By Bertie Shepherd-Cross
It was August, work experience was in full swing, and I was striding along Chancery Lane in search of a lunchtime meal-deal. My girlfriend rang, “I’ve been thinking” she said. . . “let’s go to India!”
Somewhat surprised but overcome with wanderlust I had the entire trip planned by the time I went to bed that evening. Hotels, trains, tickets, you name it. Was I duped into a glorified shopping trip? Maybe. But was I ready to experience the sights, sounds and colours of the world’s largest culture all on a shoestring budget? Definitely! Tune in as I recount some tales and tips from our time in Rajasthan – the good, the bad and the really quite smelly.
After a day of travelling we were eventually spat out of Delhi airport into the humid September smog at 9 o’clock in the evening. My card was declined, our driver went to the wrong terminal, but at long last we checked in to our modest lodgings, washed and went to bed.
The following morning we met our guide who was to show us around the megacity that is Delhi in just 8 hours – quite a challenge, we thought, but one he duly accepted with a typical Indian enthusiasm for life. A day of two halves followed. From the claustrophobic crush of Asia’s largest wholesale spice market, the vast Jama Masjid Mosque with capacity for 25,000 worshippers, and the Mughal Red Fort in Old Delhi, we gradually made our way to Edwin Lutyens’ open-plan New Delhi. A testament to town planning, it has wide boulevards, green spaces and seemingly endless roundabouts (think Milton Keynes, but with tuk-tuks everywhere!).
The outstanding memory from day one was Humayun’s Tomb. Built in 1572 for the Mughal emperor, and known as the Delhi Taj, it is set in beautiful gardens with symmetrical gateways and a network of streams and fountains. The original Mughal splendour of the site is preserved, and it provides a peaceful sanctuary away from the din of India’s capital. As such, it should be on any itinerary of the city worth its salt.
After a baptism of fire into the Indian way of life, we retired to our hotel for some respite. Alas, as we collapsed onto the bed and disengaged our brains from the sensory overdrive they had entered, we discovered that our train to Agra in the morning had been cancelled. After soliciting the advice of the receptionist and his six eager assistants, the only option was a 4-hour taxi ride.
Having woken up especially early to book the Uber it transpired that most drivers didn’t fancy the round trip. We finally found someone prepared to cover the distance and after resisting his attempts to rip us off and needlessly tie the suitcases to the roof of his rust bucket, we got in.
What followed was an involuntary, full volume introduction to the very best of Indian folk music, sleep was off the cards but boy was it fantastic. I can still hear it now, the jingling in my head whenever I take myself back to that Hyundai hurtling down the Yamuna Expressway powered by natural gas and Bollywood.
At long last we made it to Agra, checked into our hostel, walked to the Taj Mahal, and snapped the cheesy tourist photo. Agra done.
Or so we thought.
To our astonishment, it was the Itmad-ud-Daula, endearingly known as the ‘Baby Taj’, that surprised us the most. A glittering precursor to the Taj Mahal and a pivotal transition in Mughal architecture from the earthy red sandstone to the gob-smackingly beautiful white inlaid marble, its chocolate-box perfection is definitely worth seeing for yourself. Perched on the banks of the Yamuna and set in pristine gardens you will likely have the place to yourself while the hoards are magnetised towards its more famous cousin. As a result, the Baby Taj is a haven of peace, offering a quieter alternative to the Taj Mahal.
The next day we got up before sunrise to catch the 6am train to Jaipur. Once on board and watching the countryside fly past we felt for the first time as if we were properly travelling. Despite their legacy as a vestige of the British Raj, there is nothing remotely British about the wonderful Indian railways. Swap the sullen commuters and dulcet tones of a shuffling ticket officer on the 08:19 LNER Azuma service, for a colourful array of sari-clad women, neatly dressed businessmen and the loud cries of the chai wallahs shouting ‘chai, chai, chai!’ as they pass through the carriage intermittently. The variety and excitement of train travel meant that even our longest 7-hour journey flew by and left us wanting more.
Arriving in the jam-packed Jaipur station we received a bombardment of attention from jostling tuk-tuk drivers all claiming to know exactly where we wanted to go – they of course did not. The common thread among them all though was that they would shake their heads affirmatively while receiving directions only to set off immediately in the wrong direction.
Our hotel in Jaipur was the once handsome residence of a local maharaja on the edge of the old city. Now consumed by the state capital, it nonetheless retains all the charm of its former glory. The beauty of Indian hotels is that you can get a lot of bang for very little buck, especially in the off-season month of September. We stayed in wonderful palaces, forts and havelis; a bit rough around the edges but all the more charming for it.
Having ticked off all the cultural gems on the first day (the Amber fort, City Palace, Jantar Mantar and the Jal Mahal are all must-sees) we left ourselves two more for shopping. In total we went to five different textile shops each with piles and piles of block print in buildings rising three or sometimes four stories high. The bargaining was fierce but always friendly, and after hours spent sweet talking the shop keeper out of an extra 250 rupees (£2.17), we felt victorious.
By the end of the day, we had amassed in total 35 metres of beautiful hand-made fabric, some made-to-measure shirts, skirts, dresses and quite a few kilograms of Jaipur’s famous blue pottery too. Deterred only by the looming threat of the luggage allowance, we stopped there.
The next day, with bulging bags we left on the early train for Udaipur. Clinging to the shores of Lake Pichola and once used as the film set for Octopussy, Udaipur is best enjoyed from a rooftop bar, drink in hand watching the setting sun illuminate the water with hues of orange.
We spent three very happy days here, enjoying the slower pace of life on a trip that was oftentimes hectic and exhausting. With a small and walkable centre, the peace of fewer tuk-tuks is noticeable and a welcome change from Jaipur’s madness. Don’t forget to check out the City Palace and definitely leave time for the Rajasthani folk dancing evening at the restored Bagore ki Haveli for an evening of fire dancers and puppeteers.
Feeling rejuvenated, we hopped aboard the afternoon train to Bundi, a far-flung destination in the hills of rural Rajasthan heartily recommended to us by someone who had never been. Undeterred, we set off to check it out.
Teeming with cows and not a tourist in sight, this sleepy little township turned out to be the jewel in our crown of Rajasthani adventure-seeking. Rich in Rajputana architecture and once the inspiration of Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle Book, we fell in love. There is an enormous but abandoned fort here that evokes a certain nostalgia for India’s past. We stumbled upon one room in particular, the Chitrashala, with the most remarkable wall-paintings in deep reds and turquoise greens of elephant combat and dancing figures.
After a while revelling in its beauty and sheltering from the 40-degree heat of the sun, we realised that our exit route was blocked by a troop of monkeys. Our initial attempts to scatter them from the doorway were made cautiously, stick in hand and shouting firmly, but to no avail. We were met with scornful faces and a nasty set of canines – we were clearly on their patch.
For our second offensive we enlisted the help of the lethargic warden unaccustomed to foreign tourists, (sign language for ‘there is a monkey in our way’ is rather harder than it may seem). Reluctantly emerging from his cabin with a pre-prepared truncheon, we felt braver this time. Needless to say, the monkeys dispersed with sore bottoms, and having made them angry we darted for the door with one eye over our shoulder.
To refuel after this escapade we consulted our Lonely Planet guide for lunch. Finding what looked to be a lovely spot we set off with high hopes. On arriving though we felt as though we had walked into the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. The place was abandoned so we let ourselves in and called for assistance. Sheepishly we were shown upstairs by a porter to the rooftop terrace where a table and chairs were promptly set up for us. The chef was called to come immediately because, as the porter exclaimed in disbelief down the telephone, ‘we have guests!’ Despite being a little flustered by our arrival, we were made to feel welcome and twenty minutes later, ruffled and deeply apologetic, the chef arrived and set to work in the kitchen. About fifteen minutes after that the power went and lunch was put on hold. No matter though because it was still possible to make pancakes, and so we whiled away a hilarious afternoon playing cards and soaking up the madness. In fact, so happy was our experience that we returned for lunch the following day – this time the electricity was back and the menu a little more extensive.
After enjoying an unvarnished version of India for two days and witnessing a Hindu street festival, we left sleepy Bundi for Jodhpur by overnight sleeper bus. Learning after the event that these were best avoided in India for the high risk of road traffic accidents, theft and harassment, we ignorantly boarded from the side of the road, locked our bags together and settled into our upper-level double cabin.
Within minutes we both sat up and realised the error of our ways. The bumping we endured for 6 long hours was comical. Every so often we were bounced so high that our entire bodies would levitate before thumping back down onto the mattress. The clickety-clack of train tracks had never been so appealing. At long last, black, blue and bruised all over we arrived in Jodhpur and swore blind never to repeat the experience.
Our first port of call was the Mehrangarh Fort. Looming over the city from its rocky outcrop, the fort has walls some 36 metres high and 21 metres wide in places. It was off these walls that for an adrenaline-filled hour we launched ourselves down ziplines – flying high over the lakes and walls below while safely strapped into a harness.
The next day we toured the surrounding countryside in an open-sided jeep. Stopping first at a local Bishnoi house, we learned about their strict dedication to preserving the lives of animals and plants. We watched as the patriarch performed an opium ceremony before offering us a chance to indulge ourselves. After this we were taken to watch the mesmerising skill of a craftsman weaving carpets on a loom followed by a mandatory tour of his shop. Inevitably we had to awkwardly extract ourselves from Aladdin’s emporium telling him thank you but that we were just students and had no need for a 4×6 metre silk weave runner. Retail complications aside, we both loved journeying beyond the urban sprawl to see the countryside that we had previously only experienced through a dirty train window.
After three days in Jodhpur we left on the sleeper train to Jaisalmer, armed with cold pizza and masala crisps for supper. Arriving under the cover of darkness, we woke the following day to find our 3-star hotel was built into the city walls with a wonderful rooftop terrace and views across the entire town.
Once a major caravan city along the Silk Road, Jaisalmer has not let go of its commercial origins. Every shop has inside a haggard yet fiercely compelling salesman who will not so much as let you walk past without encouraging you to look at his wonderous array of dusty trinkets. Each one keen to reassure you that ‘looking is free’; one even going so far as to make the kind offer – ‘let me help you spend your money.’
One afternoon we drove West to explore the Thar dessert, ride camels and enjoy a freshly prepared supper under the stars. Our mounts, King Kong and Michael Jackson, were cantankerous camels but carried us leisurely into the dunes and helped us live out our best Lawrence of Arabia fantasies. After an authentic vegetarian supper watching the sun set over the dunes and chased down with a cup of sweet, spiced chai, we packed up camp and headed back to Jaisalmer after nightfall.
In our short stay we had grown quite attached to this remote desert outpost with its golden walled fort, blazing sunshine and slower pace of life. We spent three very happy evenings on the rooftop terrace with a Kingfisher lager, a simple curry and a pack of cards watching the industrious goings-on of Indian life on the street below.
Our train to Bikaner was a 3-tier sleeper carriage. Once packed into the sardine tin with the bunk above barely 30 centimetres beyond the ends of our noses, we drifted off to sleep to the calming sound of the train speeding eastwards back through the desert.
Bikaner is a little smaller than the other cities we visited but still radiating with magic. We stayed in a homestay run by a delightful couple who welcomed us like family and treated us to some local sightseeing recommendations and wholesome family cooking. After a busy day about town we were welcomed into their family dining room and had an array of homemade curries, dal and naan not appeared in front of us before too long, we could easily have been mistaken for being in an 18th century country house with mahogany furniture, silver candle sticks and an open fire.
By now our extended three-week circuit of the Golden Triangle of Rajasthan was drawing to a close. We had just one more sleeper train back to Delhi before catching our flight home. Feeling a bit glum at the prospect of leaving India our spirits were soon lifted by the promise of bacon that was waiting for us upon our return.
Our time in India had been truly enchanting. It is rare nowadays that you can properly open yourself up to new experiences and dive into a foreign culture with such a trusting instinct, but that is exactly what we were able to do in Rajasthan. The people we met along the way were all kind-hearted, easy going and happy to help us. Yes, we had some uncomfortable moments, but they served as helpful reminders that we were tourists, outsiders looking in, gawking at a life and culture that seemed a million miles from our own. As much as we might have felt like locals, the nature of travelling abroad is that you only ever get a fleeting glimpse, a privileged yet prying preview into someone else’s world.
It is only once you fully embrace the Indian way of life and abandon any preconceived ideals that the country begins to offer you some real fruits of reward. Instead of holding on to inflexible attitudes like Jean Ainslie in the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, let them go. Don’t block out the noises and the smells, don’t ignore the dirt and heat, don’t look past the strange customs and eccentricities of Indian society, for these after all are the very things that make India so special. Entertain them, embrace them and get on and book your trip to India. Failing that, grab some popcorn and sit down to watch the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel for a snapshot of the Indian dream. It will not disappoint.