Pretty in Pink City

Most visiting India on holiday will spend a fair amount of time in Rajasthan, but as I am based in the south, this north Indian state – known for its sweeping deserts, majestic architecture and colourful, chaotic bazaars – has somehow eluded me.

With four weeks left in India, I’ve finally got plans to see a bit of Rajasthan. I arrive in Hyderabad from Thailand at 11pm on Friday night, and at 6am on Saturday I am on a flight to the 3rd stop on India’s golden triangle (Delhi – Agra – Jaipur).

Jaipur is known as the pink city, our taxi driver explains. Our guidebooks have conflicting stories – a Maharaja ordered the city painted pink for the arrival of Prince Albert [v. 1] or King Edward [v. 2]. Either way, it’s not exactly pink…more of a deep rose, dusty maroon colour, but the lovely pastel pink of the City Palace makes up for this little fib.

As we weave through the standard Indian traffic of cars, trucks, people, bicycles, autorickshaws, hand-pulled carts, dogs, cows (+ hogs & camels in Jaipur), our taxi driver concedes that you need three things to be able to drive in India:
1. a good horn
2. a good set of brakes
3. and good luck!

Andrew and I couldn’t agree more.

As Jaipur is home to maharajas and ornate palaces, we decide to invest in a little upgrade and stay at the Samode Haveli, a 156 yr old Rajasthani palace converted into a heritage hotel. It’s hard not to feel like royalty staying in a place like this, and every inch of our room – dubbed the ‘Sheesh Mahal’ – is covered in shimmery little mirrors!



After a quick nap in our princely room, we rick into the heart of Jaipur’s old city. I get more than my fair share of stares – perhaps because I’ve given up on my Indian garb – but I reckon people would stare even more if I glided through the streets of Jaipur sari-clad. (This pic’s from traditional Indian day at work).



As we wade through the street traffic, a cheeky little monkey of a girl pinches my arm (hard) and I am suddenly thankful that all I usually get is a stare! I want to pinch her back, but a camel catches my attention and before I know it, I am swept up in the vibrant colours and pungent smells of the bazaars.



We scale a minaret and find Jaipur sweeping far beyond the confines of the old city. And at the City Palace, the Indian princes give new meaning to the phrase 'the long tail'!



On the way back to the hotel, our rickshaw driver speaks an unparalleled English. He says he learned it from Anita Bose, an American art collector who bought him his first rick when she first visited Jaipur. According to Wikipedia, Anita Bose is the daughter of an Indian freedom fighter. Her mother is Austrian, and Anita teaches economics at the University of Augsburg. No American art collector in that – good story though.

The late afternoon is all about the swimming pool. I finish reading ‘One Night @ the Call Centre’ by Chetan Bhagat, which turns out to be quite an eye-opener given all the India call centre bashing that goes on in the US and the UK. Let’s just say the guys who man the call centres out here aren’t too thrilled about having to speak to Americans all night either.



My new favourite hobby is going to really posh hotels (a grand+/night) to have a good drink and a little nose around. So after a dinner of traditional Rajasthani fare, we go to the Rambagh Palace – breathtaking (and with every breath the smell of freshly cut flowers). I have no doubt this will quickly stop being my new favourite hobby as soon as I am back in Europe and not allowed into hotels of this calibre in jeans and a T-shirt.



We spend Sunday morning by the pool and head off to Amber Fort in the afternoon before catching our outbound flight. The fort is certainly majestic, if not palatial, and here more than elsewhere, I appreciate the contrast between the bright colours of the Indian women’s clothing and the mute tones of the desert. It’s a festival day, and many Indians are walking the 10km from Jaipur to the fort, where they pay their respects to Kali (goddess of power).



I am most excited by the fact that at Amber Fort, I finally teach myself how to drink like an Indian: head back, bottle hoisted above my mouth and not touching my lips, pouring water steadily and swallow, swallow, swallow. An extended Indian family has a good laugh at my efforts, but I am well pleased with this newfound skill. Now all I need to do is learn how to put on a sari (and how to speak Hindi), and I’ll be set.