Me, My Girl, and a Frost Free February #5: Khajuraho-Jaipur-Pushkar-Jaisalmer – India

Khajuraho-Jaipur-Pushkar-Jaisalmer
October 6, 2002

We had planned to spend only a few days in Khajuraho but a run in with Delhi belly kept us holed up for a week. I split my time equally between the bed and the toilet. Helene was sure I had contracted malaria and when my temperature reached 102.4 degrees I was worried too. Helene went to track down a doctor. This was accomplished by heading to a storefront marked “medicine”. The proprietor (a boy who looked about 14) took Helene to a small room in a house not far from our hotel. There, with a passing Samaritan acting as translator, the doctor diagnosed me from afar. He pooh-poohed the possibility of malaria, and pulled four different types of pills off of his shelves.

“She must take two of each pill for 10 days,” the Samaritan translated.

“I tried to say no,” Helene told me, as she dumped the packages beside me on the bed. As I looked doubtfully at the pile, she headed off to the Internet caf�. After a bit of research, she was back with the news that we now had medicine to treat gonorrhea, chlamydia, giardia, and part of a TB regime. Fortunately, my fever had broken in her absence.

As soon as we were able, we headed off. Teenage boys called out “Bye Canada, bye Canada” as we walked to the bus station. There is absolutely no need to have Canadian flags on our packs. Wherever we go the first question we are asked is “What Country?” Sometimes this is the opener for a polite conversation, but more often it is the beginning of a sales pitch:

“What Country? Ah, Canada. Beautiful country. Nice people, always smiling. Generous people. I have a Canadian friend. From Toronto. Her name is Lisa. She bought my pashima shawl (carpet/scarf/paper/painting/clothes/music). You look?”

Over the past six weeks (barring the experience with the doctor) we have become expert at saying no to “rickshaw madam, cold water, nice hotel, cheap room, best clothes…” We had a brief respite in the less touristed areas of Bhopal and Sanchi, before heading into the thick of things – the Rhajistan tourist circuit. In Jaipur, shopping capital of India, every rickshaw driver has an uncle, brother or cousin who sells jewelry “from factory madam, very cheap, best quality. We go?” In Pushkar, walking down the main street was like being in an echo chamber, “Hello Madam what country you want hello madam you hello hello madam”. I would struggle to stay afloat with the answers, my head swiveling from side to side, shop keeper to shop keeper “Hello namaste Canada no thank you no thank you maybe later hello no thank you Canada” Living with this constant sales chatter can be incredibly frustrating and tiresome. The upside is that you can buy anything, anywhere, anytime at incredibly reasonable prices.

The best sales people in Pushkar are not the shop keepers, but the Brahmin priests who patrol the area above the ghats. According to Hindus, Pushkar was created when the God Brahma dropped a lotus flower to Earth to kill a demon. Three of the petals that fell to Earth created lakes, and around the largest of these lakes grew the town of Pushkar. Ghats and temples surround the lake, and pilgrims come from all over India to worship. In recent years the picturesque nature of the town, along with the easy availability of Bhang Lassis (marijuana and yoghurt shakes) have drawn tourists from further afield. Israelis make up a sizable portion of the population with girls in spaghetti string tops mixing in the streets with village women in bright saris and traditional dress.

The Brahmin priests snagged Helene and I on day two, and led us down the steps of a ghat toward the lake. There we performed a complicated puja, or prayer ceremony, involving rose petals, coconuts, rice, sugar, salt, and lots of chanting. Separated from each other, Helene and I were quizzed about our family members (including our imaginary husbands who are working in Delhi while we travel). Eventually we were asked for an offering toward the upkeep of the ghats and for the poor pilgrims.

“How much you offer?” asked my Brahmin.
“Fifty rupees,” I said � about the price of dinner.

“Fifty rupees! For such a large family � this is blessing for your father mother sister husband! No no no no no. One hundred rupees. Repeat after me. Lord Brahma.”
“Lord Brahma”

“I ask you blessing for my father mother sister brother husband,”
“I ask you blessing for my father mother sister brother husband,”

“I offer you,”
“I offer you,”

“One hundred rupees,”

“Fifty rupees,”

“No no no no no no!”

Twenty feet away Helene was going through the same thing. In the end the priests won and we were sent on our way with a gaudy illustration of Lord Brahma, some “sacred” candy and, most importantly, a red and orange string tied on our right wrists. This assured us safe passage through part of Pushkar. No one else would ask us for donations on the ghats. In the main street however, we were still fair game.

“Hello madam? You want? No buying, just looking. Hello, what country?”

After Jaipur and Pushkar, the quiet of the desert outside Jaisalmer was bliss. Camel trekking is big business in this area and several recommendations had led us to the Hotel Renuka (off Gandhi Chowk, ph: 02992/51119). The owners, Sonny and Guru, arranged a two and a half day trek for us (all inclusive) for 1100 rupees each (about $30.00 CDN). Sleeping under the stars the first night we resigned ourselves to the huge dung beetles that laboured across our bodies on their way to collect the offerings left by the camels. The two Irish girls traveling with us weren’t as sure, and, claiming back problems, decided to cut their trek short.

With our seventeen-year-old guide � who has been working treks since he was ten years old � we continued through the incredible scenery. Rhajastan has had poor monsoons for the past five years, and dead and dying cattle lay on the sandy ground. Moving awkwardly on our camels, we worked on the already impressive bruises on our bums. Hot, tired and dusty we arrived at some huge sand dunes just before sunset. After dismounting (which is done very carefully and in several stages on a camel) we found a shady area and sank gratefully onto the sand. My spirits sank a little as I saw a man in a Muslim prayer cap and billowing white kurta pyjamas rounding a dune, heading toward us, threatening to break our precious silence.

“Hello madam” he said, grinning broadly, “Hot, yes?”

We nodded silently, hoping he would take the hint. Instead, he sat down beside us, and pulled off his bag, which seemed quite heavy. Reaching into it he said:

“You want cold coca-cola, 7-up, ice cold beer?”

I will never again complain about the tenacity of the Indian businessman. We happily handed over our rupees and collected our drinks. Then, after handing a coke to our guide, we took our beer to a distant dune to watch the spectacular sunset. Coming from the opposite direction, three young boys matched our progress, and we all settled on the sand together, grinning happily at each other.

“What country?” asked the one with the brightest eyes, his hair slicked back with pomade.

“Mars,” said Helene, taking a slug of beer.

“Near Germany?” asked the boy.

“Yes,”

“Your name?”

“Batman,” said Helene.

“Robin,” I followed her cue.

“Batman and Robin,” said the boy.

“From Mars,” his friend added helpfully.

“Yes,” we agreed.

Their English exhausted, and our Hindi virtually non-existent, we settled for songs. They let loose with a few Hindi show tunes, and we gave a rousing rendition of “Oh Canada”, in English and French. The sun moved below the horizon and we finished our beer. As Helene and I headed toward the camels silhouetted in the distance the boys called goodbye and ran off, disappearing behind a hill of sand.