Day Seven: Miles of Mustard

A very blissed-out Hanuman in our room at Karauli Palace

Bumping along the highway and its assorted dirt-road turnoffs, I couldn’t help but notice the trees, which were bereft of leaves and most branches. At first I thought, “Well, it’s winter.” Then I realized the tree branches had been cut as high up as a man (or woman, most likely) could reach—for fuel. We passed numerous bright green and yellow mustard fields, huts made of rushes, and cleverly stacked piles of “poop chapattis”:  bullock dung patted into neat pancakes of burnable fuel. The air smelled like wood smoke rather than what one would assume.

We arrived at the village, and our stay for the night, Karauli Palace, the estate of the former landowners (who still live on the property). It was, hands-down, absolutely fantastic. The grounds were immaculate, and included stables, cowsheds, orchards and a lovely and productive garden. Our room was decorated in red and white with beautiful red-mirrored spreads plus a long satin pillow in bright red, and a heavy carved-wood door that locked with a funny old padlock. Outside the heavy door: a wide lounging bed with a futon-like mattress and more satin pillows to nap on. The room was lovely except for the odd position of the toilet and the bucket shower not five feet from each other; when you took a bucket bath (shower would have been worse) the marble floor became as slick as a Bollywood hero. Since broken legs would have cramped all our styles, wet towels on the floor were the perfect antidotes. After lunch in the sunny courtyard, we repaired to our rooms or to the outside lounging beds for a rest; I went to the little shop on site and had my hand hennaed. Interesting process, and very relaxing…

Later that day, the group walked into the village of Karauli to the Hindu temple to witness the fire ceremony—the ritual worship of Lord Krishna. Night was falling, and we were the main attraction all the way through the village. I literally shook hands with dozens of little kids who would shyly come up and say, “Hello”. Everyone stared, but in India, this was commonplace.

There was a puppy in the street when a tractor came along. It ran over his tail (not harming him apparently) and the rest of us stood in horror as the double wheels of the tractor were about to crush him; a quick-thinking boy bravely reached under the oncoming machine and threw him aside. The puppy squealed in protest, and the boy walked away as though nothing had happened.

We reached the temple just before the fire ceremony.

Me and "the hand"-- I'm looking pretty blissed-out myself.
photo by Joe Trinidad

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Day Five: Beauty and Buyer Beware

The Amber Fort (Amer Palace) rests quietly near an artificial lake, reached by a sandstone-paved road rising 300 feet from the entry pavilion, the Ganesh Gate (battalion of hucksters: check). A few elephants, painted with colorful designs, were available for tourist rides up the hill. Elephants in the flesh are elegant beasts, bodies fortified with incredible strength and eyes gleaming with intelligence.

Several of us marveled at the fact that this wasn’t a world heritage site; it was absolutely stunning with its mirrored walls and manicured gardens, courtyards and stone screens, protected by a long great wall and another fort above the palace. This was, without a doubt, the high point of beautifully executed stonework I had hoped to see in India. That, and the guide hired to tell about the history and lives of the family that owned this palace (there were photographs in the bookstore of the beautiful last maharani accompanied by Jackie Onassis) made for an enchanting afternoon.

Below, in the lake, students celebrated the second day of a festival dedicated to the Hindu goddess of knowledge, Saraswati --they floated the flower-decorated figure of the goddess into the artificial lake in spite of the chilly temperatures.

Surprise! Mo. Ali speaks good Japanese (and a decent smattering of other languages). Ambitious and smart, this fellow is all charm and only a tiny bit larcenous. By now, we’ve all figured out that each person we deal with has connections: when they bring buyers in, they get a cut of everything sold. In Ali’s case, his choices were mostly good, so we didn’t mind. The drawback is, you may miss something your really wanted to see—in this case, only Virginia and her mom actually made it to the bazaar where the prices were considerably lower than any of the shops we were led to.

Mo. Ali asked us about our interests and insisted on taking us to "his" place. We entered an iron-walled yard through a tiny door and came into the tie-die place, muddy with giant 5-foot round wood fired vats of dye, and dozens of red, blue, green and yellow dresses hanging in bunches. The yard was littered with cast-off bags and other garbage, and we tried not to notice the single boiling finishing vat was the color of urine. The owner explained the process they used, and took us inside for a demonstration of hand-stamped fabric, something Jaipur is known for. Upstairs, mound upon mound of goods were laid out before us, which is the oriental technique; it overwhelms the senses until you numbly hand over your credit card. I did. I strongly suspect not all the items were made there, as claimed. And when I washed my beautiful hand-stamped, organically dyed dress for the first time, it must have missed India, because most of the colors ran off. Caveat Emptor is India’s new motto.

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.