Day Nineteen

As the sun rises, and the rooster crows, I walk from my tent onto the cold, cold sand. My plan is to walk south across the property to get a better view of the brightening horizon. But I’m stopped when what I first take to be a pile of blankets near the performance area turns into a massive german sheppard. Coincidentally, the instant the dog ceases to be a pile of blankets, he begins to ferociously bark at me. I am not scared of dogs (nor cobras anymore), but dogs in India are unlike those in the US. They’re mostly strays and take no notice of people (little of cars even). I’d earlier tried to call to me a golden retriever, but it was as if I wasn’t there. The fact that this one is wearing a caller and condescends not only to notice me, but to berate me suggests it’s capable of anything. So I retreat to my tent and get back under the covers. I later found out the dog, like the cobra, was not dangerous. There are two of them, the other being very friendly. He eagerly accepted my pettings. Seeing this, Barky came over to get his share too.

My wandering aborted, I nest in bed for a bit and enjoy the end of my stay in the tent. From the unzipped end, I look out over the dunes as the rising sun warms the sand from a dim gray to a deep orange. When the sky turns blue, I rise and unzip the rear of the tent where the marble bathroom sits. I’m nervous about the shower as I’d been warned the boiler was temperamental. But after a little fiddling with the taps, the water comes out strong and hot. I step down into the sandstone pit that forms a basin for the shower. The little bottle of shampoo looks recycled and it contains what is clearly Johnson & Johnson’s No More Tears Shampoo. While I probably used this throughout my childhood, there in that tent the smell brings back memories only of the outdoor shower on Nantucket.

After a simple breakfast, I bid goodbye to the proprietor and the girls from France, and meet Parminder at the entrance. I’m sad to leave. So far, Osian is my favorite stop along my journey. It’s simple charm makes me regret abandoning my idea of staying at an ashram. I suspect that would have suited me better than this continued hopping from one resort to the next.

Narlai was supposed to be three or four hours away, but we got lost for over an hour. Not to sound too western, but the fact that the hotel is on no map, nor has a phone struck me a bit frustrating. We knew it lay between Jodhpur and Udaipur so we drove down narrow state highways asking people here and there if they knew where it was. It wasn’t the fastest route, but we did make it, deducing it’s position between similar sounding villages that were on the map. When we got to within 10 km of it, we started seeing signs for it and were lead down ever narrowing streets, up ever steepening hills. The property is a former hunting lodge of the Maharajah of Jodhpur. It was gifted to his younger brother and converted into a hotel by his nephew. Again I’m in a tent. This one a cross between the luxury of Ranthambore and the simplicity of Osian. There’s a magical charm to a cloth ceiling. It’s undeniable.

Narlai may be the Indian version of Historical Williamsburg. But instead of recreating times bygone, it recreates rural village life. No doubt at one time the village was authentic, but as the hotel gained in popularity, the village prospered. It’s clear they were careful to direct their newfound funds towards enhancing the village without spoiling it’s value to tourists. There are cleaner streets, and nicer shops. Roads are being repaved and beggars are nowhere to be seen. I’m taken on a guided tour to get a real taste of village life. Having seen the uncensored version over the last three weeks, not much of this is new, but it’s nice to go out and meet the people.

Our first stop is a Hindu cave temple crafted into the natural side of a cliff. Steps lead up a crevice and on a few levels there are little altars where deities are worshipped. A rough hewn statue of a female got has been clothed in purple rags. I can’t tell if this is an offering or modesty. Against my guide’s recommendation, I duck under the railing on the way down the steps and walk out onto the smooth rock cascade. He told me on our approach that little boys slide down the rock into the sand below. The stone is slippery, and it’s polished to a high shine along the path they take down. They must have done this for decades, if not a century. I take it pretty slow, using my hands to keep steady, but I make it down with a modicum of grace.

We visit some shops and some farm houses. I take a few photos for the eager children. It’s a nice village and while I know it’s just subsidized by the hotel, it’s a relief to walk around in such a clean version of India. I buy some cloth and have some shirts made by a tailor. I don’t know if I’ll wear them back in the US, but they’re cheap and comfortable for this type of travel.

Back at the hotel, I have a snack of some lentils and rice. I read my book and enjoy the walled courtyard centered around the pool. Left untouched, the remnants of my rice attract the attention of a little squirrel. He hops up onto my lounge chair and crosses over my legs to perch on the edge of the bowl. I just love it when animals eat with there hands, and he delights my by picking up a few grains and quickly devouring them. I only have my phone on me, and I’m not happy with the pictures I’m able to snap. So I risk scaring him off by going back to my tent to get my camera. He’s still there when I return and I get some great close up of his cuteness. I go back to reading, trying not to scare him off. I know it’s bad to let him get comfortable with humans. Obviously the habit’s begun or he’d never be this close to begin with. It’s this type of behavior that lures animals closer and closer to people where they’re eventually struck down by a car or something. But I can’t help it. I’m weak. When the waiter clears my dishes, the squirrel comes back to hunt for his missing food. He looks all over, sitting on my leg for a moment. When he hops onto my bare foot and grabs me tight, I jump and scare him off into the trees.

At the proper time, I head to reception for my dinner at the Step Well. A Swiss couple I met earlier are milling about and we sit and chat while we wait for our ride. We have a glass of wine and someone comes up behind me and asks if I’d like a massage. I really need to think a bit before I speak. The couple sitting across from me look over my shoulder and both shake their heads, “no”. But by this time I’m already all, “sure I’d like a massage.” This trip has been chock full of awkward experiences, but trying to maintain a conversation with the Swiss while I get a rather vigorous, upright massage from this old dude in a turban has to rank up near the top of the list. The shoulders were acceptable. The arms got a bit weird. When he moved onto my scalp… and then my forehead and eyebrows, I really wished I would just disappear in a giant explosion of awkward. Poof.

The ride to dinner was on the back of a cow-driven cart. I’ve noticed these carts all over India. Mostly they’re used by camels to move cargo, but I guess cows work also. The odd thing is that they’ve only got two wheels and the bed slopes up from the ground at a thirty degree angle. A blanket’s been laid at the top of the incline. To sit at all comfortably I have to face away from the cow, which means I’m looking at where we’ve been, not where we’re going. Where we’re going is up the mountain. In the pitch dark. Backwards. My cart is last in line, which means the helpers following us are close behind my cart on foot. So I’m facing them as they’re chatting in Hindi. I’m sure they’re not talking about me, except that they keep laughing and pointing. That awkward list just gets longer and longer. Poof.

But dinner is quite good. Not the food. That’s not this place’s strong suit. But there’s folk music and dancing, and I’m sitting between the Swiss couple and a large group of German tourists. I’m trying to get over my German thing, so I mingle with both. I get into the Habitat story and I try to explain to the Germans about the swastika bricks, but it gets way awkward immediately. The Swiss try to help me, but their hands are tied… Okay, that didn’t happen. I did not bring up the swastika bricks to the Germans… The Swiss were very nice though and kept me from feeling too solitary.

The whole thing is set on the top of this mountain just at the edge of this well. It’s called the Step Well because from its edge descend about fifty steps, arranged in cascading staircases, down to the base of the well. It was built in the sixth century making it the oldest thing I’ve seen in India (except maybe for the dude who gave me the massage). The proportion of the steps and it’s ancient look give it a sort of Mayan vibe and reminds me of the sacrifice pit I saw in Chichen Itza. Just about every step down every staircase is lit with a little bowl of oil and a loose wick set aflame. I figure there are about three hundred lights going all the way down. The effect is striking. Against one side of the well, a lone sitar player sit’s with crossed legs on a raised platform halfway in back of the well. Lit by a few flames, he belts out some haunting lyrics and plucks at his strings. I walk down and then up a few staircases to reach him and give him a hundred rupee note. Mainly I just want to get out into the well. Feeling more confident, I venture down to the well’s base. From there I can see that there’s a low level of water below where the steps reach. The monsoon season was dry this year. It’s been three since the well’s been full.

The Swiss girl is even more adventurous and climbs into a passageway that leads back behind the well to a temple of Kali and Shiva. The idols sit in an alcove with a little window exposing them at the very back of the well. Her husband and I follow her and crouch as we crawl back there. It’s something out of Indiana Jones. I wish my guide from Jaipur was here to see this. He’d fit right in.

The ride back is in an open air jeep. I was dreading the cow cart, so this is a welcome relief. We make fast time down the mountain, taking the turns with abandon. A cow blocks the road and we skid to a halt before going up on the ‘curb’ and continuing on. It’s very much like the tiger safari in Ranthambore: it’s cold, bumpy, and we do not see any tigers.

Back at the hotel, I’m in my tent, and in my bed, a good thirty seconds before the power goes out. I’m in complete darkness. Poof.