A peachy day in the Pink City of Jaipur

After just one day Jaipur exceeded any kind of idea that I might have had about the place. I hear ‘big city’ and I think silver, shiny, metal, glass, straight lines, pavements, cityness. The Pink City is certainly none of these things. Arriving on a sleeper bus - plush mattress, bunk-bed cabin, very fitting for a futuristic Japanese scene -from Rishikesh, bidding goodnight to the Himalayas and grand risings to the desert state of Rajasthan. Eyes opening, sleepily gazing through the window of the bus, not expecting to be greeted by the majesty of a huge, rugged elephant, slowly and steadily plodding along with his load. The mahout lying atop limply, reflecting the early hour of the day. Next the pink hues of the city begin to register; walls, gates, scaffolding, everything a dusky shade of pink. We pass the gates to the city for the first time, their grandeur and beauty suddenly yet subtly, stirring something within, like a wide eyed child spotting the candy floss at the fairground. Jaipur, here you are, you stately, old, gent! There is a masculine energy in the air here, an air of pride and refinery. Amid the pale rose facades and salmon bollards, a feminine beauty that cannot be denied, the male presence evades. The atmosphere is vibrant, the morning hour bringing the chai drinkers to their source. Small food bizaars bustle with the chit-chat of morning business, and bold dark eyes roam unrestrained on the two foreigners sharing the breaking of fast. Unrevealing faces slip easily into smiles at the faintest grin and kind eyes twinkle as the grin spreads. No words are required in a country such as this, together smiles and eyes express warmly the greetings and curious recognition of the other. The eyes of the people are different here, in Rishikesh faces exude the very essence of the people, shanti shanti, peace and love shine out from relaxed eyes.  In Jaipur the eyes are piercing, intense stares reveal dark depths. Here are faces which reflect a lifetime of striving, eyes accustoming to darting around quickly, continually assessing the environ, ready to detect the next potential source of fruition, hungry eyes, a hunger for opportunity. 

Chill Out hostel - our open air bedroom :) and Ajeet :)

Short tuk-tuk rides turn quickly into promises of unforgettable days of sight seeing and chauffeur driven Jaipur jaunts, our driver, Bilal, has a sweet yet hard edged veneer. With little planning and even littler stress we find ourselves at Chill Out hostel, its rooftop beds and bohemian lounge instantaneously had us beaming. Perhaps Jaipur is not going to be a one night stop off after all.  Our finely clad host, Ajeet, beard full and groomed, attentively chats, showering smiles and compliments, those kinds of meetings full of energy and happy enthusiasm. He takes my compliments on his fine, paisley shirt and curled toe Aladdin style leather slippers gracefully, that he was nothing more than scruffy in his mother’s eyes.  Ajeet was a cool guy. Not long passes until he returns, pen and paper in one hand, fat joint in the other, eyes shining, and plonks down himself down with a list of his recommendations he’s already begun. The list continues to grow, as he excitedly recalls other places he wants to add, here is a man clearly with much love and admiration from his home city and it was nice to receive this heart-felt, home-felt, itinerary thoughtfully put together by a fellow that, half hour ago had yet to know us. Indian people are like that, they will help you to the last degree, if they can, which they often passionately enthuse that they can, because sub kuch miliga, everything is possible. In India it probably is.

After some time spent chilling on the rooftop we hit the streets to take a stroll and catch our bearings. Much amusement is to be had doing simple things, like looking at all the different sweets and crackers in the sweet shop; sugary gulab jamon, rich, creamy barfiand peda, spicy namkeen, aka Bombay mix, to you and me, a captivating array of colours, shapes and textures. Buying biscuits on the street is an even more titillating matter, pointing at boxes, wanting to try everything, throwing in many small Hindi words, vah, yah, thora, chikki, only glimpses of a language, said with an air of fluency, enticing a flurry of hard and fast Hindi from the dawdlers hanging around this candy wallah.  The next shop brings pineapple juice, sweet and yellow, freshly and readily prepared, served immediately, no wait at allm as we parked our behinds on the old, plastic stools, ubiquitous with Asia. The paltry fifteen rupee recompense for this satiating cold drink was just one of the small smiles and surprises India often brings. 

No surprise we end up in another tuk-tuk and this time, after a stop at the fruit wallah, a trip this driver was kindly bestowing upon two papaya desiring stoners, our driver takes us to his family’s textile shop and we are, before we know it, the audience to a impassioned pitch displaying the elaborate and desirable cloths and silks of Rajasthan. Layer after layer of cotton and silk are thrown over us, soon giving the rise to the Raj within, feeling quite queenly a top the sofa adorned in throws.  What started as a firm resolution that there was nothing in this shop that I could possibly want, I’m soon shaking hands on a deal for a block printed Rajasthani bed sheet, a cotton and silk bed cover and a soft, silky pashmina just for good measure. Right there, right then, the feelings was as if I had indeed sought out this shop for these items, I was chuffed. I’d found the things I didn’t even know I wanted, and yes, no problem that I will have to find a post office and mail this to England and blah blah blah. Hahaha, it was just a bewitching experience indeed. I guess this was enhanced by, Ali Baba, the shop owner, reading my aura and telling me all kinds of existential things about myself – which has actually happened a few times here now, and weirdly, or maybe not so, they all say pretty much the same thing. I take my leave after around twenty minutes of prophesising with my sage, not to forget the meeting with his guru that has been arranged for tomorrow.  His words will make my hairs stand on end, or so Ali Baba assures. 

Round about now, the days fares are calling for a retreat to the rooftop and more chai, until we suddenly realise we are no longer in Uttarkhand – Rishikesh, and there are actually beer shops here! So a few Kingfishers are secured and we head up to spend an evening doing much chilling, little moving, nice chatting. A great, great first day on the road. The energy of Jaipur is vibrant. 

Day Two in Jaipur brings a different energy, the frenetic traffic and incessant honking of horn is enveloping, the warm air heavy with dust and the invisible poison emitted from the sea of a diverse array of transportation streaming in every possible direction. Dusty, clapped out cars, bright yellow and green, buzzing tuktuks, rickety, spindly, old rickshaws heaving, and grey buses, sapphire blue and pink lorries, hand-painted with Sanskrit lettering and the ever present Om, motorbikes and scooters, carrying one, two, three passengers, or balancing gravity defying loads, precariously ridden bicycles, the occasional camel, horse or even elephant, share the road here, in a chaotic yet subconsciously synchronised flow.  The horn is imperative, used differently in the West, this is not the angry admonishment from one driver to another, this is the beacon, the alert system, ‘I’m here, coming through, step not unto my path’ – and it works, no crashs, no collisions, just plenty of close calls, near misses, and exhilarating thrills for the brave hearted that ride this mighty beast.  Small children weave through the traffic touting items seemingly useless to the captive market. The kohl ringed eyes of a young girl appear through our tuktuk window, a small, thin wrist holds out a red balloon on a stick, just what I was thinking would be useful in this bubbling soup of traffic.  She remains despite a clear lack of a sale, until the road roars and she is forced to slip away, a faint smile leaving her lips as she holds my gaze with those deep, dark eyes. It is these moments, looking into the people’s faces that leaves one contemplating life here, to be born into such a unrelenting walk of life. 

Before long, it is evident that today’s driver, Abhi, is not the trusty steed, his stuttering English quickly becoming a source of irritation, requiring much time and attention every time he speaks. His intentions were fairly pure but with only one day to explore this city we wanted not only a guide who could show and tell us a little about the city, but someone able to give us a chilled out day cherry picking the best sights and cool spots, those off the beaten track locations, giving a snippet into real Jaipur. Abhi was not the man and after going with him to his textile shop yesterday and leaving laden with goods we harboured no guilt at our desire to replace him with a better model. Knowing the persistence of the Indian counternance the best port of call was to escape via the local market, where we had planned to stop to find food. Stepping out of the Asian golf-buggy, we grease Abhi’s palm with two hundred rupees, muttering changes of plan, we hastily disappear into the throng of people, not looking back, yet feeling a pang of something a leaving Abhi standing wondering what he had done wrong. It was easier then explaining that we just didn’t want to spend the day with him, stuttering Stanley, and his lack of tour guide intuition. 

The market served as an experience in itself, a suffocating, yet fun detour. The dusty floor littered with plastic, unidentified trash, heavily trodden, embedded into the ground.  Bodies moved forward as one, occasionally halting for a stream of people going against the grain. Tarpaulin covered stalls lined both sides of every walkway of the market, swarms of shoppers formed small crowds at each station, eagerly grabbing, quickly studying, and just as rapidly throwing back down whatever this wallah was trading, here was a lot of fabric and textiles, a lot, forming piles of colour at the feet of thin, old men, stroking long grey moustaches. This was a muslim market, contrasting the colourful saris worn by Hindu ladies, here the women wore top to toe black, faces covered, black-lined eyes, framed and thus beautifully enhanced.  I follow suit, adjusting my headscarf accordingly, over my hair and immediately feel the comforting shield of concealment forming somewhat of a barrier from curious eyes. 

We navigate our way to the perimeter and into a small alley, laughing as we mused if Abhi was searching the market for us. Nourishment was our aim, a local food joint should suffice, the journey yielding further opportunity to see local life by foot.  Our presence was clearly equally as interesting to the local folk, and one must become accustomed to being watched and studied at every moment.  It also helps to become familiar with unsolicited interruptions from unabashed Indian men, stepping face to face asserting something unknown in Hindi. At first my naïve nature assumed something was up with whatever we were doing, this food shop wasn’t open or this place was only for drinks but one quickly realises this is not the case, and we actually have a poacher in our midst. Indian people feel no shame at seeking to lead you to part with your cash at any opportunity, even when you have already sought a recipient for this particular transaction. We take our seats inside the dark hole in the wall that was our chosen dhaba, food spot, and begin to survey the scene and work out what we will eat here. The guy from the street has followed us in and stands over us, firing out questions. ‘What your country?’ ‘In India you how long?’ ‘You have sigret?’ ‘You come here my shop’. Eventually it pays off to point outside and politely tell him ‘tum jao udhar’, literally ‘you go there’, a subtler way to say GO AWAY! At these times I’m happy with my small but growing grasp of the Hindi language. I’m sure this will not be the last time this phrase is drawn from the bag.