22 May 2015
Postcard from Jaipur and Agra
December 2012
It's my turn to be hit by a mild case of Delhi Belly,
swiftly cured with the administration of some strong drugs and a more cautious
approach to diet. But it has slowed my writing down, with this being the last
postcard, as we fly home early tomorrow morning.
We arrive back in India from Nepal to be driven
immediately to Jaipur, the Pink City, so-called because it was all painted pink
for the visit of the Prince of Wales in the late C19. Many buildings don't
appear to have been repainted since, so could do with another coat or two. It's
also called the 'Paris of India', being a planned city with a common
architecture. In fact, it's really nothing like Paris: this is instead raw
India, with infinite shops, dirt and rubbish, stray dogs, Tuk-Tuks fighting for
fares and over-weight tourists being driven in rickshaws by scrawny old men.
The noise, smell and energy are overwhelming; it's both depressing and
exhilarating at the same time. So: bustling, energetic, scruffy, down at heel
in many places and stuffed full of foreigners, perhaps it's more like London.
As with Delhi, we're in the middle of the architecture
and history of the Mughals, the Afghan and Persian people who ruled northern
India from C15 to C18. They liked symmetrical gardens, intricate details on
walls and ceilings, imposing red sandstone architecture (hence the names Red
Fort and Amber Fort) and combining Hindu and Muslim religions in their places
of worship and in their architecture. For example, we stop at Fatehpur Sikri, a
beautiful red city built by the Mughals but barely lived in, as they found out
there was not enough water on the hilltop they had chosen.
As with many dynasties, a black sheep comes along in one
generation and changes the course of history. So it was with the son of the
King who built the Taj Mahal in memory of the wife who died in childbirth
giving birth to their 14th child, the black sheep in question. He wanted to
succeed his father, rather than the throne going to his eldest brother, as per
the succession rules. So he bumped off all his brothers and imprisoned his
father for eight years. That's why there are foundations of an unbuilt black
marble Taj Mahal, planned to house the King's tomb and be a mirror image across
the river. The son stopped construction when he assumed the crown.
I imagine the last thing you want to read about is a
summary of archaeological sites we have visited, not least because we've been
to quite a few. So let me just say that the Taj Mahal is worthy of its place as
one of the Wonders of the World and should be on everyone's 'must see' list.
Our hotel in Jaipur, the Shahpura, is the best of the
trip. A converted and extended private house, it is full of interesting bits of
furniture, with corridors and staircases randomly leading from one room and
facility to another. To get, for example, from our bedroom on the 3rd floor to
the restaurant on the 2nd, we can either walk down to the ground floor, then
back up another staircase, or take a masterpiece of wrought iron and polished
wood that is the lift. The feeling of it being a private home at its core makes
it perhaps a cross between the Mas Djoliba in Antibes and an antique furniture
showroom. The man who checks us in is a greasy factotum who makes us feel
welcome but a little spooked at the same time. We look at each other as he
shows us to the room and mouth the words, 'Child catcher from Chitty Chitty
Bang Bang'.
On the subject of hotels, we've paid extra to have a view
of the Taj Mahal in Agra. We're unconvinced of the value, as the mist or
pollution renders the view at best a smudgy outline. In every hotel, security
is strong, with the bonnet, boot and underneath of all cars and taxis being
searched before being allowed in. There are also airport-style metal detectors
at every entrance. All this since the Muslim extremist attack on a Mumbai hotel
a couple of years ago. But we feel safe at all times.
A highlight of our time in Jaipur is the visit to the
Anokhi Museum (and later, to the Anokhi shop in Delhi. A quick word of caution:
if you're ever offered a coffee while Pamela goes "for a couple of
minutes" to a clothes shop like Anokhi, make sure you have enough money
for a second coffee, and a thickish book, you're going to be there a while).
Anokhi uses a technique of hand-blocks to print designs onto fabric. At the
museum, we watch a block being made and cloth being printed. The designs are
beautiful, the clothes well-made and the prices very much Indian rather than
European.
I don't like being driven in cars, because of the
memories of childhood motion sickness. In any case, drivers don't like it
either because I end up fiddling with the heating controls and flinching
regularly as I work out in my mind the chances of a collision, whether an
overtaking opportunity will be taken, and why we're in the wrong gear. For
everyone's sanity, we're taking planes wherever possible on this trip, except
for the trip from Agra to Delhi, which is by train.
The image I have of train travel in India is of vast
elderly trains, probably hang-overs from the colonial era, with so many
passengers there are people on the roof, hanging off the doors and out of the
windows. The travel agent in Delhi is trying to put me right even if he does
not understand why we're taking the train, as our driver drives the car with
our luggage ahead of us to Delhi. He also has a sense of humour failure when I
suggest we take a Tuk-Tuk to the station, as our driver leaves before us. "No
client of ours has ever taken a Tuk-Tuk, I will send my personal driver to take
you to the station". He also insists we will be in a modern express train,
with comfortable seats. It's a tourist train, he explains further, there will
be no Indians with live chickens, no hawkers, no bustle and no crush. It'll be
like taking a train in Europe or Japan.
As it turns out, we can be sure he's never set foot in a
TGV or a Shinkansen. The train, once it pulls into the station late, is
elderly, with windows so dirty you can't look out, worn seats and it's packed.
We're the only non-Indian travellers. A meal is served on board, with each item
individually wrapped in creased aluminium foil. We're not brave enough to eat
anything.
The stations at each end are memorable. To get to the
right platform, the driver walks us over what looks like a temporary bridge
with a floor of tar and that smells of bleach. In an absurd comparison, it
reminds me for a second of Clapham Junction. On the platform, people wait for
the train by sitting in groups on the ground, amongst stray dogs, homeless
people and child pickpockets. To answer the call of nature, you climb down onto
the track, do your business, then climb back up. There are food vendors selling
tea for four Rupees a cup, about 5p, and omelettes for 22 Rupees. An elderly
woman sweeps the platform, in so doing creating a cloud of dust that we end up
coughing uncontrollably. I am pestered by a shoe polisher, who wants to polish
my shoes. I'm normally keen on this service, but not when I'm wearing trainers.
When I'm not looking, he starts on the first shoe, and I let it run. They are
in fact beautifully cleaned with a toothbrush and some clear cream and look
like new at the end. He asks for 200 Rupees and I give him 100, a little more
than £1, with which he's delighted.
All in all, it's an experience that I would definitely
repeat! (Pamela tells me she's taking the chauffeur-driven car.)
# posted by DavidF @ 17:14 
