Pushkar: Karma and a prayer

Bad Karma is kind of like sin, but with more immediate consequences. Christians have the Golden rule, which is similar, but less fun. For instance, if you have a temper like Charlie Sheen or the tact of Mel Gibson, you don’t get to wait for St. Paul to call you out in front of the Pearly Gates. Instead, you fall in a puddle, get audited by the IRS or your electricity cuts off in the middle of the Super Bowl. En route to the holy city of Pushkar, Kristen and I got into a tiff over semi-colons. That’s right, surrounded gorgeous mountains and ancient temples, and in the middle of a carefree vacation, we decided to fight about punctuation. I don’t like semi-colons, she thinks my lengthy sentences could use a few, and Erin, rightly so, doesn’t care. Immediately following some snotty remarks, glares, and all around bitchiness, the headlights in our car just blink off. One minute we are scrapping over grammar and the next minute we are barreling down an un-lit highway holding a flashlight out the window with Phool Singh (driver/guide/buddy) ensuring us it will be OK. And it was OK; (semi-colon) the 18-wheelers missed us by inches, we didn’t blow a tire in one of the 80 potholes we hit in the dark, and we arrived in Pushkar safe and sound. But I think a lesson was learned.

The holy city of Pushkar is home to almost 600 temples and at least that many hippies. This international band of dreadlocked drifters started sticking around for so long that Pushkar passed a law that limits a tourist’s stay to one week. Pushkar also has the one and only temple in India honoring the Hindu god Brahma, the creator. Brahma made a huge mistake and took a second wife, and Savitri, wife #1, made him eternally sleep on the couch by vowing that he would only have one temple dedicated to him in all of India. Not only that, but no blessings may take place inside his temple. Instead, prayers to Brahma are made in the many ghats (river steps/baths) on Lake Pushkar. His temple is beautiful, with a big red spire, a silver alter and hundreds of memorial prayers written in the stone floors. But Savitri’s temple looms high and prominent on a hill above the red spire and, if you listen carefully, you can almost hear her whispering, “I told you so.”

Our Pushkar guide Nadu was also a “priest”, probably ordained, as Erin pointed out, by the tourist bureau. Nonetheless, when it was our turn for the blessing on the ghat, it was truly a spiritual moment. We prayed for our families and our futures, and received ceremonial red dots with rice on our foreheads. Nadu, visibly shaken by our single status, prayed for us to find husbands. “May they be rich and good,” he said solemnly.

That evening, we met Phool and his colleague and friend Anail for a taste of the local rum (called Triple X) and a pizza, of all things. Anail informed us he had 200 girlfriends, which was not his fault because, after all, he shares his zodiac sign with Krishna who had 1600 girlfriends. Anail valiantly attempted to induct us into his imaginary harem, claiming he was a trained masseuse, a master chef, and a priest. As tempting as it was, we rejected his offer. We can’t interrupt our trip and plus, now that we have our good Karma going, Brahma is sending us good and rich husbands

Udaipur: A Warrior and a King

OK, let’s talk about it: the caste system. Bring this issue up in the wrong context and it incites more controversy than Sarah Palin crashing a dinner party at the Kennedy Compound. Our Udaipur guide, Yusuf, is part of the high-ranking warrior caste (we didn’t ask, he offered) and his take was, “you can change your job but not your caste.” He didn’t look like much of a warrior, soft spoken and wearing a Mr. Rogers sweater, but he was fiercely proud of this designation and told us marrying in your own caste was necessary to preserve heritage and bloodline. We have all had heard enough West Virginia jokes to know inter-marrying is a bad idea, but we let him pontificate. Later, we met an enigmatic young entrepreneur named King. He was from a much lower caste and spent his childhood being told not to drink in certain fountains, go into particular houses or speak to those in a higher class or he would be beaten. “The government may have outlawed the caste system, but all the people have not. I ignore it now. I talk to and date whomever I want,” he explained, waiving his hand down at the city, as we sat with him on cushions atop his rooftop restaurant. King was scrappy, moving from his small village to Udaipur, first becoming a taxi driver, then a restaurant owner, and, most recently, a pashmina dealer. He learned English from the tourists, beat a Drew Barrymore type booze and drug problem he developed when he was only 12, and admits he grew up fast, too fast. We watched King work the room, greeting a traveler from Tokyo in Japanese, snap at the waiter to move a little faster, and con his friend out of half of a chocolate bar. “My view,” he said with a shrug, “the caste system is total crap.”

January 26 is Indian Independence Day, which, like American Independence day celebrates running the Redcoats out on a rail. We unfortunately celebrated by getting our butts kicked by potholes on a rough 8-hour trek from Jodhpur to Udaipur. The high point was a stop at the famous spice lady’s shop in Jodhpur, where the charming owner let us sample teas, sniff spices and taught us the difference between real and fake saffron (real looks like tadpoles) while Phool amused himself by taking close-up videos of his smiling face and pictures of his little white car with my camera. We got to Udaipur late, and with two of us suffering from a minor case of Delhi belly, stayed in our cute blue and gold room, watching Indian Idol and Terminator 3 that was inexplicably in English with English subtitles.

The next morning we met Yusuf the Warrior Guide for a tour of Bagore-Ki-Haveli, a restored, 138-roomed, haveli that housed hundreds of interesting artifacts used by royals and other important peopple. An antique make-up box with colorful palates for powders makes a Mac eyeshadow kit look like an ashtray. There was an amazing, hand-painted puppet display (only a little creepy), the world’s largest turban, and, oddly, a Styrofoam sculpture of the Eiffel tower. We then got a foodie lesson in the local market. The matriarch of the family is responsible for the combination of spices and oils in food, and this delicate, flavorful balance ultimately determines the harmony and well being of the family. In fact, it is mama’s job to use curry and peppers in the winter to warm the body, lemon in summer to cool it down, and…get this...extra oil during the monsoon season for better procreation. Ordering Dominos or heating up a Lean Cuisine could therefore lead to undue sweating or lack of grandchildren.

Yusuf did a nice job explaining to us some other major cultural concepts. For instance, hiding your eyes shows respect for your elders, different professions and religions require different turban shapes, and through meditation and discipline you can achieve the most important virtue, patience. He then tested our not-quite-virtuous patience by taking us on a pricey boat ride and inviting himself to lunch. We ventured off on our own to enjoy Udaipur, which is easy to do. Called India’s most romantic city (not helpful in our case), it surrounds Lake Pichola with one palace dominating an island on the lake, one in the city itself, and one, the Monsoon Palace, overlooking the city on top of a mountain. The Lake Palace was featured in the James Bond movie, Octopussy and one local bar, which I assume has the highest wait-staff turnover in the city, shows the movie every night. We decided to catch 007 another time and went to a “puppet show” at the Haveli, which featured mostly local ladies doing traditional Rajasthan dances. The biggest crowd pleaser was the finale, where the dancer, who looked like an Indian Paula Deen but could move her hips like Shakira, put 12 pots on her head and danced on glass. The crowd went wild. Tomorrow we are headed to Pushka, the holy city. Let's pray for less potholes.

Khuri to Jodhpur: Seven peppers, one lemon and a massage

Indians tend to be hippies, not in the pachatolie using, free-loading, Widespread Panic following way, but in their even-keeled, optimistic approach to life. In fact, I am pretty sure hippies stole their best ideas from India: flowing floral skirts, 5-day music festivals and the willingness to let it be. Any request, however big or small, is answered with “not a problem” or “everything is possible”, never an American “we’ll see” or “hell no”. Indians find luck in everyday existence, not just in rabbit’s feet, leprechauns, and beating the house at Caesar’s Palace. It’s luck when a rat runs across the floor, you sneeze, you walk counterclockwise around a temple, you step in crap, or if you get married according to your zodiac. Doors to houses are adorned with lucky images of Ganesh, swastikas (ancient Hindi symbols that Nazis epically misappropriated), and, my favorite, seven chili peppers and one lemon threaded together in the door jam to protect the household.

It was hard not to feel lucky when we left Khuri and made a quick stop back in Jaisalmer, our favorite city. We stayed just long enough to offend a silver dealer by refusing to buy his lovely but pricey jewelry and get an ayurvedic massage, an Indian phenomenon where you get treated with special oils from head to toe, even in your hair. For time saving reasons, we were excited the massage parlor could take us all at the same time. We were a little less jazzed to find we would all be in the same room. We got over it, after all, we’re all friends here and for this cheap of a deal, I would probably agree to use the counter at McDonalds as a massage bed. We left Jaisalmer for the final time, relaxed and hydrated but with enough oil in our hair to fry a blooming onion.

We headed to Jodhpur, the “Blue City” and namesake of the MC Hammer looking riding pants. The trip took forever, but Phool Sing, our driver/guide/new BFF, gave us a break by stopping at a tea stand where we were entertained by a 11 year old boy who could sing like and angel and a holy man who asked for American coins so he could make a ring. Erin gave him a penny and I gave him a quarter, wondering if he had really thought through his plan to sport George and Abe themed bling, but happy to honor his request. India has Louisiana like open container laws, so we stopped for roadies at Phool's suggestion, getting beers in thug-sized bottles to spice up the last few miles of the trip. We kept the party going when we got to our hotel and took our (still greasy) selves up to the gorgeous rooftop restaurant for cocktails and floral soap flavored hookah. Three hours later we had solved most of the world’s problems and wandered to our room. Tomorrow we head to Udaipur, one of Rajasthan’s most beautiful cities. Lucky us.

Jaisalmer to Khuri: Must love camels.

The “Golden City” of Jaisalmer was quite the hot spot on the trade route years ago and evidence of the city’s former wealth is visible in the intricate architecture of the havelis (merchant houses) and a fort that makes the one in Bikaner look like Smurfette’s mushroom house. About 100 km from the Pakistan border, Jailsamer is known for its silver jewelry, beaded and mirrored textiles, and Jain temples. Unfortunately, the fort is sinking like Venice, due to the 5,000 folks inhabiting the fort every day crammed into the many hotels, shops and restaurants.

Our tour guide was Bhagwan Singh, an educated, well-traveled gentleman, as proud of his hometown as Duke fans are of Coach K. He was kind and helpful but had the mannerism of a drill sergeant when it came to pointing out the sights, giving us little swats when we weren’t paying attention and unabashedly using the locals as exhibits to his lessons. His tour went a little like this.

Pay attention!...look at the beautiful architecture…you only see in Jaisalmer!.....please watch the cow dung…walk left!...see her? Muslim! Beaded top and dark sari….probably poor …..Hindi women wear bright saris…that beautifully made only in Jaisalmer!...careful for scooter...The man that built haveli is very wealthy. Opium trader! Illegal now….now only tea…Pakistan not a problem anymore; we have a fence….it’s electric...there is a military base here just in case…..She is married, see all her bangles? She wears every day. Then she will burn them with her husband. Probably soon, she is old….pink turbans only for merchants...khaki turbans for carpenters…I said khaki! Not green!...careful for the Pig!

After our tour we stopped at a co-op textile shop, where we stocked up on pillows and coverlets like we were planning to open a Pier One at our next hotel. We then headed west to Khuri, with loads of architectural knowledge, very few rupees, and 13 beaded pillows en route to DC via India Post.

In Khuri we took a much-anticipated camel safari out to the Thar Desert. Each of us shared a camel with a guide, who sat behind us in the saddle and used clicks and kicks to steer. My camel, Sia, was lovely and sweet; my guide Raji was flirtatious and wasted. The views were spectacular- antelope herds running across silky sand dunes, women in colorful saris carrying baskets on their heads, and quaint villages dotting the skyline. We played catch with charming kids who resourcefully hustled us out of hair pins when they figured out we left our wallets at home. It would have been perfect if Raji weren’t holding on to my hair like reins, reeking of booze, and singing off key. We stopped at 5:30 to watch the sunset and while we waited for the red ball to drop we ran through the dunes doing cartwheels, handstands and jumps, at Kristen’s direction, lady-like and poised as always. Raji watched us flip around, drinking from Kristen’s water bottle, with my pashmina wrapped around his shoulders, occasionally using the edge of it to wipe his mustache. Awesome.

After the ride, we returned to Khuri to stay in our hut, equipped with a dirt floor and a thatched roof and little cots that a prison probably rejected because they were too uncomfortable. The lack of creature comforts was overshadowed by the fantastic food, pretty courtyard and the memory of a desert sunset that looked like the cover of a National Geographic magazine. Even Raji ultimately redeemed himself by bonding with me over our shared love of dogs as we returned to camp. He revealed that it was his adorable pup Lepu, that had been following us during our trek, cutely chasing down an antelope, and snuggling with Sia the camel at sunset.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“Yes,” I lied for convenience’s sake.

“Too bad,” he replied, “I love dogs. And camels.”

Me too Raji, me too.

Bikaner to Jaisalmer: Shaadi Crashers

Indians get right to the point. Asking a woman her age, if she is married and if not, what’s the problem is standard conversational procedure here. My mother told me it wasn’t polite to stare, but here, folks unabashedly ogle strangers and when you return the look, they smile and say “hello” which is hard to get used to, but refreshing. Also, let’s face it, there are billions of Indians here, and a white chick with blond hair that says “Hey ya’ll” instead of “Namaste” is the freak. I totally appreciate this bluntness and directness. After all, we want to immerse ourselves in this fantastic culture, so let’s not waste time complementing each others’ outfits and talking about the weather. Occasionally a line is crossed. Taking pictures of strangers’ rear ends is frowned upon in the states and, in some cases, illegal. Like when some little punk shot a few pictures of mine and Erin’s asses as we went up some steps or someone cops a feel when taking a picture, but this is not the norm, and mostly we are greeted with top-notch politeness. Speaking of cultural differences, we committed our first faux pas today with Phool Singh (driver/tour guide/new BFF) by asking him to chip in when he ate lunch with us. He was visibly irritated, and after some awkwardness and door slamming, Kristen engaged him in a discussion starting with, “Um, are you mad at us?” Apparently at expensive places, he eats for free, but at cheaper places, it is customary for us to pick up the tab for our guide; after our little Indian protocol 101 lesson, we made up quickly.

Today started out with a tour of the impressive fort, Junaghar, a large Mughal fort, with a moat, multiple courtyards, gardens, a substantial collection of elephant saddles, and even a World War 2 plane, given to emperor Akbar by the British as a thank you for India’s contribution to the War. We got separated from our tour group, or rather they effectively ditched us as they ran through the corridors as we pondered what the guide had just said and took pictures of the painted ceilings and elaborate bedrooms.

We took a long car ride to Jaisalmer, which so far has been our favorite city. Phool suggested we go have a beer, code for “you wound-up Lonely Planet reading, camera happy, question-asking chicks need to relax”. So that’s what we did after checking into the bright, cheerful Royal Hotel. We dodged cows, dogs, racing scooters and wild pigs (good for cleaning up the trash, who knew?), and found Saffron, a picturesque restaurant set on top of an old haveli carved out of sandstone. We were into our second beer when we got hit. The fireworks started off in the distance, exploding up into the night, red, gold and red. They moved closer and our waiter announced that it was a wedding (shaadi) and the display was following the bride as she made her way toward the reception. Firework laws in India are a redneck’s dream comes true as you can shoot any size firework absolutely anywhere. When the procession got next to our restaurant, the fireworks came over the roof and hit us like little asteroids, flaming out as they hit our hair and table. We shouted a few expletives, put out the small hair fires, got our tab and, what else, joined the party.

The bride was nowhere to be found, but who needed her when you had a DJ spinning tunes off the back of a buggy, a groom on a horse with a beaded costume, and a hundred or so party-goers shaking their booties to everything from bad 90’s American music to local dance hits. We were invited to join the parade by cousins and friends of the groom. I got a dance lesson from young ladies dressed in gorgeous saris (I wasn’t shaking my hips properly), Erin got her boob grabbed, and Kristen befriended a pretty three year old and her even prettier mama. We were escorted through a tent lined with lights and fresh flowers and into an open-air reception hall, with painted walls and more food than Costco. Kristen was challenged to an eat-off by a bossy, female cousin of the bride. We mixed, mingled and took an outrageous number of pictures. We had such fun we plan to do it again. Move over Owen and Vince, we have a shaadi to crash.

Bikaner: Peace, love, and holy rodents

India, despite its long history of political and religious conflicts, is the most harmonious place I have ever been. A city thoroughfare is politely shared by moped-like taxis (rickshaws), camels and donkeys pulling carts, tiny cars and large delivery trucks. There is a lot of horn blowing; not New York City “get out of the way jackass” honking, but polite little beeps that say “hello” or “please move your camel to the left”. Phool Singh, our driver, uses a sort of human GPS system, cheaper and more effective than a Garmin, and when there is a road closure he pulls up next to a local who happily points him in the right direction. On our way to Bikaner we saw lots of camels and trucks carrying green hay used to feed the sacred cows, a community shared responsibility. The cows apparently know they are sacred, because they boldly cross in front of cars and take naps in front of shops and cafes with a sense of self-importance. Drivers also break for sheep, goats and wild pigs that seem to have their own agendas and head decisively through town like they are late for important business meetings. I am a dog lover and was panicked that I was going to see mangy, starving, wild dogs everywhere. There are certainly a lot of dogs wandering around, but honestly they look well fed and cared for, many with cute faces and shiny coats that could land their pictures on the front of a Purina bag. Even the rats peacefully co-exist, but more on that later.

Our 3 hour trip was set to the hip-hop sound of Phool Singh’s Akon CD, so we got jiggy with it as we scooted down the road, singing along to “Mr. Lonely”, Phool’s favorite track. We stopped at a modern Hindi temple that was so art deco and funky, we thought we were pulling up to a water park or put-put course; embarrassing and illogical conclusions while traveling in the heart of Rajasthan. You enter the temple through a plaster lion’s mouth flanked by colorful statues of Hanuman, king of the monkeys and Vishnu, the god with four arms. After you get eaten by the lion, you pop out in a courtyard where Ganesh, the elephant headed God, is depicted in bright pink and about 30 feet tall. Ganesh supposedly lost his more human-like head during a tiff with his dad, Shiva. Shiva felt badly about the misunderstanding and be-heading, and gave him the head of the next live being that wandered by, in this case an elephant. It could have been worse; it could have been a rat, but again, wait for that story. From there you go up a steep ramp, crawl through a tunnel, where the God Krishna sits, blue-skinned and large and in charge, at least 40 feet high.

We arrived at the Hotel Sagawa in Bickaner, too late to see much but the rat temple. I know what you are thinking: “Whatchu talking ‘bout Willis?” That’s right, buckle up readers, we went to a rat temple. The Karni Mahta temple is inhabited by 1000’s of kabas (holy rodents). The temple itself is a pretty, wide-open, black and white tiled courtyard with holy rooms branching off. There are more rats than in the labs at L’Oreal and Estee Lauder combined, running across the scrolled gates, up and down the marble steps and into holes in the tile. They are fed and cared for by a local family and are brought treats and sweets by the Hindi worshippers. We reluctantly ditched our Nikes to go inside (standard for all temples), and while it’s considered auspicious for a rat to run across your feet, it is freaky as hell. The locals come in droves to worship, cool as cucumbers, walking in bare feet among the rats, making offerings to the kabas, and sitting nonchalantly on the steps as the rats run across their laps. Only our desire to be respectful of the Hindis kept us from screaming like teenagers at a Jonas Brothers concert. We danced around in socks, grabbing on to each other’s arms, and trying our damndest not to have an all out panic attack. The best part, besides having a totally unforgettable and cool experience, was that Erin saw the elusive white rat, which will grant her good luck for the year. Let’s hope she is lucky enough not to see another rat for a really long time.

Delhi to Mandawa: Everything is Possible

Amazingly, everything has gone according to plan. Kristen and Erin picked me up at the airport and we began our journey to Rajasthan. They had hired a driver named Phool Singh, a dark, stocky man who navigated the potholes like Dale Earnheart, and was patient with our girly cackling. He would be with us on this first jaunt and was a good choice, with a sharp sense of humor and an endless supply of home mixed Punjab CD’s. My first glimpse of India was surreal. There are the inevitable piles of rubble and trash, but there are bright colors everywhere, in the scarves wrapped around the heads of the three Indian teenagers jammed on one a scooter, the tassels swinging from car mirrors, and in the fruits sold in the stands on roadside. The delivery trucks were even painted with bright colors, the cab grills painted to strategically to look like monsters, which had a scary effect when they zoomed toward us head-on before sliding back into their lane at the last second. Which bring us to the driving, which is basically a free for all dash to wherever you are going. There doesn’t appear to be a speed limit, a discernable traffic pattern and the right of way goes to the biggest vehicle or the most nimble driver. We stopped a few times on our 8-hour journey, once at gas station where I got a crash course in Indian living, using one of the restrooms that consisted of an oblong hole in the tile. I did ok with that considering I lack the tool (ability) to aim. I tried to find a place to toss my McDonalds cup (Indian diet coke is delicious to their liberal use of tasty, cancer-inducing sweeteners) and was encouraged to throw it over a wall into the adjacent lot. I felt guilty adding to the trash piles but I caved to the urgings of the smiling, turbaned gas attendants and secretly felt rebellious to be a litterbug. We stopped at a tea stand/hotel and had delicious Indian chai tea while gathered around a fire. Unfortunately the fire was made of hay, so its warmth lasted about 30 seconds. The owner took a shine to Erin and asked her if she liked India 18 times since that was seemingly the only full English phrase he knew besides “I love America”, which is two more Hindi phrases than I know. He showed off the hotel he was building, which was more of a manger really, with a thatched roof and bales of straw. Not that I am an expert in identifying mangers outside of Christmas pageants, but baby Jesus looked like he would be right at home. We finally made it to our hotel, which was beautifully decorated with painted tiles and had large open courtyards. Our room was nice enough, the highlights being the impromptu a cappella prayer that some well-voiced Muslim sung at 6 a.m., the two peacocks I saw when I crawled half-way out our window in the morning, and the tour of the honeymoon suite we got in the morning before breakfast. That tour was given by the hotel manager, a self-proclaimed hotel “VIP and a very important man”. The honeymoon suite was quite spectacular with painted glass ceilings and upstairs and downstairs beds, for variety I suppose. “Sexy room!” our hotel VIP exclaimed as we oohed and ahhed at the chandeliers and beaded quilts. After a breakfast of omelets (Erin got the best one, seasoned with turmeric and vegetables) and some sort of oatmeal casserole we are off to Bikaner. I am excited because as the Indians like to say “everything is possible.”