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: The Best—and Worst--Way to Get Around

After an early wake-up call, we made our way to the New Delhi Station. It had rained, so the platforms were puddled, which didn’t deter a few waiting travelers from napping on the cold cement, covered with a blanket. A train is absolutely the best way to travel in India—Chime bought us AC Chair Car class tickets for our five-hour journey to Jaipur. A bottle of water, newspaper and dinner (Meals on Wheels!) was included. Chair class (180Rs) is the least expensive of the four100km train ride classes (1^st class was 550Rs). Train fares are by distance, with several classes for each distance. WikiTravel has a good rundown.

The Irrepressible Mohammad Ali

With what appears to be almost as many animals as people, Jaipur is a huge city of tiny shops chock-a-block against one another resembling open garage doors or storage units. Lots of camels were harnessed as beasts of burden, and pigs and dogs are everywhere, feasting on garbage that is swept into piles for them. Odd to think of it as effective recycling, but it works—how else would all the “free” animals wandering about survive? Thanks to the rain, the broken streets were pools of water, mud, animal scat, garbage, and the usual chaos. We arranged for tuktuks at the train station (as opposed to bicycle rickshaws, tuktuks are highly personalized three-wheeled motorcycles covered with colorful vinyl). The motor sounds like a lawn mower, and is started much like one too. Our tuktuk driver Mohammad Ali took Matthew, Pamela and me on Mr. Toads wild ride to the hotel, talking non-stop, with an unusual disregard for the boundaries of road, sidewalk, pedestrians, bullocks, and oncoming traffic. It was fun; after several days in India, I was getting used to gasping in terror then being flooded with relief.

Courtyard of the Heritage Hotel

After settling in at the Heritage Hotel (definitely a step up after the functional-but-basic Suncourt) and a quick lunch, we careered toward the Amber Fort, about seven miles out of town, and one of the most worthwhile architectural monuments in the golden triangle.