Hattie on Tour

The bridge

We have begun to have serious problems with the Dell we bought in Thailand. My Asus hasn’t worked for a long time now - it crashed and never recovered – and the Dell has become the surrogate for blogging (to Andy’s mild displeasure since I tend to hog it for long periods). It seems to have developed a virus which probably infiltrated it when Andy removed the anti-virus software in an attempt to log onto the  recalcitrant wireless internet in Jaisalmer. The virus has also infected my USB pen and seems to reside in my blog folder which is no longer accessible. Fortunately I had posted all the blogs stored there before it corrupted. But the upshot of the whole affair is that whilst I can still write to the pen I can’t upload to the internet for fear of infecting other computers. So I have had to resort to writing my blog ‘live’ as it were – just as well the internet is so cheap here.

View across Lake Pichola

The views of the Lake Pichola and the Lake Palace are much better from the west side of the lake which is reached by a rather nice bridge accessed through an archway close to our guest house. Looking back over the lake reveals what makes this such a picturesque city, with its impressive architecture and the long line of ghats descending to the water. The west side has fewer and less impressive buildings, although it has its fair share of ghats which provide washing and bathing facilities for its residents. It’s quieter too, with far fewer shops and less buzz. On our return the mahout we saw a few days ago is feeding his elephant grass on the edge of the lake.

Lake Palace

Talking to the disabled man

Crossing back over the bridge we are stopped by a disabled man. It turns out that he lost his legs in a lorry accident and there being no social welfare support in India is reduced to supporting his wife and family by begging. He wants me to write a note for him in English explaining his plight and urging people to give him money and he shares his family photos with us and a picture of himself before he lost his limbs. On reflection I’m not sure why he needed the note in English since he spoke English very well, perhaps to complement the notes he had in other languages.

In India, children frequently approach us for pens, even those dressed in school uniforms and clearly from well-to-do families who already have pens of their own. We haven’t been able to work out why pens are such a desirable commodity – possibly it is because they are not a commodity at all in India and are expensive to come by? Certainly had we known, we would have brought a stash with us.

I bought a pair of gorgeously silky harem pants the other day and can’t find a suitable kurtah to match. So I’ve ordered a tailor-made top in a burnt orange silk/cotton mix from one of the many little tailor shops that are to be found in the narrow streets. It will be ready tomorrow for a mere £2.50. But will it fit?

After a long afternoon siesta  to catch up on a very poor night’s sleep we finally pay a visit to an art shop which we have passed several times and always promised the shopkeeper we would pop in to look at his hand-painted postcards. As far as we can tell, these postcards are unique to Udaipur, at least we haven’t seen them anywhere else. Old used postcards with beautifully scripted original messages and franked postage stamps are used by local artists as the backdrop to beautifully crafted miniature painting of gods such as Ganesh, Laxshmi, portraits of men in stylish turbans and musicians playing a host of traditional instruments. At 50 rupees (about 60p) they are a momento not to be missed and we select quite a collection. The shopkeeper turns out to be quite chatty – who isn’t here – and we sit and listen to his plans for developing the shop, his marketing ploys to draw in customers and his forays on the stock market. And this a man who, it transpires, cannot read and write.

Architecture

Young children, not to mention some adults, have a clever little coin scam, which is quite harmless but a inventive twist on straightforward begging and far more discreet. In fact, so subtle is it that it’s not immediately apparent what is going down. Young child approach us in the street with a polite request for any foreign coins (knowing one suspects that these are valueless to the tourist as they can’t be changed on return home) on the pretext that they collect them. Quite separately, maybe on a different day or in a different place, we are approached by a child with a £1 coin; would we be prepared to change it to rupees for him as the bank won’t deal in coins? We get a £1 and he gets 80 rupees – and has made a tidy little sum in Indian terms. Quite neat and probably more lucrative than outright begging.

Today we walk back to the local market to find a spice box and some spices. A round, metal spice box holds a number of small dishes in which are kept the seven primary spices used in all Indian cooking: salt, coriander, garam masala, anis, cumin seed, turmeric and chilli. A must have, since we have taken our cookery course and another bargain at £2.50! In fact if we only had more space in our luggage we could equip a kitchen India-style for around £20 at most. We are not quite so savvy in our negotiations for the spices and probably made the very helpful and charming stallholder’s day when we trundle away with a bagful of over-priced purchases.

We stroll through the market which is a mix of handcarts-cum-stalls, open-fronted shops and produce displayed on the ground. As well as the vegetable and spice stalls there are carts selling blocks, of what turns out to be sugar, attracting enormous numbers of bees. In one busy corner of the market, we are stopped by a group of children eager to have their photos taken and we fall easily into the trap as one after another, singly and in groups we take pictures of them in various combinations with their young mothers. I’m even handed a small baby for a photo and when I come to hand it back the mother seems disturbingly keen for me to keep it. There is lots of giggling and laughter as everyone cranes to see themselves on the screen, even Grandma sitting on the floor with their meagre array of vegetables gets to take a look. Before we know it we are agreeing to send prints to these little urchins and I am taken to another stall where there is someone who can write out the address for me.

In the afternoon we visit the 18^th century Bagore-ki-Haveli which stands on Gangori Ghat overlooking Pichola Lake and is only a short walk from our guest house. It was built by Amir Chand Badwa the chief minister of the Mewar Royal court. In 1878 it became the home of the Maharana Shakti Singh of Bagore and was home of the royal family up to the 1930s. It was later left empty for 50 years until it was handed over to the West Zone Cultural Centre in 1986. The WZCC have since renovated the haveli in its original architectural style and it now houses a museum. Beautifully restored, it reputedly has 138 rooms of which only a handful which surrounding a central courtyard are open to the public. As we walk through the outer courtyard a very old man, sitting cross-legged and dressed in white and a brightly coloured turban strikes up an evocative tune on his Ravanhasta – a ubiquitous stringed instrument which is made of from a coconut shell and bamboo and is played with a horsehair bow. If anything embodies Rajasthan then this man is it.

Musician

Surprisingly the Haveli is deserted and we have the place to ourselves. This is a wonderfully serene setting in which a several rooms have been furnished to recreate what they may have been like when inhabited, whilst others display photographs of iconic places across India, cultural items including a large range of turbans of different styles (who would have thought there could be so many ways to tie them!) and a rather incongruous basement art gallery displaying modern and traditional art.

It is also provides a fabulous outdoor venue for an excellent evening cultural performance of traditional Rajasthani dance and puppetry. Local dancers wearing gloriously colourful traditional costume perform a series of dances. The performance included the popular Ghoomar dance in which the dancers’ graceful twirling is enhanced by the swirl of their vibrant ghagra skirts; the Terah Talli which consists of two women sitting on the floor with thirteen cymbals tied to various parts of their body which they strike with ones held in their hands; and the stunning finale, the Bhavai dance in which nine large brass pitchers of decreasing size are balanced on the dancer’s head whilst she performs a series of increasingly difficult dance moves including walking on nails and broken glass!

Traditional dance

Dance with symbols

On our wanderings today we discover a second clock tower and realise that this is the hart of the local bazaar and not the one we came upon the other day having taken our directions from Lonely Planet.  Here the treets are thick with people and handcart wallahs hied to tranport goods around the town.  The shops are clustered together according to their wares;  bazaars for goldsmiths and silversmiths, perfume and saree material, kitchenware and steel trunks of all shapes and sizes and so on.

We stop at a tiny perfumery which is just about big enough for the two of us and the shop keeper and sit down to test a whole range of oil-based scents.  Mr Asgar Ali smothers us with  pachoili, jasmine, amber, roe, cobra, sunflower, musk until all the smells meld together and we emerge smelling like a perfume counter.   But not before buying two small bottles of scent;  one musk and the other sandalwood for a mere 160 rupees and learning the Indian trick of putting a small piece of cotton wool soaked in perfume between the cartilage of the ear.  It prolongs the scent and disguises its source.

This afternoon we are signed up for a three-hour cookery course in a village house on the outskirts of town.  The transport turns out to be three up on a motorbike which is definitely a no go as far as I’m concerned.  So we insist on a auto rickshaw and it’s just as well we did, because it turns out to be a long ride over some pretty rough roads.  Our teacher, Veejay Singh is the brother of the rickshaw driver (why aren’t we surprised) as well as of the man who runs the shop where we booked the course and bought some clothes.  We have already picked the dishes we are going to learn to prepare and which will be our dinner today:  chapati, plain paratha, stuffed paratha, masala chai, Indian-style coffee;  pakora, vegetable kofta, mutter paneer, dum aloo and halvi for desert.  The lesson takes place on the floor of Veejay’s hall, sitting on mats in front of a two-ring gas stove.  All the cooking and preparation is done with minimum of equipment using two wok-style bowls and a curry spoon, a teaspoon, a small, circular chapati board and roller, a measuring cup and a bucket of water and most important a spice box containing the seven essential spices used to create all Indian dishes:  anis, chilli, cumin seed, coriander, salt, tumeric and garam masala.

Veejay has a cut 17-month old daughter who is shy and curious by turns, wanting to be close to her father, but inevitably getting in the way.  Mother has to be called to keep the child out of mischief and grandma is on hand to scold gently as necessary.  But what is striking about this household is the quiet calmness that pervades it;  unhurried and peaceful.

Veejay demonstrates while we watch, take notes and eat the delicious food he prepares, making it look much eaiser than I suspect I’m going to find it when I come to try to replicate the recipes in my own kitchen.

As we waited

The weather is a bit hotter today, but nothing like the heat in Jaisalmer and Bikaner a few days ago.  Having spent yesterday orientating ourselves and doing some more shopping, today we are sight-seeing.

The City Palace, the larges in Ragasthan, was begun by Mharaja Udai Singh II the founder of Udaipur, in 1600 and subsqueantly added to by various Maharajas over the centuries.   It’s impressiveness lies in its size rather than its beauty;  neither the exterior or the interior are a patch on other palaces we’ve visited here, such as those in Jaisalmer or Amber.  Highlights are the Mor Chowk with its five delicate glass mosaic peacocks;  the Manak Mahal (Ruby Room) its glass and mirror work having long since lost its lustre;  The Bari Mahal has a lovely, peaceful central garden and an indoor fountain;  Moti Mahal with its fading mirrow- work and Chini Mahal decorated with ornamenal blue delph tiles and Belgian glass.

After lunch we wander into the loca bazaar around the clock tower for a flavour of the real Uaipur, which is not so different from the tourist bazaar about 500 metres away, except for a few less handicraft shops.  A large elephant with mahout is ‘parked’ at ight angles to the pavement taking up at least 50% of the available road space.  It’s head and ears are colourfully painted and we are able to get right up close;  close enough to touch the rough leathery hide.

Today Andy as aged another ten years;  according to the guest house owner he looks about 76!

Dubbed the Venice of the East by Lonely Panet, Udaipur is very different from anywhere else we have visited in Rajasthan.  Situated on Lake Pichola and surrounded by the Aravalli Hills, it is set in countryside as lush and green as any in England.  The lake is by no means full – the monsoon rains are still awaited – and it is probably several metres lower than it should be, but at least it has water.  Until the exceptionally heavy rains of 2006 it had been empty for several years due to lack of rainfall.  The centre piece of Udaipur is the floating (or so it seems) white, Lake Palace which dominates the centre of the Lake.  Built by Maharaja Jagat Singh II in 1754 and formerly the Royal Summer Palace, it was featured in the film Octopussy and is now a swish luxury hotel with prices to match and is the exclusive preserve of paying guests.

Our guest house’s roof-top restaurant is a good vantage point from which to view the lake and palace as well as the coming and goings on Gangaur Ghat below.  The ghat is a popular bathing and clothes washing spot and young boys frolic in its murky waters while sari-clad women squat on the steps to scrub dhobi.  When we turn up for breakfast this morning, though, the resaurant is empty and there is no sign of any staff.  So we wander round the coner and stumble on the Nukkad Guest House, which like many in Udipur also has a roof top restaurant.  At first glance it has a rather unprepossessing entrance and we are in two minds whether to try it.  But once inside a rather beautiful haveli is revealed with a central atrium and rooms set out around three galleried floors with wrought iron ballustrades.  We have a pleasant breakfast on the light and airy terrace.

Udaipur old town is a bustling centre of small shops, their wares spilling onto the street and hanging from their facades.  There is a mass of things aimed pimarily at the tourists – from the minature paintings for which the town is famed (so-called for the fineness o their detail, rather than their size), to antique jewellery, leather bound notebooks and lots of handicrafts.  Painted woodenf igures and traditional puppets are to be seen at every turn.  There are a few cars and the narrow streets are easily clogged particularly when the yellow school buses ar about.  But generally it is easy to get around and every where of interest is can be reached on foot.

Cows decorated with brown splodges over their bodies, red on their faces and a saffron cloth tied to one of their horns to mark today’s cow festival, wander the streets.  This is the third festival in almost as many days, coming hot on the heels of Krishna’s birthday, Independence Day and Friendship Day.  On the 23rd it’s Ganesha’s birthday and preparations are underway for another major celebration!

Our attempt to change some travellers cheques is complicated by the rather sorry state of one of the cheques.  12 months in Andy’s body belt has taken its toll and the cheque is looking a bit dog-earred.  We present the cheques at a money changers, agree a rate and sign them;  so far so good.  It is only then that themoney changer  scrutinises the cheques and decides he doesn’t want to take the $100 cheque with a small tear.  Would we wait half-an-hour for his boss to come and decide whether it can be accepted?  We decide not to wait, but after a couple of paces down the street we realise that no-one else will accept already signed cheques and so we have no option but to return.  In the end, after pointing out that he should have examined the cheques before telling us to sign them, the money changer accepts his mistake, the cheques are cashed and we avoid having to report one lost in oder to get our money.

There is both a temple and a mosque close to the guest house;  one performs a loud, rhythmic and monotonous incantatation with drums and cymbals in the early evening and the other a call to prayer at 5am in the morning.  Great if you want an early moning wake up call.

Andy is ageing rapidly;  today a man we stop to talk to in the street thinks he is 66!  All this travelling must be taking its toll!