Pushkar > Kishangarh > Jaipur > Dausa > Bharatpur

December 25, 2014

Pushkar > Kishangarh > Jaipur > Dausa > Bharatpur > Agra 380km

[Originally posted Dec 25, 2014]

Merry Christmas (or its Eve) from India! Our Christmas Edition blog entry features a couple short stories. Some of them contain the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Some of them begin with the truth but may be slightly exaggerated or fabricated for your reading pleasure. What is the truth? And where did our creative license go one step too far?

Entering the town of Pushkar we were harangued my a smattering of touts wearing Utah Jazz basketball shirts. It’s so interesting to see the demeanor of wonderfully kind Indians change into obnoxious, won’t leave you alone Indians when a “tourist town” is reached. What added to the awful arrival was another flat tire. Ah hell. That was our last good tube. Will our journey continue or will a flat tire ground us? In the morning we go off in search of a “bike shop” to repair our flat tube. Luckily, all of India seems to run on inflatable wheels and patching punctures is an Indian speciality. We spot a large bowl of dirty water lying on the side of the road, the tell-tale sign of inner tube repair, and get to quick work. Fifteen minutes later we have two tubes patched and ready to go for $0.33. (Why a bowl of water? Locating these tiny holes is often impossible, so the inflated tube is submerged in water. Little bubbles are a mechanics best friend when searching for holes too small to see.)

Katy is getting a little more and more nervous about the sweeping traffic that flies all around us each day. India’s roads are not for the faint of heart. I keep telling her that if a giant truck is going to run over us and kill us then there really isn’t much we can do about it. She continues to wave her arms and shout at anyone who gets too near. Coming into Agra a motorbike pulled right in front of us and slammed on the brakes to talk to friends about our unusual appearance in their town. Katy yelled, “Get the &*%$ out of the way you *&%$.” Another near death experience averted.

We took two jeep rides to get from Bharatpur to Fatehpur Sikri to see the deserted capital of the Mughal empire. The highway between these two towns is separated by an uncrossable median with breaks that only occur every 10 kilometers or so. Our driver stopped at one gas station, but kept going because he didn’t want to wait in a 4 car line. Instead, he crossed at a designated break in the median and for the next 10 minutes drove into oncoming traffic to get to a “better” gas station - one car would swerve to our left, a motorbike to our right, a couple honks to warn pedestrians. The drivers in India are so accustom to this that all of this was done without relative alarm or panic to the other 15 passengers in our 8 seater jeep, and Katy and I laughed the whole way.

On our return ride we hopped in another jeep, excited for what lie ahead. Immediately, friends were made with three women dressed in their sarees, nose rings and wardrobes of Bollywood cinema. Roasted peanuts, in a bag of carefully folded newspaper of course, were passed around the jeep as a snack before departure. Anticipating a harrowing return jeep ride with possible death, we deemed it vital to our survival to make friends with this group of gawking Indians and so I got a roll of Oreos out of my pocket to share. When offered “Milk’s Favorite Cookie” the lady next to Katy grabbed the entire roll, apparently having never seen a snack we bought 8 meters away from the jeep stand. Then Katy offered her a single piece, she looked at in inquisitively, carefully brought it to her nose and in one brief sniff absolutely refused it and gave it back. However, the Oreo we offered to the collage of men in the back of the jeep was quickly broken up into five or six pieces and shared amongst the crowd.

Everywhere we go people stare. This often turns into drivers of motorbikes, cars and trucks not paying careful attention to the road. We assume that at some point this would turn into a problem, how the events would unfold, we weren’t quite sure. On our ride into Agra on a relatively calm two way highway we approached a boy on a bike riding in our same direction. He heard the commotion from others and turned to stare. His staring went on a little too long as his bike slowly drifted off the highway, into a thorn bush and he ended up face down on the pavement. Poor little guy. Gotta watch where you’re going.

India is freezing cold. A dense fog permeates the land from 6pm until 11am, preventing the sunshine from warming anything up. The other day Katy rode in her Mont Bell jacket and a hat. I couldn’t feel my fingers. At night we cuddle around a small space heater, inside our down sleeping bags and extra blankets. It’s freezing balls over here.

Do you remember the groper who used to roam the BYU campus like an untamed lion? Well I think he might be in India now. I was attending to letting out a little air pressure to help with the bumpy road when I heard the distinct slapping sound of a woman’s hand crossing a man’s face and Katy shout, “You’re not allowed to touch my breast.” Hmm, I thought. That’s a new one. I jumped up and put the pesky little fellow in a headlock. When his vital signs signified death we buried the body, said a dozen Hail Mary’s and Our Father, invoked the Gods of Jainism, Hinduism and the Sikhs before enjoying a hot cup of chai and continuing on our ride.

For $32 a night Katy and I stayed in the Lord Krishna suite at the Pearl Palace Heritage Hotel. A large statue of Krishna and Rama was carved on the door to keep out evil things. Our room was hand painted, adorned with bowls of flower petals, had a music switch in the bathroom, 24 hour hot water and complimentary TP. In the morning an English newspaper was slid under our door. Katy and I spent the evening reading our horoscopes, palm reading, getting Henna tattoos, massages, cooking lessons, chanting sessions. Stuff like that.