An Indian Xmas

Mumbai 23 December – 27 December

Although it was my first Christmas, I knew this one would be unlike most Christmases.  Firstly, I was in the middle of India.  Secondly, while it was the middle of winter, it was India, so it was over 30 degrees. 

Mumbai in mid-December,
dirty and hot

I was nevertheless excited for my first Christmas.  I had been invited to Mumbai, to stay at some family friends.  I was forewarned that it would be a big Christmas lunch, filled with interesting people.  And interesting people a-plenty there were.  There were many musicians – a famous concert pianist, a composer, some younger people with different musical skills – a beatboxer, a singer, a percussionist and a rapper made up the ensemble gathered around, all somehow connected, all the while with many not knowing exactly who the other one was. 

My first (Indian) Christmas

I obviously contributed nothing musically to the group, but was happy to be an observer, even as the grumpy, very-proudly German lady was coaxed into singing silent night (in German obviously). 

However, my best story from this time took place on Christmas eve, before the impromptu karaoke carolling, way before walking the empty streets of Mumbai with my British friend to find a bar to carry on the Christmas party.  It was the story of how I came to buy a pair of jeans off a tuk tuk driver.

The origin story for my ugly jeans starts in the same place all good stories start – Nepal.  More specifically the second story balcony of a hostel in Kathmandu, Nepal.  Like many times before this fateful day, my bag (and thereby its contents) had got wet, because Nepal was experiencing a monsoon, and it rained every day, for 2 months.  I know.  Yay.

So, during one respite, I took advantage of a sunny break to dry out my pair (and only pair) of pants by hanging them over the balcony railing.  Now I know, not the start to a crazy story, surmounting 2 countries and thousands of kilometres.  I must admit, I was not expecting, nor looking for, a wild story to come whence I flung my chaps yea over yea palisade.  But sometimes the craziest of stories have the humblest of beginnings.  Like the insignificant worm larvae turns into the majestic atlas butterfly.

Anyway, there I left my pants, in all their glory, drying under the suns rays as they broke through the previously impenetrable blanket of clouds that had occupied the skies for so many days.  Safe, or so I thought, I went upstairs to have a beer and apply for a visa.  All this took no more than an hour or so, when I decided to go down and check on my pants’ drying progress (now is where the story turns).

When I went downstairs to check my pants, I was shocked to see there were no pants.  Where I expected to see brown pants, there was only emptiness.  Where did my pants go?  I did not treat them poorly.  I loved my pants.  I know I got them wet from time to time, but that was not me, it was the rain.  I loved my pants, and I would have liked to think that my pants loved me.  But here I was, facing a grim pants-less reality.  There was no wind to speak of, so they could not have blown off anywhere.  And anyway, there was no where to blow to.  The hostel opened onto a quiet side road, where there was no sign of pants.  There was a hotel entrance on the side of the hostel, and the guards had no idea what I was talking about (now that I think about it, maybe those bastards were just playing coy), when I asked if they saw any falling pants?

Feeling alone, abandoned and without a sufficient smart-causal bottom-half covering, I did all that any man is expected to do.  Carry on.

This is where I found myself, over 2 months later, reeling from loss and having found no suitable replacement for what I can only describe as my pair of brown pants.  My British friend (let’s call her Strawberry shortcake) asked me to come to a party with her at a club, with some locals she knew, and I told her how I would love to, but how I could not club because of my clothing predicament.  As I recounted the tale I have just told you, she assured me it was ok.  “Who needs pants”, she said.  This was good, and went some way to mending my broken heart.  Maybe I did not need pants to feel... real?  Maybe there was life post-pant?, I thought, as I agreed to come along and we made our way to Strawberry shortcake’s friend’s house and then to the club.

Short-lived was my new attitude, as when we walked in the bouncer was like, “Mate, you need pants”.  

But our new local friends were far from the defeatists I had become.  Maybe their youth, meant that they had not experienced loss like me?  Maybe it was the promise of what Christmas represents that gave my new buddy the drive to not let my night end prematurely, despite my reassurances that this was what I deserved, and that disappointment was my only comfort. 

So, at 11pm we got into a tuk tuk and asked the driver to take us to find a pair of pants.  The driver reminded us that it was almost midnight, so all shops were closed.  But we were now on a mission for pants, and the driver felt our energy and was quickly on board.  As we drove around the empty streets of Mumbai, the driver knew he had to make a big call.  He literally then made a call – to his pant’s guy.  

I would not have believed it, if I did not live through it, but 30 minutes later we picked up 3 different options, of different colours and cuts of jeans – new – with their labels still on, as proof of their newness.  As I tried on my pants on the side of the street and got advice from my new guides: tuk tuk driver and side piece of a friend of a friend, I started to feel alive again.  A man with new pants is a man with hope.

We triumphantly arrived back at the club, newly adorned and everyone celebrated as the bouncer let us past, patted me on the back and we celebrated Christmas eve on the balcony of a club overlooking the beach. 

Not all stories have a happy ending, and neither does this.  No sooner did we arrive, did our local chaperones decide that the club was not really their vibe, and wanted to go home.  So was all the effort in vain?  At least I had a nice pair of jeans to take from this night.  Nope, not so quickly.  When I got home and looked at the disaster that I had purchased, I could only think back to a simpler time.  My time with brown pants.

The ugliest pair of jeans I have ever bought
(off a tuk tuk driver, at 12am)

Touring Rajasthan (2): a boring hippie town, but with great food, and a laked-town, but with puppet shows

Pushkar 15 December – 17 December & Udaipur 18 December – 22 December

I had been told that if you were going to shop anywhere, you must go to Pushkar.  There are plenty of markets, selling just about anything, and the most variety and best prices in all of India.  People go to buy a suitcase there, and then fill it, and send it home.

Do not pack your (empty) suitcases just yet.  The market in Pushkar goes round a lake in the middle of the (small) city, and it is true that shopping is just about all there is to do there.  However, the markets are just as any market you will find in India.  In my experience, for variety and best prices, nothing beats the markets of north Delhi.  In hindsight, this makes sense, owing to it being the capital, and one of the most densely populated cities in the world, as opposed to a city in the middle of the dessert, with just over 20,000 inhabitants.

It did have a nice lake.
Pushkar lake.

Other travelers have mentioned though, that if you need a camel, Pushkar, during the annual camel fair, is the only place to go (use it, don’t use it).

Disappointed at the shopping, and with little else to do after exploring the entire city (on foot) in half a day, I settled into some of the food there.  Now, if you were going to look for street food – Pushkar has some proper good food.  Not Indian, per se, but heavily influenced by the hordes of Israelis that seem to find it a great place to settle.  The falafel plates and laffa wraps could compete with some of the stores in Israel (although critically missing the amazing, game-changing, why would you eat anything else ever, Israeli pickle).

Pushkar in the middle of December also is COLD.  By far, the coldest place I was in, in Rajasthan.

I also stayed in an amazing, beautifully decorated hostel.  I learnt though (although already I knew), that no matter how good the place looks, it does not guarantee that there will be a great atmosphere there.  Thankfully I ran into an old friend (literally on some random street in the market), and made some new ones, so I did not have to spend too much time in the dull, although brilliantly decorated, place.  The 4 days I spent there were spent getting my full of Israeli-influenced food, a little yoga, some exploring, and freezing my ass off at night.

My beautifully-decorated, but boring hostel

I was happy to leave and head south, to the warmer Udaipur.  My bum though seemingly had had just about all it can take of long bus journeys, and the 7 hours it took was seemingly more excruciating than usual.  

My spiffy, local government bus.
Looking back, I think I may have figured out
why it was not the my comfortable
7 hours of my life

Udaipur is a vibrant city though, and famed the city of lakes, it was full of, well, lakes.  Thanks to overtourism, every building is built as high as it can, with the intention of offering patrons a view of the main Pichola lake.  The unintended consequence however being crowded streets, with buildings on top of one another.  Many now only have a view of the wall of its neighbour (i.e. not the lake).

My hostel though, had kept it's view of the lake,
and served a free breakfast :)
Mantra hostel, Udaipur

City Palace, where the royal family used to live, is perched on a rocky outcrop, and most definitely has an unobstructed view of the lake, and a little, mini-palace in its centre, just in case the royals prefer an unobstructed 360 degree view of the lake.  Being a palace, everyone wants to go see it, and seeing that everyone wants to go see it, you can be damn sure that they are going to charge to do so.  Most do, so that was not surprising, but the exorbitant price they wanted to go see some fancy rooms, was not enticing enough me (although apparently they are very fancy), and having had my fair share of palace viewings in the past few months, I just toured the gardens and periphery.

City palace (from the outside), Udaipur

Their gardens.
City Palace, Udaipur

Nice to have the only house on the street.
City Palace, Udaipur

As I have come to learn here, it is the little, unexpected things that tend to have the greatest impact, and the traditional dancing at the Bangore Ki Haveli in Udaipur did exactly that.  A friend suggested, in passing, that I should go check it out, and that it was nice, but nothing to write home about.    Obviously, as I am doing exactly that, it would appear that I had a different experience.

I was warned that I needed to get to the entrance early, because tickets are not pre-sold and are available on a first-come first-serve basis.  That the show sells out almost every night (and sometimes they then hold a second, full, show) should have signaled that people may want to come see what was being done here.

Anyway, and luckily, I heeded the advice to go, and to go early.  I arrived about an hour before the tickets were due to go on sale (itself an hour before the show starts).  It seemed that everyone was also aware of the fact that the show sells out quickly, and the second signal that this was going to be something entertaining, was that Indians were not letting other Indians cut the queue.  This, in India, really counts for at least two signals.

You are not allowed to film or take pictures of the performance, unless you buy a separate ticket (which I did not), so I cannot show you what happened inside, or what the haveli (mansion) looked like.  I also do not really want to, because it is a great experience, to experience yourselves.  Save to say, it is traditional dancing, mixed with some fire, some incomprehensible stories, extreme feats of balancing items, dancing and costumes.  The best part of Udaipur for me, and a definite highlight of my entire trip.

I was lucky to be in town for the annual crafts festival.  It is a week long festival where artisans come from all over Rajasthan to showcase their skills.  There are things to buy, traditional dances and performances and dancing decapitated puppets (huh? Ya).

The human pyramid taken
to the next level.
Shilpgram utsav, Udaipur

Other than that, Udaipur is an artist and craft haven, and you can get some amazing, original, unique paintings, drawings, or even take a lesson in the craft.  There are lakes aplenty, so hire some transport and go explore.  There is a Tibetan market and average park in the middle of the city that I will soon forget about, but a nice hike up the Machla Magra hill, to the Shri Manshapurna Karni Mata temple (if you are lazy there is a cable car option available), which offers pretty nice views of the lake, especially at sunset.

Average park, Udaipur

Shri Manshapurna Karni Mati temple at sunset,
Udaipur

Touring Rajasthan: the (kind of) blue city,

Jodhpur 12 December – 14 December

“Insta-famous" Jodhpur is known for being "the blue city".  Moving from Jaisalmer (the Golden City) I was interested in seeing the change in colour palette.  Though, and like most of what you see on Instagram, it is all only slightly true.

The kind of blue city, at sunset.
Jodhhur

Yes, there are blue buildings in the city of Jodhpur.  It is though by no means head to toe; wall to wall blue.  The blue buildings – once a sign and reserved only for, the highest, holy Brahman caste (although, if you do a little listening to the locals, who aren't trying to sell you something, many seem to suggest other less alluring ideas of why the houses were painted blue in times of yore) - are confined to small sections of the small old city, in the middle of a typical, otherwise unremarkable, Indian city.  Also, most of the blue buildings today have been painted blue just as an attraction, and shows little resemblance to the limestone and velvet-coloured dye used in times past.

You'd think I was in a blue city of blueness?
Jodhpur

Disappointment aside, Jodhpur started real well.  I ended up staying in a really nice hostel – one of the nicer looking ones I had stayed in so far.  I also was walking distance from a gym, so joined up for a few days.  The best part of the gym was the motivational posters splattered in and around the place – pushing you to be the best you #eatingischeating #.

By now I was judging hostels by their thalis.
This one stacked up well.
Mustache hostel, Jodhpur
 

Mandore park, Jodhpur

Never got inside fun world,
but just imagine what was behind those gates...
Did you guess dilapidated buildings :)?
Mandore park, Jodhpur

Do you want to get changed?
What about changing your life?

What is the point of having an air-conditioner,
if you cant express your love for getting pumped around it? 

Getting ripped and having fun with words

If you ever forget what to do?

I met up with a friend  incidentally I had met traveling previously, and after unsuccessfully trying to get in with day old, used tickets, we audio toured the Mehrangarh fort.  By this point in my life, I had seen many forts, but as far as forts go, this was one was pretty cool.  The audio guide gave the place a lot more detail, apart from just looking and seeing big, pretty rooms.

The mighty Mehrangarh fort, looking over the city.
Jodhpur

Big forts need big pots.
Mehrangarh fort, Jodhpur

I cannot remember, but think this was the pantry.
Mehrangarh fort, Jodhpur

Jodhpur from Mehrangarh fort.
How blue?  So blue

The hostel ran a walking tour through the city, and we got to see the slightly blue alleyways and houses of the old city.  By now, we had met up with another mutual traveling friend, so the three of us, plus a new friend went to get dinner in the old city.  We were all keen on a bit of a party too, though when we walked into Best View restaurant, I do not think the owner (and even some of the party) knew what he was signing up for as he welcomed us in.

Nothing like a tour of the (not so)
blue city at sunset.
Old city, Jodpur

They do not serve alcohol in the restaurant, but we had all been in India long enough to know that did not mean they do not serve alcohol in the restaurant.  A few beers in, and drinking games down, as we were the only ones in the restaurant, the owner let us play some music.  There was some dancing.  Everyone was having a jolly time.

That is the view from Best View restaurant.
Not a bad view, but is it the best view?
Old city, Jodhpur

A game that involves a bus driver.
Some advice - do not become the bus driver 

As the night wore on, we thought our new friend was lying down on the couch, but did not realise that she had passed out.  When we poked her to say we were leaving, we learnt that she had covered the couch in the beer that was previously inside her.  Not only had she decided that the couch needed a new hue (and odour), she decided that she could no longer stand / walk.  That left us to carry this dead weight out the restaurant, by which time the owner realised that cleaning up after his new guests (I would have said friends, until just then) would take far longer.

You never really get the best looks dragging a passed out girl into a hostel, so we did so as quickly as we could, and dumped her in her bed (as nicely as we could), for her to sleep off having had too much fun.  In truth, the receptionist did not do more than look up from his phone, probably having seen this more than once.