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.”