Continents

Rajasthan Road Trip

The road trip described here, undertaken by our correspondent, may seem daunting at first reading. But with a reasonable amount of planning, a degree of fortitude and a lot of patience it would not be beyond the capabilities of almost any traveler. The route covered – Jaipur, Udaipur, Jodhpur, Jaisalmer and Bikaner – took 20 days and covered 1,000 miles. An air-conditioned car and competent driver can be booked through any of several Indian companies; we used Indian Holiday, www.indianholiday.com.

Thirty seconds before the digital countdown on the traffic signal flashed green, cars, trucks, pedal rickshaws, motor rickshaws (tuk-tuks) and bullock carts were already jockeying for position at the intersection on our way out of Jaipur. A stray camel, nudged sideways by an impatient taxi, demolished our passenger-side rear-view mirror, then peered down at me with sneering disdain. It was a promisingly bizarre overture to my road trip around the palace cities of Rajasthan, the so-called golden circle.

CBS’s Charles Kuralt once said of America’s Interstate highway system that it allowed you to travel from coast to coast without seeing anything. He would have approved of India’s highways. People are buying and selling, sleeping, drinking tea, being shaved, having their fortunes told, their hair cut and their ears de-waxed all within a few feet of our car as we speed along the tarmac. Further afield, herders tend flocks of goats. Women balancing brass pots on their heads make their way to distant villages with sinuous tread as sensual as that of any catwalk model.

Several hours of driving brought us to Udaipur, my first destination, where accommodations had been reserved in what had been the former ruler’s hunting lodge. Before India’s independence in 1947, Rajasthan counted more maharajahs, rajahs, rajkumars and rawals to the square inch than anywhere else in the country. The name, Rajasthan, itself means “land of kings” and its princely families led lives of indulgence beyond the imagining of even the most egregious of today’s free-spenders. Invited by the Maharajah, teams came here from all over the world to compete on the estate’s manicured cricket pitches and polo fields. The hunting was legendary.

From the 17^th century onwards, the rulers constructed a series of five palaces behind a seamless façade overlooking the city’s Pichola Lake. Three of them now form a museum where the family’s artefacts and furnishings are exhibited; they include hundreds of priceless Rajput miniature paintings, a 500-year-old art form of the region.

Suresh, a descendant of the artist family responsible for many of the palace’s miniatures, escorted me through the museum. His father and grandfather had always worked for the royal family but in 1947, with properties forfeited to the newly independent India, the Maharajah had to dismiss them along with hundreds of other retainers. Suresh’s grandfather was allowed to remove books of traditional designs dating back centuries, and these became the inspiration for the atelier he founded and which Suresh now manages. It employs more than 100 artists and exports Rajput miniatures throughout the world.

The Aravalli Mountains, running southwest to northeast, bisect much of Rajasthan. Udaipur is on the eastern, fertile side and as we left for Jodhpur, 200 miles to the north, we climbed through dense, green forest to 4,000 feet before descending into Ranakpur. Here, India’s largest Jain temple is located. It is a spectacular 15^th century structure supported by more than 1,000 soaring marble columns decorated with elaborate carvings. The jewelled eyes of dozens of images set in niches around the perimeter glint uncannily in the flickering light. It is not a place where you expect to be hustled. Nevertheless, as I was admiring the images, a man in white robes strode towards me. “I am the chief priest,” he announced. “You are welcome here. What is your country?” I told him I came from Canada. “Ah! Canada,” he smiled. “I have visited there. Your people are famous for their generous spirit. I am sure you will want to make a worthy contribution to our temple.”

It was no time for parsimony; my country’s honor was at stake. As he marked my forehead with a red tika and murmured a blessing, a wad of rupees made its way from my pocket into the embroidered purse he held in front of me. Minutes later, from the other side of the building, I heard a familiar voice echoing between the pillars. “Ah! Germany,” it said. “I have been there. Your people are famous for their generous spirit...”

In Jodhpur, I stayed at the Umaid Bhavan Palace. In its domed lobby, a sari-clad woman greeted me with folded hands and garlanded me with marigolds. Then an elderly servant escorted me through formal gardens and gilded state rooms to my suite on the floor above.

Every Indian palace hotel boasts a Raj-style, Trophy Bar with deep, leather sofas and wall-mounted animal heads that appear to be watching morosely as you sip your gin and tonic. To these, the Umaid had added elephant-foot stools and floor lamps made from elephant trunks. On the wall above the fireplace were sepia photographs of amply bearded gentlemen with shotguns, displaying the day’s carnage of assorted quadrupeds – an unexceptionable pursuit in those days.

By the time I had arrived in Jodhpur, I’d fought off legions of merchants trying to sell me everything from dhurries to diamonds, but had held out until, in the Tambaku Bazaar, a salesman casually tossed dozens of pashmina shawls in front of me. As I looked appreciatively at the dazzling array of colors and designs, he moved in for the kill, and with a theatrical flourish, he pulled an entire garment through a ring he had removed from his finger.

Next morning, with my baggage re-organized to make room for quite a few shawls, we headed out of Jodhpur on the way to Jaisalmer. A few miles outside the city, bright-red hillocks of freshly harvested chilis dotted the fields. Later, the land flattened, the colors faded and we were in the Thar, 70,000 square miles of dunes, scrub and rock shards that sprawl over much of northwest India and southeast Pakistan. At first there were villages with thatched roofs and walls of mud and wattle, then just emptiness. Hours later, arising mirage-like from the desert haze, Jaisalmer’s yellow sandstone fort turned to bronze in the late afternoon sun.

Jaisalmer’s location on India’s east-west caravan routes had made it wealthy, and in the 18th and 19th centuries, its leading merchants had constructed magnificent mansions, known as havelis. In a distinctive architectural style, blocks of rooms up to five stories high looked down onto interior courtyards or out over the street. In past times, the intricately filigreed stonework covering the houses’ many balconies allowed the purdah (sequestered) women to see and hear what was happening below, without being observed.

At my arrival, the city was hosting its annual Desert Fair, a three-day event that included several competitions. As I watched, the prize for the largest moustache went to a dignified, elderly gentleman sporting a galactic-sized soup-strainer, while the best-dressed camel award was won by an animal almost invisible under strands of prayer beads, yellow streamers, saddle bags and tasselled crimson rugs.

Just after we set out for Bikaner, the sky darkened and the light breeze suddenly became a gale. We arrived in a sandstorm that had reduced visibility to a few feet. Dust and grit swirled everywhere, and in the Junagarh Fort, which I had wanted to see, drifts of sand filled the open, marble-pillared halls and courtyards.

Later, while visiting Bikaner’s Jain market, I was struck by the fact that although Indian women are prominent in government, commerce, industry and the professions, the bazaars appeared to be male strongholds. A woman might be the president of a company that produced goods sold in the bazaar, but no women were to be seen working at the stalls or in the shops. When I asked the manager of a sari shop about it, he turned to the five salesmen ranged around the otherwise empty shop and translated my question for them. Apparently they thought this was the most hilarious thing they had ever heard, for before the manager had even finished his translation, they were laughing uproariously. And that was it. No answer, just billows of laughter that brought tears to the manager’s eyes as he waved me off with his handkerchief.

And with that, it was time to turn the car towards Jaipur once again to complete my Rajasthani circuit.

Date: 06/09/2009