Wednesday, Nov 22, 2017... when Vicki learns that tattoos are better described by another name
Today we have a full day in Jaipur. I'm looking forward to seeing the city's famous sights, but I'm mostly curious to see what else we discover. Because the more I see of India, the more I realize that the best parts are the moments you can't predict: the unexpected sights and unpredictable interactions.
Instagram can be deceiving
We make a brief stop at Hawa Mahal, the Palace of Winds, on our way to Amber Fort. This is obviously a tourist hot spot: snake charmers sit close by, coaxing their (drugged) snakes to appear—as long as we pay.I've seen the Palace of Winds many times on Instagram, and today learn that it is in fact the backside of the real palace, designed to give the royal women somewhere to sit and observe everyday life on the streets, without being observed themselves. When you stand to the side, you can see that the structure is beautiful, but hollow: hundreds of tiny portholes in a red sandstone facade, much like a movie set.
Red sandstone is common in Jaipur, and I didn't think to question the city's nickname: the pink city. But, like the Palace of Winds, appearances can be deceiving. We learn that Jaipur only became known as the pink city when it was painted pink—the colour of welcome—for Prince Albert's visit in the 1880s.
"Let bygones be bygones"
“What do Indians think of the British now?” one of my companions asks our guide—a question that's been on my mind.“Let bygones be bygones,” he declares. “What did the British give us? Two things: infrastructure—trains!—and English. And now we have work because we can speak English.” I hadn't expected such a generous interpretation of a complicated history.
On the way to Amber Fort we pass amusing street signs (“Lane driving, safe driving”), beautiful buildings (a palace floating in the middle of a lake), and a construction zone (where women in gorgeous saris, stacks of bricks balanced on their heads, walk gracefully to and fro). I cannot imagine ever being bored in India.
Never ride an elephant
Inside the fort, monkeys scamper freely across the crenelated walls; majestic elephants with colourful face paint and sad eyes parade around the courtyard.
We're accosted by men selling cheap strings of elephants and fake turbans; I make the mistake of looking vaguely interested and am quickly surrounded by loud and relentless touts. A hasty purchase only encourages them further; they persist until we escape inside the palace walls.
Guides: worth every rupee
Our guide points out the symbols carved into the white marble and red sandstone in the secular public court, which evoke the spirit of Hinduism without being overtly religious: peacocks (kindness), lotus flowers (purity) and elephants (strength). The maharajah was clever.
The architecture is beautiful and the stories are fascinating; I'm glad we had a guide.
Real silk, best quality
On the way back into town we visit a textile factory, where a craftsman demonstrates block printing on fabric; we are told to check for irregularities when buying supposedly "hand printed" fabrics—a sign of authenticity.Inside we are seduced by the array of cashmere throws, silk scarves, kurtas and saris: best quality, we are told. Real silk, real cashmere. Everything is beautiful.
The prices are much, much steeper than the markets we've been visiting, and I want to believe that the prices are justified—but there is always that element of doubt. What's real? Who's honest?
A quick search on Google—scam!—tells me not to be fooled. And then the other side of me says: fair market value is what someone is willing to pay. We are all willing, and able. I purchase a few scarves and some hand-sewn cushion covers, but resist the urge to spend 22,000 rupees (about CDN$400) on a breathtaking throw. (Is it cashmere? I don't know.)
"We have a skin tax in India"
Our Jaipur tour guide-cum-philosopher ("If you hate me, I am always on your mind. If you love me, I am always in your heart. So always be loved.") then takes us to his preferred street food vendor for chili pakoras and samosas. "Only 50 rupees for a bottle of water?" I ask. "We've been paying 200."
"Ah yes," our guide smiles, "we have a skin tax in India." I have to laugh. White people have been screwing other cultures for centuries; it feels right for the tables to be turned.
I thank our guide (with rupees) and wander through the market with one of my fellow tourists; she's looking for jewelry, I want another kurta (I am in love with the kurta; I have never felt more colourful, or comfortable).
We are quickly surrounded by men, selling selling selling, and although we reply with "just looking" or "no thank you," we find ourselves expertly swept along and into stores.
My friend has vanished into the depths of one store; I am stuck at the back of another, where "just looking" has not stopped two men from pulling an endless selection of kurtas and scarves from packed shelves and even the attic ("all hand printed, hand stitched"). Saying "no" over and over gets tedious, so I escape into the street.
"You have so many stories!"
While I wait for my friend, a young man approaches. He points to the tattoo on my arm. "What is this story?" A small crowd forms as I answer. "And this story?" he adds. "And this one?"The men look fascinated. "You have so many stories!" one of them declares, grinning.
Our conversation is suddenly interrupted. My friend is barreling out of the jewelry store. "Let's get out of here!" she half laughs, half shouts. "Run!" We jump into a nearby tuk tuk. "Bloody hell," she exclaims. "Why don't they understand 'just looking'?!?" We return to the hotel with no shopping—but great stories—and treat ourselves to a rejuvenating Kingfisher at the bar.
Indian cooking 101
Tonight we learn how to make chapatis, dahl pachrangi and zeera aloo (cumin potato) at a suburban home in Jaipur. Our hosts are "modern Sikhs," they tell us; he cuts his hair and doesn't wear a turban, she runs a cooking school, they buy Christmas presents for their kids. (I am surprised that western traditions have taken hold to such an extent; I thought Christmas would have been shirked with colonialism. I guess bygones really are bygones.)
We learn the right way to make curry (brown cumin and other seeds in oil; caramelize the onions; use a 1:2 ratio of ginger to garlic; add dried spices with the liquid, not with the oil) and discover the secret of every Indian kitchen: a pressure cooker.Our host shows us how to cook chapatis on a gas flame, flipping them from one side to the other with her bare fingers, and smiles generously as we try to copy her—using tongs—giggling as our chapatis puff up and collapse.
After another full day and delicious meal, I fall into bed, exhausted. My mind is a jumble of thoughts about east and west, colonialism and tourism, "skin taxes" and trust. I wonder what tattoo I would get to tell my India story?