The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline
CHAPTER NINETEEN - PUSHKAR
(Printable
version here)
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 30ft 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.
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