Eyes on India-- Installment 5!

Today's Thoughts...

I wish I could say that the rest of our time in Jaipur was notedly humdrum and unworthy of mention. But that wouldn’t make for a good tale to tell ;P Sure, we did all the glorious sites like the sparkling City Palace and the famed Observatory.



We ate more unspeakably delicious food at the Peacock Hotel and lining the winding streets of the pink city. Sure I bought more Ali-Baba pants than I will ever know what to do with. But what stands out in my mind are two markedly divergent and singularly memorable experiences. Following our stalking interlude, that very same night we witnessed some of the heights and the depths of our random encounters with a similarly unsettling experience involving a young rickshaw driver.



Our feet were killing us. We couldn’t find the restaurant on the Lonely Planet map. (Really, LP? How you gonna do us like that though?) And so we decided to give up and try our luck back at the Peacock for dinner once more. But not before we had wandered through the market sampling spicy chili roti cakes with sambal and beans, jelabi swirls of sticky syrupy deliciousness (something like funnel cake soaked in heavy syrup), and anything else we could get our hands on for so long that we’d simply forgotten the whole laborious process of pausing our adventure for the tedious task of dining.
Oh, and there was the brilliant evening’s entertainment with the gang of monkeys that took to the streets (or buildings there surrounding), swiping bananas and fruits from unsuspecting vendors and then tossing the carcasses with squealing primate glee onto the heads of the cuckolded merchants. If I had a rupee for every time on my trip a monkey tried to…well, I’d have a whole lotta rupees in my pocket that’s for sure.



The sky had fallen dark long ago during our meandering and it was only then that we finally thought to go back to our comfy cozy abode. The guy walked up out of nowhere, I remember. He was at Allison’s elbow asking where she was from. (At this point, I was used to often being overlooked as the short dark minion next to my gorgeously tall and blonde compatriot. I wonder if perhaps I didn’t call to mind images of those very creatures swinging so joyously above our heads? ;P). She shook her head no. After the fifteen millionth time, you just do have the patience anymore. He prodded further, repeating his question and following up with a “Why are you so mean? It’s just a question.” She was cracking. I could see it on her face. Hold tight! I willed her. Her face remained impervious. Good. We walked on.

Growing frustrated, he jogged to stand in front of her, blocking her path ahead. “Why are all you foreigners the same? Think you’re so much better. So much better than us Indian people. Isn’t that it? I have a rickshaw. I was going to ask where you need to go. But you so stuck-up. So stuck-up.” At that, we stopped. Allison whirled on him, “I don’t want your tuktuk or rickshaw or whatever it is and I don’t want to talk to you because I don’t want to.” “Why so stuck up? So stuck up she is.” I could tell her defenses were crumbling. He muttered on further until she finally burst out asking where this mysterious rickshaw was in the first place. He immediately produced it and for roughly twenty minutes we drove on listening to his rant against all white people, all foreigners who come to his country, think they are so much better than his people, what do you know, you give no one a chance. Not everyone is bad. Not everyone is out to get you. You think bad thoughts and bad things happen to you. Bad things happen to you when you think they will.

With that he turned down a deserted street alley and for the second time in two days, I hurled my person from a moving vehicle and onto the dusty path beside us. The tires screeched to a halt and Allison lept out as well. I don’t know about you, but as my great-grandma used to say—if it stinks, it ain’t gotta be you what sticks around to smell it (…or something like that). Then the obscenities came flying. I don’t think I could quite count the insults and slurs that flew from that tongue at such an alarming pace. All I knew was that I suddenly felt my skin prickle and my heart thud in my ears. And then she came. She must not have been more than five feet tall, but a wee auntie the size of a prepubescent child sidled up from out of the shadows and planted herself, unflinchingly, unspeakingly, and firmly between us and the raving madman before us. With an icy glare even I could feel cut through the nighttime air, she quite literally bore him down. His rage bottled, though still brimming, he grabbed the fistful of cash Allison had at some time produced and raced off, screeching down the block. I turned to the little old woman who was already hobbling away. I shouted thank you and she turned, unsmilingly, and shaking her head clucked, “Beta.” (“Sweetheart”) With a bobble and a nod, she was gone.

Mama India, you baffle me still.

Eyes on India-- Installment 4!

Today's Thoughts...

Jaipur is hot. Rajasthan is hot. Typically, the desert is hot particularly in hot season—small fact we somehow overlooked. Boiling (literally my skin felt like it was going to slide off my face), we arrived at the eclectic and wonderful Peacock Hotel. Our jaws dropped. Palatially-sized rooms, strong arctic breezes from desert coolers (sort of like a water-powered aircon unit/fan with something resembling a bird’s nest tucked inside; still uncertain of exactly how the contraption worked), oversized king beds, shimmering bathrooms with no sullied streaks of unknown sources—we were in heaven, Peacock Heaven.

Immediately we plopped down on the beds (after a brief rendezvous on our balcony (a balcony!)) and straightaway passed out. When we woke it was dinnertime, which was the perfect time, chowing down on undeniably delicious curry, paneer, aloo, and even some sneakily weaseled warm and large Kingfisher beers. Subsequently and logically, we then we slept some more. In fact, when I think about it, when not trekking on foot in the searing heat or snapping shots (or shots being snapped of us) at national sights, we spent much of our time in recovery from the heat and chaos, sleeping. Not that I minded one bit.



Our reserves replenished, we took to the streets of Jaipur the next day. Suddenly every rickshaw driver was our best friend, every rickshaw our own private “Indian helicopter.” It was hot, the streets long, but we pressed on, politely declining every overeager offer for a ride. Wandering down a random alley, we found ourselves in the midst of one of the inner city’s bazaars. Suddenly the street narrowed to a shoulder by shoulder width and people suddenly appeared bursting from the crannies, cracks, and crevices of every building in sight. The mouth-watering smells luring us ever deeper into the fracas, we stopped at a firepit on the side of the street for samosas. Giggling children, gaping adults, shifty-eyed youngins— all stared in wonder, snickering behind their hands. A small child tried to thump my rear as he passed, chuckling with his friends. I turned and bum-bopped him right back. He squealed, jumped, and raced on laughing.



Fried savories devoured, we wound our way on through the silver market, the gold market, the metal market, the clothing market, the shoe market, the meat market, the veggie market, the market market stopping only to climb our way up the dizzying spiral staircase of a large minaret to see the city skyline. Our tireless guide (and by guide I mean the rando dude standing at the base of the minaret who followed us up and explained in lilting tongue something about a fort and a king and a son and a death and many things I found difficult to concentrate on while gazing into the exquisite midday horizon. Eeerrrrttt! Rewind. So when have you heard me tell a story that didn’t have some rando-crazy-nuh-uh-hold-up kinda ridiculousness goin on?



Oh we wound our way through the streets alright, bobbing and weaving in and out of gorgeous sari fabric shops and precious blacksmith handicraft stalls (prompting my purchase of a several kilos miniature brass theater mask—when am I going to use that again? Right. Never.) And that’s when Allison noticed her. A young woman, not more than thirty, in a faded blue sari, walking not more than twenty paces behind us. I thought she looked a little off particularly given her wild and untied/unbraided hair, so uncharacteristic of most women we saw, but I shrugged and ignored it…until we saw her behind us after nearly half an hour of our wanderings. That’s when I noticed her mildly unfocused gaze and battered appearance. We both turned around stared at her with that cold excuse-me-can-I-help-you? face, but she just stared off into space as if she couldn’t see us. Five minutes later, she was still there. We stopped again, glared again, and this time made gestures for her to get-going. Not a moment’s hesitation, she walked closer, further still. Allison was getting agitated and for that matter so was I. She turned and shouted something at her. People looked, but she did nothing. Didn’t ask for cash, didn’t want a photo, didn’t try to snatch our purses, didn’t appear to want to shank us—I mean our thusfar vocabulary in random street interactions was exhausted and we could find no meaning to her madness. Yet she crept uncomfortably close still. It was unsettling.

Finally, we both turned around, marched to her, which certainly took her by surprise, and demanded to know who she was and what her deal was. Allison threatened to call the police (both of us fully aware that meant nada) and I told her that if she was going to follow us for nearly two hour she darn well better have a good reason for it and grrr! She stared back with sneering eyes (yes, sneering eyes). (A test! Aha! She DOES speak English!) Did we offend you? Hurt you? Wrong you in someway? She just stared. Well, if you've got nothing to say, then GO! I bellowed. She jumped a little and backed up a step. GO! Allison repeated. Still sneering with those now very clearly focused eyes, she backed away only to hide behind a wall and glare. I sighed, shook my head, and that’s when I spotted the minaret. So as Mr. Bubbly Bopping tour guide droned on about something I barely remember, I was searching not merely for the beauty of the Jaipur skyline, but for the trail of our sulking, slinking, spectral companion in the crowds below. Deciding the coast was clear, we descended once more into the melee. Encounter one of five million of inexplicable strangeness.