Three-Wheel Adventures

Jaipur, Rajasthan, India
March 2nd, 2010

Our first impressions of Jaipur were marred by the fact that we were not having good luck with three-wheeled vehicles. To begin with, as we were walking down a busy street, a large, overloaded auto-rickshaw comes haring down the wrong side of the road and suddenly swerves to avoid an oncoming vehicle right as it passes us. You may be relieved to hear that the loud crack was not its impact with either of us, but unfortunately it did manage to hit Paul’s camera in its canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

Later, on the way back from the fort we had been visiting, we decided we would get a bicycle rickshaw home. We had encountered more and more of these as we travelled further north and I thought that I much preferred using them to the hassle of the many obnoxious auto drivers which inhabit large cities. To begin with, bicycle fares are supposedly around half those of autos, and if you do end up paying a little over the odds, these are some of the poorest workers in the city. And boy do they work! Half the time I feel like I should be getting out to help push, despite the fact that neither Paul or I could really be described as excessively overweight. It’s amazing how much they can fit on these contraptions; anything from enough bags of rice to feed a small village, to the furnishings of an entire house! During our ride I was marvelling at one rickshaw loaded with not one, but two complete three-piece suites – that’s two sofas and four armchairs being tugged along by a little man on a bicycle. Unfortunately, I soon after discovered the disadvantages of relying solely on the pedalling power of a man probably three times my age and only two thirds of my size: lack of acceleration. While making a turn across the road, a motorcycle whizzed through, bearing down upon us at full tilt whilst apparently contemplating his toes, as he definitely didn’t notice us straddling the road. Our driver yelled and threw his (rather insignificant) weight forward, trying his best to inch out of the way.

Inevitably, the shortsighted motorcyclist bumped into the side of our rickshaw, plonking himself down into the road and hopelessly bending the side tyre of our vehicle. The inescapable Indian commotion ensued, with rickshaw-wallahs who had witnessed from the sidelines hauling the startled motorcycle driver off to the kerb, while we were lugged back across the road and tried to avoid being dragged into the chaos. All the while, we were being honked at by the large jeep-like car behind, who obviously felt that we were rather inconsiderately holding them up. My mild surprise that no-one had got out to see everything was ok turned to astonishment when I saw who were seated inside. No less than the police, apparently unperturbed by the sight of a slight road accident involving a motorcyclist sprawled in the road and two very confused foreign tourists; they only wanted us to get out of their way. Just goes to show that while we may sometimes feel that all rickshaw drivers are scoundrels, they are apparently less so that the supposed figures of authority around there.

Happy Holi-Days

Jodhpur, Rajastan, India

Feb 27th-March 1st 2010

The day of Holi is an important holiday in India, but it is certainly unlike any religious festival I have ever seen before.
We inadvertently ended up first celebrating this festival of colour a couple of days early. The wonderful guest house we are staying at in Jodhpur, Durag Niwas, is also home to a charitable project working to empower local young women. I wandered upstairs to see what they were doing and join in with the games. Led by two nice European girls named Franzie and Nora, it felt a bit like Girl Guides, but with women of all ages and everything happening in Hindi, lending it the inevitable craziness of all that happens in India. Before I knew it, I was changing into my oldest clothes and being dragged out the door by one of the girls, to be met with a hosepipe and multiple people smearing purple all over my face and arms. For the next hour or so, all was chaos as girls threw coloured powder at each other, rubbed it into our faces and ran around yelling ‘Happy Holi’. They took especial delight in attacking us; by the end of it Franzie, Nora and myself looked more purple than white, and Paul’s previously pale blue shirt was a mixture of pink, yellow and green. He kept saying that it was ok, the liquid colour that had soaked me purple was just powder mixed with water, but I thought otherwise. I discovered that the small tin used with the hosepipe was labelled something along the lines of “100% Chemical: Industrial Dye”. Even our underwear was saturated with the stuff, and as for my skin/nails/lips/hair, after a good half an hour of scrubbing I was still decidedly rose-tinged. Govind, who runs the guest house, said that this was just a tiny percentage of what Holi proper would be like, but we thought that it really couldn’t get much crazier than the colour my skin was already.

Oh, how wrong we were!

For Holi itself, the water had developed from single hosepipe into a giant vat of water accompanied by numerous smaller buckets, bottles and water pistols. Powder abounded not just in purple, yellow and green, but every shade imaginable. And the industrial pink dye was joined by a dark greeny-blue, to ensure maximum staining of the skin to improbable colours which will last for the next week or so. Instead of a group of sweet young girls, the guests (including a couple of Brits, an Aussie, some Californian girls from next door, as well as Franzie, Nora and ourselves) were joined by a motley crowd of Indian men, mostly friends of the guest house family. Things started slowly, but soon developed into the largest, most colourful water fight Paul and I had ever seen! Not content with merely throwing water, the guys soon began just picking up the screaming girls and dunking us straight into the tub of pink water – I had this repeated no less than four times. The men didn’t fare much better; once they had been thoroughly soaked and covered in powder, a mob descended and literally ripped off their shirts in order to smear handprints across their skin. With the remains of a ragged shirt hanging from his arms and a complexion ranging from dark blue to fluorescent yellow, Paul looked more like an extra in some sci-fi film than an American tourist. I resembled some kind of alien, with a huge navy streak down the centre of my face and hair matted with a kaleidoscope of coloured dust. The end of the street turned into an impromptu party venue, with everyone dancing in the road and sipping on drinks – as long as you could keep your beverage safe from the various missiles that invariably sailed through the air towards the unwary. After an hour or so of carnage, we were loaded into various vehicles and driven to another family’s house, where we saw how the women had their fun. After they had been liberally hosed down by their husbands, brothers and cousins, the feisty female force too their revenge in the form of wet T-shirts, fashioned into makeshift whips and used to literally beat the men into the muddy ground. This colourful convoy continued on around the neighbourhood, causing carnage well into the afternoon, while the slightly dazed tourists were returned to the guest house to recover and begin the attempt to regain a normal skin tone.

From my multiple ‘holi-days’, all I can conclude is that Holi is the most aggressive and yet the most welcoming of festivals; everyone is included but everyone is a therefore target. No-one is safe, from the smallest child to the eldest grandmother. Even the dog had a maroon dusting to its coat by the end of the day.

Romantic Tea for Two

Udaipur, Rajasthan, India
Late February 2010

We had read in a few places that Udaipur, in Rajasthan, is considered the most romantic city in India. My reaction: how on earth can anyone think a city here is romantic? I can well understand how a secluded beach with swaying palms and stunning sunsets could be associated with amorous lovers, but a city? Our experiences up to that point had found them to mostly be dusty, dirty places with too much traffic and excessive numbers of people.

However, once we arrived, we realised just how wrong we had been. Udaipur is gorgeous. Many of the hotels are in old havelis, which were the private residences of rich families. Our room, for around $10 a night, had shiny tiled floors, latticed windows covered in blue glass and a rooftop restaurant with a stunning view of Lake Pichola. Past the jumble of picturesque alleyways leading downhill you could see ancient royal residences out in the water and the towers of the huge City Palace in the distance.

One of our favourite days was spent exploring this palace, which demonstrated all the opulence you would expect from the abode of many generations of maharajas. Part of the sprawling complex still occupied by the current reigning family, a portion is on display to the public and some wings have been converted into luxury hotels. After a few hours in the museum I decided that, English girl as I am, I would enjoy partaking of the high tea served in the Edwardian-style reception room of the Fateh Prakash Palace Hotel. For those unfamiliar with the concept of afternoon tea, this is no quick cuppa in a coffee shop. It is a full meal complete with delicately cut sandwiches, tiers of cakes and biscuits and pots of fine aromatic blends served in china cups. However, unlike traditional tea in England, there was a conspicuous absence of waitresses in frilly old-fashioned aprons. Instead, we were served by a giant of an Indian man wearing a sash and an orange turban. The whole thing cost us more than a whole day’s budget, but was entirely worth it for the experience.

Little did we know it, but this was not the end of our encounters with my favourite beverage. A day or so later we stopped in a little travel shop to try and book onward bus tickets. There we found the cutest little travel agent named Kumar who was one of the friendliest Indians we have met. He wasn’t so concerned about taking money from us as wanting to just sit down and chat. Taking a break from sightseeing, we were more than happy to lend him our company for a while. After a few minutes, he asked us if we would like to learn how to make what he termed ‘love tea’, essentially very sweet black tea flavoured with lots of lemon. Always happy to try something new, we followed him into the tiny kitchen behind his shop and cheerily squeezed, stirred and poured under his direction. Whether it was his special recipe or just the fact that we were having such a fun time talking to Kumar, the tea really did taste wonderful. I hadn’t noticed until Paul pointed it out that his relaxed manner and excessive verbosity may in part have been due to another type of beverage altogether, but this didn’t detract from the fun we were having.

With two entirely different types of tea in just a few days, I really did grasp the romance of the beautiful city of Udaipur.

Housekeeping Horrors

Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India
February 2010

Further to my comments on service in hotels, let me just take a moment to expound upon the wonders of Indian housekeeping. Standards are, to put it bluntly, not quite what they were in good old Big Sky, Montana.
To give an example, In the delightful town of Ahmedabad we arrived very early from the overnight bus and set out to find accommodations in the ‘historic’ (by which the guided book must have meant ‘crappy’) section of the old town. With limited options and an understandable desire to find a room and sleep, we grudgingly settled on a rather overpriced room which they said would be cleaned while we waited. However, as we ended up passing the time in the corridor outside, we witnessed first hand what their definition of ‘cleaning’ really was.
The only housekeeping implement in evidence was a small broom. The boy who had carried our bags upstairs flourished this around, sweeping the floor certainly, but mostly just consigning all the dirt to the corners as opposed to the centre of the room. Then he set to work on the linens. I saw him remove the sheets, then in the blink of an eye the beds were made up again without any recourse to a laundry cupboard. We were slightly bemused about where these new sheets had come from until he made a flipping motion with his hand and we realised he had simply turned the previous occupants sheet over. He seemed a little aggravated when I said that I really wasn’t happy with this and sent him to find more!
Bathrooms are further evidence of how Indian housekeeping wouldn’t quite cut it in Big Sky. Don’t expect piles of fluffy towels and neatly folded toilet paper; here towels are maybe available upon request and you often have to pay more should you want to use loo roll. Far from scrubbing the bathroom with various sterilising products which leave that reassuring “I’ve been cleaned” smell, the boy filled a bucket and kind of sprinkled water around the room. Ironically, this would have actually worked in the USA, where the water is chlorinated so has at least some form of disinfectant effect. However, the questionable tap water of a sprawling inland city – renowned as one of the dustiest places in India – doesn’t quite produce the same standard of hygiene. In fact, it didn’t even remove the black hair from the wall, the scum from around the sink or the questionable marks on the toilet seat. A little grossed out, I pointed out these defects to the boy and made motions of scrubbing while repeating ‘soap, disinfectant?’. He merely went back into the bathroom, closing the door this time, and from the sound of things just splashed water around a little more vigorously.
Once we had resigned ourselves to the fact that this boy wasn’t going to clean anything quite the way we wanted, I took the different approach of taking the dirty pillowcases down to the front desk to request new ones. There I was met with the same response – just turn it over. When I said that no, I really didn’t want to do that, I was told a boy would be sent up. Everyone acted like I was being the most demanding guest, but are clean sheets really too much to ask when you are paying for a room in a hotel?! The boy duly arrived at our door with…soap! Did they wish me to wash the laundry myself? I motioned that no, it was not myself that I wished to be clean, but the pillowcases. A little while later, with no knock or prior warning, the door sprang open and the desired items were literally thrown into the room. I’m not sure if he was trying to surprise me in a state of undress, or just avoid any more questions. Can you imagine the reaction of a guest in America if requests were met with objects being propelled into their presence by an indifferent employee without so much as an acknowledgement that they are in the room?
By this point we had been listing the number of ways in which he would have been fired had he been a member of Paul’s staff. The next time a guest in Big Sky complains about housekeeping because they haven’t received their complimentary shower gel or some such small detail, I wish they could see what people in other parts of the world regard as adequate standards.

Standards of Service

Auranghabad and much of the rest of India!
February 2010

Having spent quite a bit of time working in American hotels, sometimes I feel that I’ve been spoiled. Knowing how things should, and can, be done, my expectations can be a little unrealistic at times. American standards of customer service are some of the highest in the world; even England can suffer in comparison, so imagine how we feel when we visit budget locations in a country far removed from both our homes.
Now in India, as everywhere, there are distinct variations in front desk staff according to what kind of hotel you are staying in. Some are incredibly smiley and will refer to Paul as ‘sir’ four times in each sentence. Others are gruff and businesslike to the point of rudeness. Some young boys will be happy to show you available rooms, but will have a vocabulary limited to ‘bed’, ‘toilet’, ‘shower’, ‘fan’ – very well meaning I’m sure, but not that useful in negotiating a rate. Other guest houses are run by old men who speak English well enough, but are so grumpy about it that you feel you are inconveniencing them by staying at their hotel. The concept of professionalism seems to be entirely alien in most of the places we stayed; in one place it was so unknown that while checking in Paul was asked if he wanted to buy a certain illegal herbal substance by a reception guy who was very obviously under the influence of it himself for our entire stay. It made the employee very happy and friendly towards us, but less than efficient in dealing with any requests.
Other hotel services suffer in the same way. In Auranghabad, the simple dinner of naan and dahl we had ordered for our room took about two hours to arrive. I know for a fact that the first time I went down to enquire as to its whereabouts, the staff were all sitting outside smoking and had completely forgotten my existence. I was subsequently told about three times that it would be ready in ten minutes; I think I expended more energy running up and down the stairs than I actually got from the food! Again, the concept that the customer is always right is completely unknown – I think the staff of many budget hotels in India think that guests are an nuisance who interfere with their busy day of watching cheesy soaps on TV or talking on their phones. Woe betide any Big Sky employee found on their phone whilst on duty – paying attention to guests is what you’re supposed to be doing, and is, after all, the reason you are paid to be in the hotel at all. At least, that was what my attitude had become, but I don’t think this was shared by the many hotel employees who studiously ignored me.
Restaurants are another fun thing to compare to home. Food often arrives on ‘Indian time’, which you quickly get used to because complaining about it will do you no good at all. Some wait staff – particularly in small, cafeteria-style places – are so friendly that you are almost overwhelmed. In broken English they will attempt to explain the entire menu to you, repeatedly trying to make you order their favourite, even if it’s not at all what you want. The order will inevitably be mixed up or incorrect in some way, but they smile so much that you don’t have the heart to tell them that the sweet, milky broth in front of you bears no resemblance to black coffee (as Paul frequently found) or that you definitely did not order your eggs with ham (if you are a vegetarian like myself). However, over-attention does not always mean you are satisfied with the service. It can be a little disconcerting to have a silent, stern waiter hover – I mean literally stand right at the edge of the table watching you eat – for the entire duration of your meal. As a westerner I sometimes felt more like a chimpanzee on show than a customer in a restaurant. Then there are those who merely perceive you as a source of ready cash. If service is good then yes we will tip, but I find it a little off-putting to have an old guy stand over us demanding ‘service, service’ before we’ve even looked at the bill. And usually the ones who do this have forgotten to place your order, brought you the wrong drinks and then coughed all over your food when it emerges two hours later.
So perhaps it is no surprise that when we do encounter good service, we revel in it. Our ‘luxury’ Christmas treat to ourselves was entirely based on service; it wasn’t the rooms that sold the hotel to us, but the two incredibly professional guys at the reception. They did their utmost to sell us the room without being pushy and negotiated on prices and packages with as much skill as any Big Sky deskie. Every time I walked through the lobby they would stand up, smile and greet me with ‘good afternoon madam, how is your day?’ I think I was more excited at the fact that there were ‘real front desk staff’ than anything else. I may have been spoiled, but at least I now truly appreciate good service when I find it.