Pushkar to Chittogargh

Our ride out of Jaipur, took us further out through the district where we had been staying. Only seconds up the main road we passed another poverty stricken section of town, narrowly dodging a small donkey struggling along slowly, with two of its legs tied together with rope. Must be a 'runner'. A line of huts constructed with spare plywood, tarpaulin and crumbling brickwork clung to the edge of the road in front of a blackened drainage system, heavily littered with faded shreds of plastic waste. A blunt contrast to the freshly painted, detached, multi-storey houses owned by Jaipur's middle-class families, and protected from the trash and strays of the street by high walls and gates. We discovered, after travelling well over 10km before we reached the highway beyond large high rise hotels claiming eco-efficiency, and glass fronted office premises, that Jaipur was a lot larger than we had anticipated. The highway commenced with a real shanty town by the roadside. Tent shelters erected from pieces of scrap housed entire families. Small grubby children played in the dust amongst the scabbed dogs and small piles of burning rubbish. There is some irony in the fact that directly opposite is a large shop offering proper tents, luxury marquees and pagodas for sale or rent...

After Ajmer we took the bypass and then followed smaller streets flanked by sandy gravel. Despite having only 20Km to go, we rested the bikes whilst enjoying tea from a timber and tin stall at a junction surrounded by shanty-tent housing.A few grubby children came over to see us, the larger ones trawling over a baby or two from the camp with the intention of making a few rupees from the whities. We don't give to beggars, and especially children, as it's not healthy for them to learn that this is the only way of life and never to aspire to anything different. Mostly though it's the parents who send them out into the streets which is the saddest and most frustrating aspect. At the end of the day the few rupees you give will make no difference to the lifestyle or prospects. Some larger long term intervention is needed, and unfortunately on a vast scale.

Moving on through the descending dusk sky we passed through several more gorgeous little rural villages as Adam put the Enfield to the test on the banked corners. Women pumping water from wells, children playing, youths sitting in tree tops chopping green branches for stock fodder, and larger branches to be dried out as wood. Men sitting and standing around, talking or not. Contemplating this common behaviour, we don't attribute it to laziness. People spend many hours a day 'at work', and despite that during these hours there is not a lot getting done, it seems to be just a terrible inefficiency, caused by the lack of any kind of urgency or system. Lana felt something inspiring about this place, flat dry paddocks set in low rock strewn hills. This was the kind of place where you could design an education programme. Collecting all the kids from the area, bringing in somebody to teach them to read and write Hindi or to learn certain craftsmanship. Whilst English and maths in English would be possible to teach easily, it is more important for them to be able to grasp their own written and spoken language, and traditional trades. Her mind started ticking about how funds could be obtained, as well as the viability in buying a bus to ship them around to some of the historically important sites of their home land. A no-brainer really. The problem would be obtaining available time to make it effective. A one-off 3 week job wouldn't be enough. Food for thought anyway.

We rode into Pushkar just as the sun was dropping. After checking a couple of dim, dank guesthouses, we realised that parking may be a problem. Then we stumbled across Sun-n-Moon Guest House hidden up a long dark driveway on a steep slope. Parking the bikes on some scarp land behind a tall vacant building which we think was being constructed, and in front of another which looked pretty derelict but housing children and a sewing workshop (judging by the noises coming out of there in the daytime and the scraps of textile materials in the litter riddled pile of dirt in front of the door) we were greeted and agreed on a price. The friendly hostess of the Sun-n-Moon showed us to large rooms with double beds and clean bathrooms (which contained an option of two toilet styles) and hot water, set around a really pleasant courtyard, garden restaurant area. Settling in for the night we ordered the home made pasta and vast quantities of tea to keep out the biting cold of a desert night. To our surprise, Vince and Mia, whom we had met at Sanjay's house a couple of days previous and had dinner with on two occasions, showed up for tea. The coincidences never cease on the road, as the next day, Chris met a German couple in the street who he had initially met in Pakistan some months earlier.

Starting out with a really lazy day the following morning after a very fresh and tasty mixed fruit muesli and curd breakfast, we strolled the shameful handicraft strip of the tourist town, and embarked on some rare shopping. As we walked a pretty Indian lady in an unusual quantity of make-up, approached Lana, shook hands and talked for a couple of minutes. Both of us thinking that this was a little odd, and curious that Pushkar could be a place where the locals just embrace foreigners with no motive of money we entertained her courtesy. She then offered her hand again (presuming to say goodbye), as Lana accepted only to have her right hand firmly grasped, turned palm up, as the lady produced a strange coloured cone oozing seagull dung out of it, mumbling something about a flower. Wising up that this was henna, and that she would want money for any services provided wanted or not, Lana angrily withdrew from the woman's tight grip as she started to make awful swirls all over her palm. After making cross gestures at having been force-painted, she dug out a tissue to wipe off the mess which had incidentally left a yellow stain. Up ahead, Adam also had been captured too, and was wiping frantically! Moving on through the narrow shady streets Lana was intent on buying a small handbag, however amongst the hundreds and thousands she was unable to satisfy her now evidently fussy and particular taste. We ended up in a shop which was like something from Ali Baba, selling embroidered carpets, rugs and wall hangings in all different colours and sizes. It was an impressive showcase, with items from Afghanistan, Pakistan, and the Sub-Continent, ranging from very cheap and amateur quality, to US $3000 for rare hand woven pieces, of which some designs are no longer made and usually reserved for Royalty and the affluent alike. The shop owner told us how he sleeps in his shop every night in case there is a fire or if thieves attempt to steal his stock. He was only 24, with a wife and two small children at home. It was kind of sad that he hardly got to see them.

The mechanic was called during the following afternoon to make some adjustments...at least he came to us and we didn't have to spend another day at the workshop! Afterwards we went for a walk in the other direction of town, and ventured down by the large lake for sunset. We came across one Indian guy with a small group of tourists playing drums at the ghat next to Gandhi's. Gandhi Ghat, as it is known now, was re-named following Mahatma Gandhi's death and subsequent spreading of his ashes in this lake. The government decided it would be a good idea to drain the lake, dredge it and clean it up a couple of years ago. The holy lake never recovered in this low rainfall area as it now only contains a few puddles of stagnant green pungent water, and stray dogs were fighting on the bed. A separate pool has been constructed on the main town side so that people are still able to bathe, pray and cleanse their sins in their holy lake. Most of the Ghats, similar to those in Varanasi, are under a pretty dismal state of repair. The white or pale blue washed walls of the temple-style buildings and steps are dirty and peeling their paint as the underlying structures are crumbling. Animal feces is spread through most of the walkways, and litter from dead flowers, incense, candles, oil burners and other offerings are never removed. It's a shame. The locals blame the draining of the lake for the decrease in tourism here, but it's still a pretty spot, and peaceful too in the early evening light.

At the other end of the small camel town is where the sand creeps in and is the starting point for camel treks. We walked amongst the camels, kneeling happily baring their wonky teeth, dressed in bells, coloured rugs and nets, whilst the touts tried to sell us tours. Tempted as we were we decided to wait until we reached Jaisalmer, in the middle of the Thar Desert, to get involved in some serious camel packing action. (Footnote: On the 28th Jan Jaisalmer hosts the biggest Camel Fair with trading of livestock, probably dead too, as well as the annual, moustache twirling-muscle flexing Mr Desert Contest. We can't wait!). There are a hideous number of temples in this small town, something close to 200 we think. Some are large, gleaming white and architecturally impressive, others are quite plain, and mostly hidden from view. One Hindu Temple on the road out of town where they hold the annual camel festival is known as the Monkey Temple. It has a huge tower depicting large images of some of the most famed Hindu Gods, Hanuman (the monkey, representing sneaky business dealings and mischief we assume), Ganesh (the elephant, symbolising joy and good luck), Krishna (the blue multi-armed incarnation), Brahma (an incarnation of Lakshmi), Vishnu (the destroyer of evil, severer of heads and the 13th incarnation) etc. All are coloured in deep pastel shades of pinks, blues and greens. There are also two temples on two opposing hills visible in the distance, on the edge of town. We began walking towards one, but it was getting dark and we would have been caught out on the way down and it would have been too dim for scenic photos. Heading back through the winding maze of side streets, we passed vegetable sellers and several kite shops. Only in India could these little businesses be doing a roaring trade. Kids taking in their cane framed paper kites for repair, or spending the few rupees they have on a new one. Lana wondered, judging by the number of redundant kites you see tangled in power lines and trees, whether there would be a market for mobile kite rescue? The only tools you would need would be a tall ladder and a pair of scissors or some dexterity at untangling knots and wound thread. Adam is now questioning whether Lana is looking for any business opportunity which would allow us to stay longer in this beautiful continent?

We departed little hippy Pushkar the following morning learning that Chris was paid a visit from the Rajasthan Police Force, and (annoyed at having to unpack his ready to go gear) was thoroughly searched in his hotel room for drugs or any contraband. An Italian guy, travelling overland in a bus researching climate change, some days earlier had been arrested for carrying a satellite phone, and accused of spying, his court appearance is pending as we write. The Indian government have become more and more paranoid by the day, following the recent Commonwealth media hype of imminent terrorist attacks.

After a false start up a steep hairpin bend and a winding hill which brought back memories of traversing across Nepal, we returned to the town whilst making several shady directional calls, (and riding on reserve) we found the fuel station. It did however give us the opportunity to see the sand fields where the camel festival takes place. We had missed it this year by only a few days, having occurred on the weekend of the first full moon in January, this year falling on Dec 31st. There were lots of shacks by the dusty roadside and a couple of hotels and bars, but no camels. Some of the large beige tents were still up on the battered ground as we rode out toward Bundi, and gave the impression of a deserted refugee camp. This time our alternative route back to Ajmer led us deep into the surrounding hills, making for an enjoyable ride around sweeping, steep banked bends, overhung by giant granite boulders and spindly cacti dodged carefully by nimble monkeys. We were rewarded with an amazing view over Pushkar and the surrounding villages on the plains below, that we passed only days before, permitting deep reflection at this point; on the immense size of India, and the vastness and variety of contrasting countryside you are able to cover on two wheels in just a few days. It was only a matter of minutes until we descended on Ajmer on the other side of the small mountain range nestled in its own little picturesque valley. Briefly passing through and enjoying the limited sights as we rode, we both agreed that it would be easy to spend more time in this area in the future.

We aimed to make a brief stop at Bundi, to check out one of the most revered Palaces in Rajasthan; our goal to reach Kota in the late afternoon. After arriving in Bundi later than we had proposed, we decided to stay for the night as the town was much livelier and prettier than the Lousy Planet had printed. The town was built between two protective hillsides, with the Fort crowning the cliff edge behind, and a pretty man made lake in between it and the main highway which disappeared abruptly around a sharp bend. Bundi's narrow streets lined with haphazard baby blue painted buildings, (originally houses but now 'paying guest houses') dating back over 500 years. With limited traffic, and one main road passing through the centre of town past bustling market stalls and a multitude of other stores selling anything from kites to trombones, we had no problems with directions. We battled over prices and parking spaces until we settled into one of the many tatty but interestingly obscure guesthouses. Famished, having had missed lunch, we unpacked and headed off to explore, eat, and photograph the huge Medieval Palace which dominated the front of the Fort in the fading sunlight, with a subtle blue glow from the old town at its base.

The subject of s***, never being far from ones mind, or body in India, once again occurred up close and personal, as we strolled through town to a cosy place offering a rooftop restaurant. Upon entering we played momentarily with a small Labrador puppy, which we assumed belonged to the management. Sitting down and browsing the menu we started to notice a distinct smell and shortly after realised that one of us had the misfortune of stepping in the puppy's excrement. It was Adam (again), as he had also unconsciously dragged it all over the marble flooring with his heavily smeared shoe. It is fair to say that despite any of the chef's efforts that evening, dinner was smelling far from great!

We ventured through the main part of the town and bought quantities of fresh fruit, which is fast becoming the new 'beer'. Along one of the dark streets our attention was captured by an artist poised in his doorway, with brushes laid out, and piles of miniature paintings stacked on low shelving and anywhere else he could fit them in a room the size of a dining table. He brought us chairs, and before we knew it we were trapped looking at designs of parades and wedding ceremonies with camels, horses, elephants and miniature people painted in profile, against various coloured backgrounds. Versions were available on silk, fine paper, antique postcards, camel bone and browning Court Duty Stamp papers. As extraordinary as the individuality and detail was in each piece, after eyeing several versions of the same content the repetitiveness, and unending pile and threat of 'more designs here' was going to force us into a purchase to make an escape. Stepping back out into the romantically lit medieval street, avoiding the 6 foot deep cavity where the drainage system had collapsed in a section large enough to consume an autorikshaw in one unlucky swerve, we realised the Palace and part of the fort wall was lit up also. Inspired by recent experiences, we decided to ascend to another rooftop and get arty with some night time photography over a chai.

Departure through the sunny, clear morning led us the short distance into Kota. Having read nice things of nature, ghalial crocodiles, flowing rivers, scenic boat trips and abundant birdlife, the congested mass that confronted us (ignorance on our part evidently knowing its population was probably well over 2 million being India) was enough excuse to make a lunch stop and keep moving. After a decent lunch however, and being turned away by a typical street side blue-bottle fly heaven style restaurant, we stumbled into an Indian business-lunch place with higher but reasonable prices and possibly the best Indian Thali sampled to date. Cutting through the mad traffic, almost getting impaled on some lengths of bamboo scaffolding hanging off the back of a 3-wheeler truck, we found directions tricky, especially as our destination was known as 'Chitto' not Chittaugargh (ChitTorGar) to the locals. But, we were back on the road. Whilst riding out of the city Lana mused at a goat which had its tail tied to its head, and had the privilege of spotting two Indian Kingfisher birds on overhead wires. They are different but very beautiful; bigger than the British ones (almost the size and bulk of a Kookaburra), with a dark marine blue back and eye band, a deep rust coloured crown and a bright white breast. Unable to point this out to the guys as they were concentrating hard on the multitude of hazards springing out from each and every direction, Lana was caught up in thoughts of the phrase (and well known album title) 'bird on a wire', and its possible implications. Yes, too much Zen...

Progress to Chitto was within the parameters of daylight for once, and our approach was suddenly enlightened by the sight of the immense and overbearing Fort, which appeared to have been built on top of a purposely excavated vertical cliff face of a hill in the landscape, on the left hand side of the road. The Fort continued around a huge peninsula contouring out into the countryside. Excitedly we navigated around town following directions to the Gurdwara, hoping for some hospitality. Unfortunately we were turned away again with blunt suggestions of 'you go hotel', and with some new chugging and coughing from the Enfield, it was soon clear that we would need to seek mechanical attention yet again. We rode back towards town over the railway line and asked at a couple of places for a hotel. Our luck was down...full and closed for renovations. Hmmm, they normally just renovate around you! Luck didn't get much better when we found a cheap hole of a hotel. Lana went in and surveyed several of the dingy rooms positioned along long concrete corridors over 4 floors, boasting varying levels of 'cleanliness'. She selected one of marginal acceptance for her and Adam, with an inside bathroom, window, TV and no overpowering smell. She warned Chris to check a couple before making a selection. The official RTDC Tourist Hotel apparently is approved to Rajasthan tourist board standards. Unpacking sleeping bags, (seeing that the crawling, loose hair speckled sheets and blankets were not fit for sleeping on) emptying the sludging remains of the bin into another 'vacant' room and lighting a mosquito coil she went back downstairs to find Adam had the fuel tank off and was tweaking spanners...The light faded fast, and the bike was moved under the entrance doorway fluorescent. Cursing ensued when Sod's Law struck; a 23mm spanner, or more appropriately, socket was the only size absent from the toolkit. Lana walked up the busy high street to find a mechanic's workshop where we could perhaps borrow one. After an embarrassing charade act communicating to a full room in the workshop of a Honda dealership, she walked back to the hotel, victorious, but Adam had already disappeared. Told he was at a mechanic's 5 minutes up the street by walking, she continued up the busy road with the relentless cough which started in Delhi, returning with the evening dust and smog. Crossing the bridge 10 minutes away she went back only to find Adam annoyed that he had started to pull apart the bike thinking he had the right tools. A trip back to Honda, wheeling the bike, didn't help. It was impossible to communicate with the guys what was wrong, and the workshop was closing for the night. After a long evening, Lana having her own drama's, discovering her Canadian Visa application documents posted early December, had not even left Nepal, the bike was back together, but the battery was flat. Hooking up to Chris' power source, it still wouldn't start. Stressed, tired and dirty, with no hot water to help with the grease, Adam went for food only to find everywhere was closed. Totally exhausted, we slept as best we could whilst ignoring the insect barrage.

Morning was broken at 6.30am by a Chai seller, wailing 'chai, chai, chai' up and down the echoing corridors along every floor. The humorous dynamics faded gradually to quiet, then grew louder again as he neared our room's door. It was like being on a sleeper train! This is a real Indian Tourist Hotel! Hence the cheap rates and basic standards. The bad introduction to Chitto, was reversed however by the time we got up. With the spare spark plug changed the bike started, and Adam was able to ride to a mechanics and get done what was necessary within an hour. Lana packed most of the gear and went to breakfast with Christian who told of his night time horror stories of the blood-sucking bugs he found in his room which had hungrily defied the safety he felt within his mosquito net.

We were able to head out to the 700 year old Fort by mid-morning finding the way easily through the city centre. We rode all the way up the steep sweeping ramps flanked by its thick, towering stone walls. The fort itself dates back to the mid 1300s, but saw two attacks during the 1600's whereby the men adorned themselves in red robes and ran down to fight their way to their apparently inevitable fate, while the women and children threw themselves to the mercy of funeral pyres (fires) within the walls. Now that's confidence in your warriors isn't it?! The stage for this tragic scenario, (having occurred not once but twice), now contains the ruins of two large and architecturally fascinating palaces, adjacent to simple well kept gardened areas. We marvelled at how pillars within ancient architecture all over the world are so similar, in their decorative order and symbolic depiction. Even before such Roman influences could have spread across continents, pillars in ancient temples, palaces and forts all over Asia are utilised to a similar function within their unique designs. It's almost as if there is a natural order for such structures in the human eye.

The views across the city and looking over the interior of the fort from high points within the roofless brick and stone palaces are just fabulous. There are also several temples, and an open-air bathing pool, throughout the 28 square kilometre complex, spanning several Raj eras. A wonderfully sculpted 50m high tower makes a splendid centre-piece. You are able to climb inside up tiny spiral stone staircases in its cold, heavily carved stone interior, up to the domed top, where you can admire views of the palaces and the city below through the latticed windows.

Following further Enfield coughing on the way down, Adam nipped back to the mechanic as Lana and Chris made preparations to leave, despite fears of possibly having to spend another night at this hotel. It was now 4pm; we had at best 2 hours of light left and just over two hours to ride to Udaipur. A sunset cruise however didn't matter if it meant avoiding another night at the hotel-come-blood-bank, which ranked closely to the Raj Residency in Chennai and the 4th floor pit in Gorakhpur. Much to all of our delight, Adam returned swiftly after and we were away, smiling and relieved.