royalty.
It was a stunning place. This was a Palace. The corridors
were endless walls and floors of white marble. The pictures
on the walls were better than anything the City Palace had
to offer. Huge wicker sofas with thick cushions were sprinkled
about the lawns and people were drinking cocktails and taking
tea. The waiters looked grand with bright turbans and big
moustaches and when they came to take our order there wasn’t
a frayed cuff in sight.
We had intended only to have a drink and watch the evening’s
performance of traditional dancing, but after I discovered
India’s best kept camels were on parade beyond the terrace
we went for a ride. And we stayed for dinner.
The food was average but we helped it down with the first
bottle of wine in 14 weeks and it tasted like nectar. We had
a fabulous evening and were glad we had made the effort.
After dinner we were like Cinderella and Buttons. We didn’t
have a carriage and hadn’t the faintest clue how we
were going to return to the Umaid. Undaunted we swayed out
of the main gate and started to walk. There was nothing about,
this was not a rickshaw district, but before long we came
across a group of drivers who were having a good old chinwag.
We managed to talk one of them into taking us home. I looked
as if I had been attacked by a whirlwind in the hair department
but it hardly mattered now.
The next morning we felt terrible. I thought it was the
wine until Brian said he felt lousy too, and then we agreed
that it must have been the food. We weren’t well, but
the night had been worth it.
Fortunately I had packed nearly all our gear the previous
night, so there was little to do that morning other than take
turns in the toilet. We bade Billy farewell and his mother
even came out to see us off. Our luggage had almost doubled
and we piled it into the car, sat back in the bouncy rear
seat and prepared for a relaxing scenic ride.
Dear God, how wrong can you be?
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