Baldev Raj Nagpal is short and solid, linebacker material. When he issues commands the young salesmen at Channi Carpets and Textiles jump to obey. Right now his command is to show me saris. Like Indian toreadors the men flourish yards of magnificent magentas, indigos and cerises, irredescent greens and blues, brilliant oranges, yellows and reds.
Jaipur is the place for fabrics and we've been provided with a priceless asset. Veena Chatwani is the only female guide in the Indian state of Rajasthan. In the morning she leads us through the fabulous Amber Palace. As if it were her own she draws us into its marble salons, hidden passageways and lavish harems. But it's in the afternoon that Veena truly shines. She knows the shops and she knows the prices. It's because of Veena that I'm looking at saris in Mr. Nagpal's impressive emporium. No sooner is one opened for me than another flutters on top. Then another and another until I have no idea what I've seen.
When the whirlwind subsides I am the proud possessor of a kingsize silk and cotton bedspread, two antique wall hangings and two shawls (but no saris). I've whispered the asking price to Veena, she's told me what I should pay and Mr. Nagpal has obliged. Of course for all I know Veena may be his daughter.
My nine companions and I have come to India to participate in a biking and walking expedition through Rajasthan. The itinerary and program have been created by Butterfield and Robinson (B.& R to us), probably the preeminent luxury "soft adventure" tour operator in the world. In their parlance soft means a few hours of easy biking or walking each day. Luxury is accomodations and dining fit for and sometimes built for Indian kings and queens.
Our guides, Sean 27 and Slate 29, are older and younger than their years. Both have traveled the world and they make the complex trip seem effortless. Yet they have the unsophisticated exhuberance of college kids. The Pepsi Generation does India.
THE PUSHKAR CAMEL FAIR
Each November the sleepy town of Pushkar is transformed into a bustling bazaar, a holy pilgrimage site, a 19th century amusement park and the largest camel fair in India. Hordes of animals, two legged and four, descend upon the town. So did we, in time for sunset over the lake and a walk to our tents in the desert.
In typical B.& R. fashion these were no back packers' delights but large, high-ceilinged suites complete with separate bathrooms. In the morning we hopped onto camel carts and jounced across a biblical land scape of oxen, donkeys, horses, turbanned men, women shampooing hair at communal pumps and camels, camels
camels. With their humps and bumps and lumpy knees they were silly looking creatures, but their owners, in a vain attempt to pretty them up, had draped their necks with flowers and beads and bells. Truly smart camels wore artificial posies on the tips of their noses.
The buying and selling were over but the fair would continue until the night of the full moon. So the entire arid plain was a teeming campground where thousands of families cooked, socialized and slept with an equal number of animals. Strangely, these acres of condensed humanity were unnaturally quiet. Even when we emerged on the main business street where bedlam reigned the seemingly unmanageable crowd flowed without pushing or shoving.
We joined the throng and visited temples, watched pilgrims bathe in the holy lake and took a brisk climb to a hilltop overlooking Pushkar. Then we made for the shops and bought more of what we'd purchased in Jaipur.
It was dark when we climbed back into the carts and were ferried over the human sea. Past the neon lit ferris wheels and the man-powered carousel, the tables of bracelets and beads, past figures squatting motionless at the road's edge, past open-air barbers, sweets shops, harness makers, blanket sellers, all semi-obscured by darkness and smoke. Then we veered into the silent plain where shadows flitted past cooking fires, camels kneeled at rest and sharp-horned bullocks nodded their massive heads as we rode above them like visitors from outer space.
AGRA AND THE TAJ MAHAL
The color of Agra is white, perhaps because it is not in Rajasthan but just over the border in Utter Pradesh. As raita, the mild yogurt dish cools fiery vindaloos, so does the marble Taj Mahal cool the passions of Agra. "Agra is a tourist hell," said Sanjay Taleng, our local guide. "Don't even say, 'No thank you' to the hawkers. They'll think you're just being polite and actually want to buy."
Agra was instant India immersion. To get to the Oberoi Hotel we passed fat dusty pigs and soft-eyed burrows roaming freely through the chaos of a local market. A camel decorated with polka dots hunkered down by the side of the road. Three wheel auto-rickshaws whizzed within inches of men carrying impossible loads on their heads. But signs pointed to Internet Cafes where you could pick up your e-mail from home.
We biked to the Taj after lunch. The statistics were impressive: 22 years in the making by a workforce of 20,000. Screens carved from solid blocks of marble into the most delicate lace. What was not mentioned in the literature we'd read was that anything so spectacular attracts a great many people. Near the gates we were beseiged by salesmen thrusting all manner of junk in our faces. Eluding them we joined one of the longest lines in history, squeezed through tall wooden doors, and were amazed.
I wish photographs could speak for me, but none I've seen does the Taj Mahal justice. It isn't the shape, the sensuous curves of the great white dome, the perfect symmetry of the intricate arches, the majestic framing of the four tall towers. These are familiar to everyone.
It's the scale, the sheer immensity that can't be captured. The Taj Mahal explodes on the senses, devours almost too much of the sky. It dwarfs to insignificance the thousands who range its pools and
line its terraces to see the tomb of Shah Jihan's wife who died bearing their 14th child and for whom he built this immortal memorial.
THE COUNTRYSIDE
From Agra we drove to the 16th century city of Fatehpur Sikri, toured its buildings, picnicked on its ruins and then went to pick up our bikes. As we rode through tiny farm communities we were a source of wonder. Bicycles are tools for getting from here to there. What strange kind of creature would use the things for fun?
Not us. Our bikes were a means of both covering ground and getting into the life of the people. "Every few feet there is a different snapshot of life being lived in the open," Ross said. Like the man creating miniature yogurt cups from a lump of raw clay and offering us samples. Or the restaurant on wheels where we stopped to see an itinerant chef stirring up delicious vegetarian lunches.
And always the colors. From an overpacked jeep four middle aged women extracted themselves and as they decompressed I saw wings of brilliant orange, red and green unfolding before my eyes. Or the woman washing shiny bronze pots at the village well, then balancing them effortlessly on her head and striding off. And in the late afternoon the flat bed truck carrying a
glorious bouquet of women home from the fields. I'd seen them earlier planting seeds in the deep brown earth. Backlit by the sun their saris flickered and shone like shards of colored glass.
That night and the next we stayed in a Mughal mansion, a relic of centuries of Muslim rule. We dined in a courtyard lined with Moorish arches while a new moon hovered over our heads. From the balconies of the Chandra Mahal Haveli Hotel we looked into the village that enveloped it, at meals being prepared over open fires, at old men resting on rickety beds, at livestock wandering dirt lanes.
In the rose glow of early morning the old mansion's gardens were
especially beautiful. "Waking reminded me of growing up when I'd hear all the sounds outside," John said at breakfast. "The kids calling, the rooster crowing. It felt good." Before we left we took an impromptu tour of the village: animals and people living together, women sweeping front yards, cow dung formed into patties for fuel drying on rooftops, children swarming
around us beaming with perfect white teeth, adults more reserved but
uniformly friendly, houses - huts really - painted bright blue or green, the women in flaming saris, absolutely beautiful. "The best part of the trip," said John.
Some of our hotels had been chosen for ambiance, some for elegance, others for sheer beauty. The Rajvilas in Jaipur fell into the second category
and then some. At first appearance the hotel seemed almost too new in its evocation of a Hindu warrior's palace. Then attentive staff members, whose immaculate attire made us feel downright shabby, led us past bubbling pools through a massive wood and brass door into a serene and lovely lobby. After sipping glasses of watermelon juice we were escorted outside into a vast botanical garden.
Our spacious rooms and suites were on the periphery of this magic oasis. They too were islands of repose enhanced by fine fabrics, grand furniture and sit-in windows. The porter proudly drew my attention to the sunken marble bath that looked out at a fountain strewn with marigold petals. When he said that clients routinely extend their stay at the Rajvilas, I knew he was telling the truth.
UDAIPUR AND THE LAKE PALACE HOTEL
It was one of those nights. A soft breeze stirred the lanquid air over the waters of Lake Pichola. On the near shore we could see he faintly illuminated arcades of four massive palaces. Sitar and tabla music hung in the background when, as if on cue, a full moon inched over the highest roof and lifted into the sky.
For sheer romance the Lake Palace Hotel of Udaipur is in a class of its own. It rises sheer from the lake, pure white walls and domes and long balconies new-born with each succeeding sunrise.
The truth is a bit more mundane. The hotel was build in 1746 as a summer palace by Maharana Jagat Singh II. It is white marble, every ancient inch, from slender carved columns and filigreed screens to the bottom of the swimming pool. The result is pure serenity. Not a word that would apply to the Bapu Bazar.
After a refreshing and easy morning bike ride, I had our driver drop me off in the heart of the Old Town of Udaipur. Ducking down a little alley I emerged in another century. Straight became crooked, wide became narrow and intersections crossroads for cows and goats, carts laden with dates, sidewalks strewn with flowers and hot chili peppers, everything immersed in a flood of humanity.
With absolutely no plan I wandered from cones of yellow and red spices to shiny pots and pans to thumbnail-size shops where women watched eagle-eyed while proprietors weighed silver bracelets that were sold by the gram. At the end of a tiny passageway I found myself in a courtyard where old ladies hand sewed custom made garments in little cubicles while men worked antique sewing machines. Around another corner dozens of women sat on the ground enthralled by a
salesman unravelling bolts of fabrics in dazzling colors. No the Bapu Bazar was not serene. But it was Udaipur.
In a mind-blowing change of scene I was standing, three hours later, in a lush palace garden overloooking Lake Pichola deep in conversation with Maharana Arvind Singh Mewar. At his invitation we'd come for cocktails. Finally, the long day ended with a banquet aboard the very yacht on which an earlier prince of Udaipur had sailed these same waters. A day of many Indias.
I've portrayed Rajasthan as a glorious feast for the senses. Beyond a doubt it is. But for four of our group one visit was enough. Because India is also a world leader in the areas of pollution, reckless driving, uncontrollable littering, incredible overpopulation and hygienic conditions that would give a health inspector the pip. In spite of this, most of us were anxious to return. Among the reasons, first and foremost for me were the colors, which never ceased to amaze. But also the memories - of sacred cows lolling on street dividers lazily directing traffic, of strands of marigold blossoms sold for pennies at every market, of bright-eyed children calling, "What country? What country?" Of being invited to join a handful of villagers for an evening sing at a small Hindu shrine and sitting under a banyan tree watching life go by and being welcomed by old men who came to watch me. Of the boundless curiosity and unfailing friendliness of the people I met. For me India was the most exotic and fascinating country on earth.
I can't wait to return.
BUTTERFIELD AND ROBINSON pioneered luxury biking trips in France in 1966, emphasizing fine food and lodging combined with gentle riding. Today B.& R. presents some 60 biking and walking trips in 23 countries. For information contact them at 800 678-1147. Website: www.butterfield.com.
GETTING THERE: Many international airlines fly to New Delhi with a connection in an intermediary city. Only Air India, 212 751-6200, offers service without a change of airplane on certain flights that stop in London. It is wise to arrive early since Air India overbooks and bumps confirmed passengers when the plane is full.
Delta Airlines, 800 241-4141, flies to New Delhi, changing planes in Paris or Zurich.
WHERE TO STAY IN NEW DELHI: If possible participants should arrive at least a day or two early to adjust to the time change. I stayed in two of the finest hotels in New Delhi and highly recommend them both.
THE HYATT REGENCY, 800 633-7313, is grand and opulent with dazzling public spaces and spacious rooms. Its Indian, Thai and Italian restaurants are among the best in Delhi. Website: www.hyatt.com.
THE OBEROI is elegant and more intimate with special emphasis on customer service and satisfaction. It too has gourmet dining. Call Leading Hotels of the World at 212 838-7874. Website: www.oberoihotels.com. Both hotels have huge swimming pools, quiet gardens and excellent shops selling fine Indian products.
TRIP PREPARATION: Butterfield and Robinson provides a complete package of information and recommendations concerning clothing, visa and passport requirements, shopping, transportation, etc. I brought convertible pants by Ex Officio, 800 644-7303. When the weather warmed up the legs zipped off. Highly recommended.
HEALTH CONCERNS: B.& R. also details necessary innoculations and malaria medications. Precautions about what and what not to eat and drink must be rigorously observed. The author was careless and suffered the consequences.
INDIAN TOURIST OFFICES: New York, 212 582-3274. Los Angeles, 213 582-6111. Toronto, 416 962-3787. Website: www.tourindia.com.
