In Which We Put On Our Jodhpurs Once Again

Did everyone get my slight history lesson/pun as contained within the title? Eh? Eh???? Man, I just get cleverer and cleverer.

After a slightly hairy train ride back to Jodhpur, we arrived at the train station wickedly early in the morning, and we were all bleary eyed as we exited the train. David had arranged for a ride from the station back to the Blue House, and who came to pick us up but the owner himself who gave us a ride in the first real car I'd been in since my arrival. It took about three seconds to get to the hotel at that hour as the streets were completely empty. Quite a difference, let me tell you.

Of course, as soon as we arrived, we all gratefully fell into our soft and stationary beds and slept well into the morning, finally arising still a bit groggy but much refreshed, and ready to explore this city that had served only as a stopping point on our previous stay. After a hearty breakfast of porridge and tea, we took to the streets.

We were all pleasantly surprised by the lack of aggressive vendors, and enjoyed our stroll of being relatively unharrassed through the busy city streets, dodging autos, motorcyles, cows, and cow patties as we went. We briefly stopped in at a city temple, found the city clocktower, visited the "Tourist Information Center" (a small shack distributing a choice of three pamphlets, manned by an employee who spoke no English), and stopped for lunch at what we all deemed to be one of the best restaurants yet - fast, cheap, and terrifically delicious (saffron lassis...mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm). And then on to our major activity of the day - The Jodhpur Fort. None of us were expecting to like it NEARLY as much as the fort which we had lived in and come to call home for a few short days, but our pessimistic outlook was very soon corrected to having one of the Top Three Best Fort Experiences Ever. Because, um, I've had so MANY of those experiences.

We wound our way up, up, up through the streets of Jodhpur, often taking wrong turns but very helpfully turned in the right direction by friendly bystanders. We all decided we needed to exercise more as the streets got steeper and steeper and we got slower and slower, but soon enough, pavement turned to stone, and we trooped up the final leg of the journey and reached the fort's magnificent entrance. Evan turned off towards the "Residents of India" gate, and David and I made our way to the "We Are Very Obviously Tourists" gate, where, for parting with a few hundred of our precious rupees, we gained admission, camera permission, and a free audio tour. The audio tour turned out to be amazing, and as silly as we looked wandering around with headphones on and walkmans hanging around our neck, I have yet to be more impressed with the organization of any historical site I have visited in India before or since. For instance, I learned (with a background track of traditional Rajasthani music) about those mysterious copper handprints on the wall of one of the gates. They turned out to be the handprints of recently widowed wives of princes and generals, who imprinted their hands upon the wall as they made their ceremonial trek out of the fort, never to return again, to silently self-immolate themselves along with the bodies of their husbands. Whoof. I decided to cross THAT option off my list of What To Do If I Am Ever Widowed, and instead am sticking to my plan of learning how to skydive with other widowed ladies, and perhaps will fit in a lesson or two of bridge if there's time.

After the tour, we hung around to watch the sunset, wandering up and down what we dubbed the Great Wall of China But In India, taking pictures and ogling the giant cannons and amazing view. I had a brief 15 minutes of fame when I snapped a shot of some chipmunks hanging out in one of the holes in the wall through which soldiers had shot arrows or poured boiling oil or something. I immediately had about eight kids surrounding me wanting to see the picture, and then the dad wanted to see it, and then I showed it to his wife and mother at his insistence, and then we all shook hands with a firm grip and exchanged "Hellos" and "How do you dos", and then they all disappeared as quickly as they had come. Chipmunks - gets 'em every time.

And when I say "disappeared," I'm actually lying. As we were all watching the sunset later, they asked David (using mainly sign language... their english was limited and our hindi non-existent, though David is now quite proficient at counting to 10) to take a family picture. This he did, and they were all quite amused and satisfied with the result. This seemed to be all they wanted, however, as when David offered to email them the picture, they casually shrugged and said none of them HAD an email address. So if anyone wants a family photo and doesn't really care as to which family...

After a glorious sunset, we were firmly directed out of the fort for closing by a stern looking man with a piercing whistle and rapidly waving "out out out" hands. Working our way down the inclined streets, we were stopped by a smiley soft-spoken man hanging out in his doorway (who also had this incredibly large and ropey scar across his chest that was peeking above his tank top undershirt, but that has very little to do with the story and is only something I couldn't stop staring at), who in a very friendly way asked where we were from, how we liked Jodhpur and then insisted we come in to see his house and meet his wife. Not knowing quite how to refuse, we all followed him in, where he gave us, as he had promised, a tour of his house, showing us his pantry, his kitchen, the various bedrooms of his three children, two of whom were gone and married, and his living room. He did, indeed, have a nice house, though we didn't really want to be there and were wondering what the catch was to this whole tour. We met his wife, who wore the exact same benign smile as he did, and they showed us pictures of their kids as well as his son's school books and such. And then, the grand finale. "See? Look at this! My son collects money from all over the world! See? He has money from Taiwan, from Tibet, from blah blah blah blah blah [the collection was extensive... he went through almost every bill] blah blah blah blah. But look! This is very sad. He has nothing from the U.S.!" And therein lay our collective "ah HA" moment. Verrrrry clever, Ropey Scar Man. Very clever indeed.

It was at this juncture in time his son came home from school, and seemed less than thrilled to see us there. Not wishing to infringe on any more of their time, or have the son embarrassed for any longer than necessary (if, indeed, he HAD been thinking "OH MY GOD THEY'RE AT IT AGAIN. When will it end? WHEN WILL IT END???"), we thanked them for the tour and made our way out the door, while our delightful tour guide continued to point at the empty space in his son's collection, reserved for that elusive U.S. dollar.

Later that evening Evan made a phone call home (I know mom, I'm sorry, I'm a terrible daughter but you were at work and I was work number-less!) and David and I walked back to the hotel, stopped only by a couple who looked at David, pointed and yelled "Israeli! Israeli!!!" David politely responded, "um, no, I'm American... Are YOU guys from Israel?" to which he got a disappointed, "No no, we're from New York." Americans, man. They're strange sometimes.

The next morning I tried my first South Indian dosa, a staple of Evan's diet back in Madurai and often replicated poorly in the North. This dosa, however, met with Evan's approval (after all, we were eating at that cheap and best restaurant of the day before and expected nothing less than perfection), and I have to say it is a miiiighty tasty thing to eat, a delightful thin sourdough pancake thingy that is often rolled around a vegetable interior. We all chose the masala dosa, which meant a savory potato concoction was contained within, and after doused with the traditional sambar sauce and chutney, we all dug in with our hands and had a delicious messy feast (as the left hand is considered impolite to eat with here in India, I'm becoming quite ambidextrous... you should see me go!).

As our last activity as a troupe of three, we all marched off to the markets where we ventured into the spice industry. David went looking for tea, and as always, the vendors were looking to have him buy more than that. Favorite sales pitch? Glad you asked! "Try the chicken tikka masala spice! In London, 35% of people are CRAZY about chicken tikka masala!" Pfffft. As if we'd want to be just like 35% of people in London.

But perhaps the most popular spice being sold, even MORE popular than chicken tikka masala (I know! It's hard to believe!) was their Winter Spice, which they kept offering as the "Indian Vee-ah-gra." I wish I could remember the description on the bag... but people! Don't be fooled!! They gave us each a little to try, and besides being pleasantly sweet and vanilla-y, it didn't do nuthin'. Yeah, we were surprised too.

Soon, too soon, it came time for us to part one another, Evan and I off to the bus station to endure a hair-raising 6 hour ride to Udaipur, and David to wile away another few hours in Jodhpur before he took off for Delhi and from there, Malaysia. Oh David, parting was such sweet sorrow. The Three Musketeers are three no longer. Who else to suggest sharing dishes at meals? Who else to run up and down the steep stairs at the Blue Hotel, guaranteeing a decent mattress for the person who has to sleep on the floor? Who else to treat us to the most expensive meal we'd been to yet, a farewell dinner that, though delicious, proved to us the best food in India was NOT to be had at the most expensive hotels? Darling David, your presence is missed. May Malaysia quickly find out what a treasure it has gained in your arrival. Adieu, dear friend, adieu.