We Interrupt Your Regularly-Scheduled Programming

A message to all of our readers (all three of you, assuming an extremely generous counting of persons related to us). Sorry for the delay with the text (ahem, Vik).

After returning to Delhi from our Himalayan escapades, and imposing on the Mejos’ hospitality for a third time, we quite literally shifted into a lower gear. The long hours on dusty roads in Rajasthan and Uttaranchal caught up to Vik, resulting in a 24-hour head cold from which he recuperated horizontally (primarily in the throes of March Madness analysis). In between repeated forays for orange juice and facial tissue, Kaberi successfully procured lightweight clothing for the hot days ahead.

With some down time in Delhi, we finally managed to overcome some deep-seated procrastination by updating the blog with our complete India adventures. Please scroll back to Older Posts to read about the last month of our travels (beginning with the February 21st post, Not A Kerala In The World).

In order to maximize our endurance for another seven months of traveling, we decided to forego a trip to the northeastern Indian cities of Khajuraho (known for its shockily-erotic Hindu temples portraying the Kama Sutra) and Varanasi (one of India’s oldest – and dirtiest -- cities best known as a site for religious rituals on the banks of the Ganges). Instead, we rerouted ourselves to Hyderabad, the capital of India’s southeastern state of Andhra Pradesh and a burgeoning tech hub, to spend two days with Vik’s Ragunandan Uncle.

After our time in relatively-temperate Delhi, the unrelenting heat from an arid and sun-baked Hyderabad was somewhat shocking. As a result, we were only mildly surprised to discover that our collective energy level was significantly eclipsed by Vik’s 77-year-old uncle. In the midst of some modest sightseeing and nice dinners out, we managed to coax from Ragunandan Uncle some of his exploits as a 17-year-old Indian freedom fighter in 1947 Hyderabad, the most notable of which included an escape to Bangalore to avert an arrest ordered by Hyderabad’s then-Muslim leader, the Nizam.

After leaving Hyderabad glad to have spent some time with Ragunandan Uncle, we returned to Delhi to catch a flight to Bangkok to begin the Southeast Asia leg of our journeys.

The Long Road Back

The front gate of the Binsar Sanctuary was a mere 7 kilometers (4 miles) from our hotel and marked the beginning of a treacherous, 13-kilometer (8-mile) dirt-and-gravel climb to an isolated lookout point. Near the top, our driver made a rash turn at a speed inappropriate for the underlying conditions, and we felt the entire undercarriage of the car scrape the assortment of rocks serving as a de facto road. Our vehicle sustained some damage, and immediately began to emit loud, unnatural sounds similar to the ones made by Vik most mornings while he brushes his teeth.

Temporarily putting the car out of our minds, we took a moment to appreciate the solitude of our surroundings. Sweeping views of the imposing landscape were framed by vividly-red, flowering rhododendron trees. We then hiked 2 kilometers to a panoramic lookout point and even mustered the courage to climb half-way up a narrow, rickety and rusty sentry tower. Briefly pausing to savor the view before climbing back down, we had another 2 kilometer walk back to the car and an unnerving descent ahead of us.

Three hours later (it would have been two if not for a missed turn by our well-meaning but thoroughly-lacking-in-common-sense driver) found us in the valley resort town of Kausani. After checking into a nearby hotel, we headed to Gandhi’s ashram to pay homage to the ascendant figure in all of Indian history. The ashram was simple, but inspirational, and we caught ourselves wondering what Gandhi would think of the present-day condition of his homeland (we suspected that disenchantment was the most likely response). Before leaving, Vik made a point of highlighting Gandhi’s painstaking financial record-keeping during his days in England, and Kaberi made a modest effort to feign interest.

As seemingly the only two tourists (peak season begins in the warmer months of April and May) in the entire town, we found the only open restaurant in town for an early dinner before heading back to the hotel. Back there, we lulled ourselves to sleep by watching the single worst example of American filmed entertainment ever produced (the absolutely execrable David Duchovny/Julianne Moore vehicle Evolution).

The next morning we awoke to watch the sun begin its steady, tireless ascent over the steep Himalayas. Amazingly, we were able to view it all from the comfort of our bed. Vik opened half of one eye to sleepily take in the splendor while Kaberi labored to capture it on film from the balcony. With clear skies, we were afforded an unobstructed view of the peaks. We watched with rapt attention for more than an hour as the range slowly went from muted shades of blue and grey to brilliant hues of orange and gold.

Knowing that we wanted to get back to Delhi by nightfall (our mounting concerns over the mechanical condition of our car heightening the sense of urgency), we hit the road at 7:30 am. Our driver began our long journey home with Vik keeping an eagle eye out to ensure that we didn’t take yet another wrong turn. While Vik worried about the potential risk to life and limb as the driver screeched down the steep, winding roads, Kaberi assumed the fetal position in the backseat in a valiant effort to keep the prior night’s dinner down. She took solace in knowing that if the car went over a cliff, at least she would be in Vik’s arms. Little did she know that Vik was thinking that, in such a scenario, he’d be focused on pummeling the driver on the way down.

Vik vigilantly kept watch through the windy roads and conked out in utter exhaustion once we hit straight roads in the plains. At this point, Kaberi’s sense of motion sickness subsided and she began to take an interest in the route. Minutes later, her heart nearly gave out when our driver seemingly ignored traffic conditions to play high-speed chicken with a six-wheeler bearing down on us. Even a tightening, vise-like grip on Vik’s arm failed to wake him.

Several hours had passed since we navigated safely through the treacherous highland route, and now we were ostensibly home free on mundane paved roads. Nevetheless, in a fantastic bit of irony, we ended up getting front-ended by a backtracking horse-driven cart while being blocked in by a colorful semi-truck overflowing with sugarcane. We were no worse for wear, although our car’s front left headlight didn’t fare as well. As the driver jumped out of his seat to assess the damage and yell at the horse-cart driver, Kaberi watched in profound disbelief as Vik blissfully slept through it all. We ended up arriving in Delhi at 6:30 pm, safe and sound, and fully prepared not to set foot in a car for as long as humanly possible.

Stalking Divine Skyscrapers

After setting out on the road at 7:30 am, we headed southeast from Rishikesh to personally introduce ourselves to the Indian Himalayas. Our efforts were considerable as we made the excruciating, 10-hour journey in the Indian equivalent of a Honda Accord (a Tata Indigo hatchback).

Our route began by skirting the Himalayan foothills through the Rajaji National Park on the so-called National Highway 74 (in actuality, a dusty, congested two-lane road constipated by bullock carts, firewood-toting pedestrians and lackadaisical water buffalo). After what seemed like an eternity (but was actually the entire morning and part of the afternoon), we began to make our way east from the small town of Ramnagar, which sits just east of the Jim Corbett Wildlife Sanctuary. Within thirty minutes, we began our interminable climb to the heavens and terra firma became a distant memory.

As Kaberi slept on his shoulder, Vik grasped his seat with a vise-like grip in a futile attempt to ease his mounting apprehension. The 90-minute drive from Ramnagar to Nainital, the largest city in Uttaranchal’s Kumaon region, was fraught with hairpin curves curled on top of hairpin curves. Our driver coaxed a reluctant car up the accelerating inclines, marked by ever taller and taller pine trees. As we painstakingly tiptoed the pebble-strewn driving path bordered on one side by seemingly-bottomless dropoffs, the kilometer signs marking our progress crawled by. This drive made Maui’s Mt. Haleakala look like child’s play. The only saving grace of the stomach-churning journey (not stopping for lunch turned out to be a blessing in disguise) was the view of majestic brown peaks that stood at attention above us in the blue ether. They were to be a mere preview of the grandeur of the Himalayas.

After reaching Nainital, we barely had time to take inventory of the town’s attractive setting along a magnificent peanut-shaped lake (reminiscent of Lake Como) before bounding our way down into the valley leading to Almora. At the expense of our equilibria, our driver, now freed of gravity’s hindrance, invoked his Grand Prix aspirations and raced through the turns. Two hours and one more nerve-wracking climb later, we neared Almora.

By far, the best part of the journey was the approach into Almora. Working our way up to the town allowed us a new vantage point, and one that unsheathed the divine snowy peaks of the Inner Himalayas. Words do not do the view justice. Suffice it to say that the white mountaintops are so tall that they appear surreal, as if clouds have been pasted permanently above the horizon. It took us a few minutes to grasp the scale of these mountains – we were already more than a mile above sea level and the peaks still towered in the background.

In the next hour, we limped through Almora’s cramped cobblestone streets and stopped at a few hotels located along the town’s main thoroughfare. Unimpressed by the quality of the rooms we were shown, we decided to venture further up in altitude toward Binsar. After another 10 kilometers of inclines and sheer dropoffs, we found a jungle resort promoting mountainview rooms. As a reward for navigating a long, arduous dirt driveway, we were offered a smart, new cottage with spectacular vistas from its balcony. Vik put his negotiating cap on, and managed to get us a 35% discount (it was off-season after all) on the published rate. With our journey temporarily concluded after 12 hours in a car, we had finally earned some well-deserved R&R before exploring Binsar the next day.

While My Sitar Gently Weeps

After a brief, comfortable respite in Delhi with the Mejo’s, we prepared to catch a puddle-jumper flight to Pantnagar in southeastern Uttaranchal, which became the newest of India’s 29th states when it was carved out of neighboring Uttar Pradesh earlier in the millennium.

Uttaranchal is ensconced in India’s mountaineous northeast on the Nepal border, making it an excellent entry point for seeing the Himalayas. Our best-laid plans were quickly dismantled, however, when our inbound flight was cancelled due to inclement weather. After spending a day with Mejomama in his office, we hatched a new gambit: rent a car and driver in Delhi to take us on an ambitious sweep, starting in southwestern Uttaranchal where the Ganges rushes out of the Himalayan foothills to make its inexorable eastern march to the Bay of Bengal and ending in the elevated southeast where the stark, white peaks demand immediate reverence.

The extra day also afforded us the opportunity to grapple with India’s infamous bureaucracy. The ever-fairminded Indian Customs, Delhi Bureau had levied a $400 import duty on the repaired camera sent to Kaberi from her cousin Shanku in Chicago on the grounds that the camera would be resold in India. Incredibly, Indian Customs refused to review the original bill of sale or the shipping manifest documentation with which Kaberi had originally sent her camera home for repair. And FedEx, citing its policy of seeking to cause maximum end-customer exasperation whenever possible, paid the duty unilaterally, leaving us with the unenviable task of prying money from the cold, dead fingers of the Indian government.

We drafted an obsequious letter of appeal, but resigned ourselves to having paid a $400 tuition fee in the School of Hard Knocks. This left Kaberi to watch ruefully as all of the money originally saved on her camera purchase flew out the window in the direction of Indira Gandhi International Airport. The only saving grace was her having the Nikon back in advance of our visiting the Himalayas.

Upon venturing out the next morning, we advanced on our eventual destination of Rishikkesh at a snail’s pace. Traffic congestion and road conditions conspired against us, and it took nearly five hours to reach Haridwar (which literally means “The Gates of God”), still one hour south of Rishikesh. We stopped briefly to observe the holy Ganges River (the view was underwhelming) and take some completely-superfluous high-resolution pictures of the mediocre scenery. Upon reaching Rishikesh at 4:30 pm, we scoured the left and right banks of a city bisected by the Ganges for reasonable overnight accommodation. We settled on a clean, 600 rupee ($14) room in the heart of the Left Bank, near a variety of ashrams.

With sunset approaching, we dropped off our bags and walked toward the riverbed. As we had arrived in Rishikesh before the monsoons, the mighty Ganges was a bit enervated; the ratio of rocky sediment to flowing water strongly favored the former category. We had hoped to see a parade of floating candles on the river from sunset aartis, but only managed to spot an occasional stray diya. As daylight faded from view and the mosquito presence intensified, we retreated east away from the river. Our evening stroll took us into the heart of the Left Bank and a surprising buzz of activity.

Unbeknownst to us, we had arrived in Rishikesh in the midst of the International Yoga Festival. Unwittingly, we managed to happen upon a huge riverside congregation boasting hundreds of saffron-robed devotees. Sitting before them on a stage parallel to the river were several simultaneously-chanting-and-clapping, cross-legged dignitaries, presumably from the international yoga community. We only recognized the most central figure, a man by the name of Sri Ravi Ravi Shankar (not to be confused with the sitar-playing father of Norah Jones by the same name).

Sri Ravi Ravi is to transcendental Hinduism as the Reverend Jerry Falwell is to evangelical Christianity, and engenders a similarly-consuming effect on his multinational (and often Western) devotees. There was something charming about the scene, and the rhythmic chanting of hundreds of voices in unison was nicely atmospheric. It wasn’t until about 20 minutes later (when we heard a group of American and French disciples -- with dirty blonde dreadlocks and Birkenstocks -- loudly evaluating each other’s auras and dirty energies) that we were reminded of the innate charlatanry of the moment. Auras aside, this was nothing more than a business-minded cult of personality preying on the naïve sensibilities of a group of foreigners all too willing to exotify India.

Well, live and let live. At least we got a couple of decent George Harrison tunes out of it all.

Royal Holi Crashers

It was only upon reaching Rajasthan that the full magnitude of Holi began to dawn on us. After returning to Jodhpur, our hotel manager told us that the renowned Mehrenger Fort was closed until 2:00 pm the next day in observation of Holi. He also strongly advised us to buy some cheap clothes to prepare for the festivities since the odds were high that we would be splashed by local color.

After finding a local department store, National Handloom Corporation, we were surprised by the ease of the buying experience. We simply uttered two words – Holi and cheap – and were immediately shown men’s and women’s white kurta-pyjamas that represented the de facto uniform for the event. For less than 200 rupees each ($4.50), we were both outfitted in style from head to toe. Vik splurged further by also picking up a pair of $0.95 rubber bath slippers.

That night, we headed to the Taj Tari Mahal hotel for a nice dinner out. While killing some time in the hotel lobby, the night manager (thinking that we were hotel guests) invited us to join the hotel’s Holi celebration the next day. We were pleased to learn there might be a way for us to participate in the fun in a relatively-safe and controlled manner (Kaberi’s Mejomaima had warned us that sometimes Indian men use Holi as an excuse to do a little groping, and Kaberi is very protective of Vik).

In the morning, cheerily decked out in our impeccable white Holi attire, we decided to visit the second and more majestic Taj property in Jodhpur, the Umaid Bhawan Palace. The colossal and opulent palace in the outskirts of the city took 16 years to construct and required the efforts of 3,000 laborers. Originally serving as the private residence of the Jodhpur royal family, it has been subsequently divided into thirds to accommodate a posh hotel and a museum in addition to the royal quarters.

Vik’s father had encouraged us to visit the Umaid Bhavan (primarily because it was here where Elizabeth Hurley was due to wed her semi-Indian fiancée, Arun “She Dropped Steve Nash For This Guy?” Nayar, in a few days). Before setting out, we had been forewarned that there was a steep cover charge just to enter the Palace (1,650 rupees per person, which translates into roughly $35 apiece), but hoped that our source was either misinformed or prone to exaggeration.

After being dropped off at the hotel in modest form (a particularly noisy auto rickshaw), we mentally prepared ourselves to be verbally accosted by the doorman. As it turned out, we serendipitously happened to be wearing the exact same costumes as those issued to all Umaid Bhavan hotel guests – pure white kurta-pyjamas. We capitalized on our luck by acting the part, and soon were welcomed to join the Umaid Bhavan’s Holi celebration, for free.

Not questioning our good fortune, we wandered across the grounds in the direction of the event preparation. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as we nervously waited for the commencement of the festivities. Not wanting to draw any undue attention to our questionable presence, we went to great lengths to keep to ourselves – including murmuring quietly whenever hotel employees wandered by and avoiding eye contact with the friendly, roving hotel general manager. In the next half-hour, we noticed that more and more hotel guests were arriving in the same, standard issue white outfits. Our cover seemed to be solid. Unfortunately, the start of the party was taking forever. We weren’t exactly sure what was holding things up.

Around noon, an unimposing gentleman who looked to be in his late 50’s walked in and was immediately greeted heartily by a number of the Indians present. For the first time, the large, neat bowls of colored powder on the lawn were handled. We watched with rapt attention as several men patted each other with the powders on the head, face and chest and then warmly exchanged hugs. The entire process proved very effective in smearing a healthy amount of color on once-pristine shirts. All of the participants looked like they were having much more fun than the docile hotel guests (who Kaberi cattily suggested were bystanders in Jodhpur’s version of Waiting For Godot). Impatience got the better of us, and we eagerly ambled over to the crowd in the hopes of being absorbed into the pageantry.

We literally marched right up to the alpha male of the activity, the unimposing gentleman mentioned previously, who greeted us in turn with a slight bow. He had been standing off to the side and his casual manner and informal friendliness helped alleviate our nervousness. We ended up talking with him for the next 10 minutes about the significance of Holi, after which he patted us with brilliant red powder and wished us a Happy Holi. We responded in kind, embracing him slightly and lacing his face and shoulders with colored powder (Kaberi using pink and Vik using orange). Before stepping away to mingle with other guests, the gentleman asked us our names, which we happily supplied him. Kaberi asked the same of him, and he paused ever so slightly before simply replying, “Mr. Singh.”

Following our cue, the rest of the hotel guests joined in on the fun. A couple of the older American men (in a blatant and transparent ploy to chat up Kaberi) told us that we were their inspiration for joining in. In no time flat, we ended up completely covered in powder, much of it originating from the hands of well-heeled hotel guests. Quickly, and as Mr. Singh had predicted, the party escalated from the harmless throwing of colored powder to forcible dunkings of captive partygoers in tubs of colored water. Careful to stay far away from the folks dripping wet with pools of pink, red and orange in their wake, we decided to avail ourselves of the complimentary chaat buffet and open bar.

While Kaberi went to the restroom, Vik unwisely attempted to secure a third free drink for himself. By the time Kaberi returned, she found her husband dripping from head to toe, flushed in a very bright shade of fuchsia. Vik had been accosted from behind by a pail-toting ruffian and had a gallon of liquid poured down his back. With a large pink stripe running from his neck to his ankles, he would spend the next two weeks looking like a radioactive skunk.

Later in the day, after a shower back at our hotel (from which Kaberi emerged impeccably-clean while Vik emerged with a backside pink enough to earn him comparisons to a red-butted baboon), we caught a rickshaw to the Mehrenger Fort. The Fort was impressive in itself, with vast latticework covering its standstone walls, but even more so in its scale and perch. Jodhpur is known as the “Blue City” and our vantage point high atop the Fort allowed us to appreciate the cluster of indigo-blue-washed houses in the town center. We also learned that the Fort was once in a state of considerable disrepair before being fully restored by Jodhpur’s current Oxford-educated Maharajah.

The Maharajah was one of India’s Midnight Children (born at the exact moment of India’s independence from Great Britain) and took office at the age of 4. Today, the Maharajah enjoys a reputation as a great patron of local architecture and arts. As we finished the tour and perused the gift shop, an overenthusiastic art student showed us a photo of the Maharajah at the dedication of the art school. Our jaws dropped. It was Mr. Singh -- actually Mr. Gaj Singh II – the man whose face we had smeared with colored powder earlier in the day. To our amazement and embarassment, we had inadvertently crashed the Jodhpur Maharajah’s private Holi celebration.

A Better-In-Theory Desert Foray

After a quick 40-minute flight to Jodhpur, we found an auto rickshaw to take us to our hotel. To our incredible good fortune, we were escorted to our room at exactly the instant that the heavens opened to unleash a torrential downpour of Noah-esque proportions. At that moment, we both decided on the spot to make the five-hour car ride to Jaisalmer the very next morning.

The drive to Jaisalmer was relatively painless, and the skies began clearing as we moved out of Jodhpur’s vicinity. Our journey took us through terrain that morphed from something akin to the American southwest to a real-world version of the Lion King landscape, complete with scattered scrub brush and lonely acacia trees. It was easy to get lost in one’s thoughts staring out the window at the passing thatched-roof huts braving an unrelenting sun in the midst of a reddish-orange expanse.

Unlike other connecting thoroughfares in India, the Jodhpur-to-Jaisalmer road was in excellent condition. We learned from our driver that this was due to the road’s heavy use by the Indian army given the proximity to the Pakistani border. As if on cue, we soon were exposed to the Indian Army’s conspicuous presence. In the span of 10 minutes, no fewer than 20 flatbed trucks resolutely rolled by, each transporting hulking and recently-used armored tanks. We took it to be either a very good or a very bad sign that the military caravan was moving in exactly the opposite direction as us.

Jaisalmer welcomed us with an abundance of heat and dust, and we were only too grateful to indulge in a shower at our hotel before heading into the city. On the way, we stopped in at the nondescript offices of Adventure Travel, a tour operator recommended by our Rough Guide, to book a camel safari into the Thar Desert. Impatience or apathy got the best of us (being immersed in a room crammed with eager British tourists didn’t help much either), and we allowed our negotiating discipline to be subverted by an oily, glad-handing salesman. We were eventually charged what we later learned to be an exorbitant 2,100 rupees for a 21-hour overnight excursion. The unfortunate transaction behind us, we made our way toward the Jaisalmer Fort.

In contrast to other Rajasthani fort cities, Jaisalmer houses 2,000 people within the confines of its fort walls. Kaberi was initially enchanted by the continuity of life to the present day, but was soon underwhelmed by reality. Within the Fort, aggressive hawkers, single-minded cows and fly-ridden piles of filth (a combination of human trash and cow excrement) compete for scarce space on claustrophobia-inducing streets and alleyways. We both felt trapped inside a garish and charmless tourist trap. It was only when we ascended the recently-restored Maharaja’s Palace that the beauty of the city’s original handiwork (in the form of delicately-filigreed architecture) emerged. Heartened, we left the Fort to find some of the city’s original havelis, many of which struck us as even more beautiful in comparison to their counterparts in Jaipur.

The next day, after an unambitious morning, we commenced our journey into the Thar Desert with the ultimate goal of sleeping beneath the stars. We considered ourselves fortunate enough to be in a small group of five along with three friendly Austrians (apparently, India is not a popular vacation destination for Austrians, possibly because many Indian tourist tradespeople readily infer that Austrians are from Australia). After driving one hour from Jaisalmer in a jeep with limited shock absorption capabilities (an apropos precursor to the trip), we made an unfortunate stop in a local village.

Upon alighting from the jeep, we were immediately bombarded by no less than 50 primary school-aged children fervently demanding “ONE PEN, ONE PEN.” The experience saddened and disgusted us – instead of spending their days in school to learn skills to propel them to a better life, these children had been conditioned to beg from captive, camel safari tourists.

From the village, we drove directly to a camel embarkment point a few minutes away. Kaberi’s camel appeared to be the cutest of the bunch while Vik’s appeared to be the most ornery, leading Kaberi to suggest that each camel had been artfully matched to its rider. While romantic in theory, riding a camel into the desert is an extremely overrated experience. First off, the girth of a camel’s haunches wreaks havoc on the abductor muscles of those of us not primarily known for playing the ditzy blonde on Three’s Company. Secondly, male camels (it would be cruel to use female camels on safaris because they retain more water and therefore have more weight to bear) are easily-distracted (it was mating season after all). Thirdly, camels are like baseball players – they will not hesitate to scratch themselves at any opportune moment, often without sufficient prior warning. And finally, camels boast a frequency and intensity of flatulence that is incomparable. That ordinary, everyday hay could be transformed into something so fiendishly foul as that which emanates gaseously from a camel’s backside will be an unexpected takeaway for the two of us going forward. Suffice it to say that when sundown approached, we were all too happy to take leave of our camels in order to make camp in the dunes.

As our crew prepared a vegetarian meal, we walked around to take pictures of our surroundings as the sun’s arc faded into the horizon. We killed some time playing a few hands of two-person Texas Hold ‘Em and, much to Vik’s chagrin, Kaberi quickly managed to pad her shopping budget. Not bad for half an hour of poker. As dusk fell, we gathered around a small, hastily-prepared fire, and ate a simple dinner with our travel companions before turning in for the night.

As we settled into two of five neighboring bedrolls arranged on one of the dune’s downslopes, decked out head to toe in our North Face gear, we took inventory of the sky. To our surprise, the intensity of the moonlight (we had made our trek the day before a full moon) obscured our starry view. The moon actually lit up the night, so much so that we could easily scrutinize our surroundings. Vik likened it to the glare of high beams on an SUV. After some time, we managed to fall asleep, only to be awakened hours later by frigid gusts as the wind changed direction. In pitch darkness, the two of us huddled into Vik’s bedroll and flipped Kaberi’s on top of us in a futile attempt to preserve body heat. Sleeping outside in 40-degree temperatures was also proving to be massively overrated.

In the morning, we awoke to the impending sunrise. After an uninspiring breakfast, we looked at our waiting camels and wished for a Jeep to be magically conjured from the sands. Sighing deeply as we each jerkily threw one leg over our respective camels’ humps, we made our way back out of the desert. Our ride was mercifully short (it took very little time before the soreness of our thighs had registered), and we made it back to Jaisalmer proper by noon. With Jaisalmer being overrun by gangs of young boys threatening to spray tourists with colored water if they weren’t accorded 10 rupees each, we opted to head back to Jodphur as quickly as possible. On the two occasions that we were accosted by young blackmailers, Vik opted to dissuade them with ambiguous threats of physical violence rather than caving into their financial demands. Our departure from Jaisalmer couldn't come quickly enough.

24 Hours As A Maharani

An expeditious early morning taxi ride (Vik swears the cabbie was Steve McQueen’s stunt driver in a prior life) took us to Jaipur Airport to catch our early morning flight to Udaipur. The foliage visible during our descent into Udaipur foretold that our stay here was going to be worlds apart from our time in Jaipur.

As we made our way into the city from the airport, we got a chance to take in the scenery. At first glance, Udaipur reminded us a lot of Palm Springs. The contrast of the greenery was striking against an austere backdrop of desert mountains amidst a clear blue sky, and this was literally going to be only the second best view we would have during our stay. Along the way, we passed through the city’s cramped center and past the stunning City Palace complex where the Udaipur royal family still resides.

Minutes later, we arrived at the jetty for the motorboat ride across Lake Pichola, which roughly translates as Lake “Behind the Palace.” The Lake Palace Hotel, which was the royal family’s summer residence, sits in the center of Lake Pichola and offers magnificent 360-degree views of the City Palace and lakefront. The story of the palace’s creation is a familiar refrain to many of us: son wants to party 24/7, dad says “not while you live under my roof,” son is forced to wait until he becomes boss to build his own party pad.

The palace’s magnificent white façade and the setting were immortalized in the rather cheesy 1983 James Bond film Octopussy (featuring dialogue that could have been written by a toddler – Vijay Amritraj’s lines are particularly excruciating -- and a villain, Kamal Khan, who is about as intimidating as Richard Simmons).

From the point that we set foot on the slip, we were quite literally transported into the life of royalty. We were first greeted by a guard in traditional Rajasthani court attire who led us to a waiting area where a woman handed us warm handtowels. After a quick ride across the lake, the doorman welcomed us to the hotel and shielded Kaberi from the sun with a massive Rajastani silk umbrella. It was a good glimpse of what was to come. Inside the lobby, we were given fresh watermelon juice along with the opportunity to upgrade to a suite for a “nominal” additional sum. In a moment of profound temporary insanity, Vik took the upgrade, thereby allowing both of us to enjoy the good life for 24 hours.

After unexpectedly finding an unwelcome 6-legged guest in our room (we named him “Lalu” after the shady and self-promotional Indian Railway Minister), we had the terrible misfortune of being moved to an even more magnificent heritage suite, which used to serve as the private quarters for the queen, or Maharani. The suite was situated adjacent to the spa area, where the current swimming pool had served as a bathing area for the ladies of the royal court. Our accommodations boasted a huge bed, a living and dining area and a marble bathroom with a clawfoot tub for two. Kaberi also noted that the space had tasteful and stunning gold molding, the largest chandelier she’d ever seen and an incredible triple window seat with an unfettered view of the City Palace. In contrast, Vik was more appreciative of the wireless Internet access, 50-inch flatscreen TV and double sinks.

We spent the day lounging next to the mango tree shaded pool, taking a historical tour of the palace and enjoying magnificent sunset views from the rooftop. In the evening, we enjoyed a romantic candlelight dinner for two on the Maharaja’s private terrace with a clear view of the older Jagmandir Island. In order to make up for Lalu’s intrusion earlier in the day, the hotel staff coordinated with Vik to surprise Kaberi with 12 long-stemmed red roses and a chocolate marshmallow cake dessert. When we returned to the room, we found another mini-dessert of five Indian sweets, a bottle of red wine, silk sheets and large white candles awaiting us. Vik is a little worried that Kaberi is starting to get used to this.

The Pink City Beckons

For much of our three-hour flight to Jaipur, one of the three vertices of India’s Golden Triangle tourist corridor (along with Delhi and Agra), we perused our Rough Guide for hotel recommendations. The process turned out to be more difficult than originally anticipated, largely because we were visiting Jaipur in the midst of peak tourist season.

During a brief layover in Mumbai, the gentleman sitting to our left, Abhinav, graciously offered to help us find a room. By the time we had disembarked at Jaipur airport, Abhinav had made several calls on his mobile phone and secured a room for us at an old-fashioned haveli in the heart of town. We were overwhelmed by his effort and willingness to help us, and were somewhat dumbfounded when he also accompanied us (with his young family in tow) to the hotel to check us in. Our warm feelings over the incident faded in the coming days, however, when we learned that persons accompanying paying guests to hotels in Rajasthan often receive kickback commissions that reach as high as 80% of the room rate. To this day, we still don’t know whether Abhinav’s intentions were honorable or self-interested, or both. As is often the case in India, things are much more complex than they initially appear on the surface.

We took advantage of our first afternoon in Jaipur to find Anokhi, an area boutique known for its excellent, hand-printed clothing, before stopping in for a delicious dinner of pav bhaji and chole bhatura at Jaipur’s best vegetarian restaurant, Four Seasons (not to be confused with the high-end hotel chain). The next morning, we wasted a few hours moving camp to a much cheaper guesthouse across town (the haveli’s price/value proposition left much to be desired). With a room secured, we then proceeded to hire a taxi for the day to take us around town.

Our first foray took us to Jaipur’s eastern suburb of Amer to find a textile designer that came highly recommended from Kaberi’s friend Nomita. Suffice it to say that the journey turned into a real wild goose chase, leading Vik to remark that our affable driver was the kind of guy who would first drive you off a cliff and then try to stop for directions. After a 90-minute effort that included multiple pit-stops to query locals, we found the showroom in a surprisingly-nondescript part of town. Upon arrival, we were disappointed to hear from the office manager, an Indian version of Mr. Magoo, that we needed a prior appointment. After much consternation on our part, Magooji relented and told us that but he would make an exception for us if we returned at 2:00 pm. Kaberi was convinced that Vik would balk at the ridiculous effort associated with giving Magooji our business, but, to her surprise, he had been sufficiently beaten into submission by this point.

In order to kill a few hours before our appointment, we ended up driving to Amer palace. To our delight, we were greeted by a magnificent structure overlooking the desert outskirts of the city. The interior garden and fountain were a surprising discovery and the mirror work in the main structure was mesmerizing. It was a welcome distraction that made us feel better about the effort made to trek all this way.

In the afternoon, we returned to the showroom where Kaberi quickly forgot about the imposed wait and found a number of items that she fell in love with, including a quilt and some curtains. When Magooji indicated that he would only accept cash, Vik was forced to find the closest State Bank of India ATM while Kaberi stood guard over her discoveries. En route back to Jaipur, we stopped at the post office to have our purchase wrapped in a secure cotton sheet for transit. Taking Mejomama’s advice, we decided not to trust the Indian Post, opting instead to lug the package around with us until our return to Delhi.

Our final destination was Jaipur’s famed pink City Palace (“The Pink Palace”) where we cajoled the guard (primarily through the use of embarassingly-poor pigeon Hindi) into granting us entry a few minutes after the official closing time. Jaipur is known as the Pink City for the color taken on by the fortress surrounding the old part of the city at sunrise (although a potentially-color-blind Vik still thinks Jaipur should be called the Orange City). We walked through the grounds of the palace in an accelerated gait, goofily posed with the Royal guards and admired the rich detail of the intricate mosaic work. On our way out, we tipped the guard the price of two tickets (a whopping $0.95 in U.S. dollars) for his indulgence. Before heading back to our guesthouse, we capped our day with another excellent meal, this time at the highly-recommended Copper Chimney.

Bang-Alluring

After finally making it out of Kerala, we had a quick, 36-hour pitstop in Vik’s home state of Karnataka to visit the Bangalore chapter of the Kaberi Admiration Society (Vik’s Usha Aunty and Ramarao Uncle, cousin Nayan and his wife Gauri, and their two energetic kids, Aditya and Vir).

Staying with Usha Aunty and Ramarao Uncle allowed us to enjoy a break from our hectic schedule. Kaberi and Ramarao Uncle chatted over coffee in the mornings while Vik slept in. Evenings featured scintillating conversation over pre-dinner drinks (Kaberi tried Johnny Walker Black for the first time and discovered that she is not a scotch aficionado). Usha Aunty and Kaberi also enjoyed some quality girl time together, so much so that they are both convinced that they were close in a previous life.

We also enjoyed spending time with the funloving Nayan and Gauri. Nayan, the consummate foodie, always introduces us to the best restaurants. On this visit, we enjoyed gourmet Chinese at Szechwan Court at the Oberoi Hotel, continental cuisine at Herb & Spice and Indian-style tapas at 90 Foot Road. But the undisputed gastronomical highlight of Bangalore was the green chili martini with a fierce bite and an excellent buzz (don’t worry, we managed to get our hands on the recipe).

In our limited time, we were able to see the progress of construction on Gauri’s and Nayan’s new house and spend some time with Aditya and Vir. Kaberi has decided she wants a son just like Vir, who could literally be her Mini Me. When 3-year-old Vir doesn’t get his way, he pouts and makes the pronouncement, “Fine-I’m-not-your-friend.” This amused Vik to no end and reminded him more than a little bit of the negotiating tactics of his significant other.

Even Bangalore’s more mundane moments were memorable. On Kaberi’s request, Nayan got her an appointment with his dentist. After a 20-minute cleaning (which cost $16), Kaberi emerged with nicely-polished pearly whites and a new appreciation for her Dad’s strategy of delaying dental treatment until his annual trips to India. An emerging global capitalist, Kaberi is now a huge proponent of personal dental arbitrage. Clearly, the global medical tourism boom has some legs. Meanwhile, Vik spent an inordinate amount of time coming up with list of names for Nayan's Indian beer venture. Vik took great satisfaction when several of his ideas summarily dismissed by Nayan for not being edgy enough (Darkhorse, Riptide, Firefly, Night Owl) were received warmly by a larger group of dinner companions.

We wished we could have stayed in Bangalore much longer, but we had a plane to catch to Jaipur, the capital city of India's northwestern state of Rajasthan (“Land of Kings”).

God's Own Country

Contented after a relaxing stay on the houseboat, we spent the next day leisurely driving around Cochin. Our route included stops at Fort Cochin’s golden yellow Dutch Palace (actually erected by the Portuguese), Cochin Harbor’s tall Chinese fishing nets, the crassly-named Jewtown (where early Jewish settlers were welcomed to live near the king at a time when other parts of India and the world weren’t so hospitable) and the city center of Ernakulum before we made our way back to our guesthouse.

The next morning, we woke up early to make the drive eastward from Kerala’s coast through the Cardamum Hills to the Periyar Wildlife Reserve. Kerala touts this part of the state as “God’s Own Country,” suggesting that God is an avid tea and spice connoisseur, as the lush, magnificent hills are ringed by either the vividly-green, concentric hedges of tea plantations or fronted by innumerable spice trees (most notably, cardamum).

A curvy, back-and-forth but scenic, four-hour drive eventually delivered us to the town of Thekaddy, which sits just east of the Periyar Reserve. After checking into our hotel located within the grounds of the Reserve itself – a converted stone colonial estate – we took a brief stroll to catch a glimpse of energetic, tree-hopping wild monkeys. With a spectacular sunset approaching, we grabbed a good vantage point and a Kingfisher by the hotel pool before venturing back to our room for the night. The next morning, we made our way to the park’s boat jetty to catch the 7 am wildlife boat ride.

When the boat embarked upon its journey, a fierce headwind sliced through us, considerably dampening our spirits and exacerbating our mounting cynicism. Vik noted that the vast majority of the boatride yielded a comparable number of animal sightings as would be customarily experienced on the Staten Island ferry. We were also surrounded by western European and Indian species of the most perplexing animal of them all – the touristus hyperus. The former spent the duration ceaselessly snapping photos with special polarizing filters that apparently had the ability to turn inanimate objects (namely, rocks and dismembered tree branches) into fascinating slideshow fodder while the latter spent the duration loudly bickering over who stole whose seats and who was most likely to have originated directly from a village.

Huddled together to stave off the wind’s chill, we were deeply grateful when the boat appeared to be turning back. Instead, we were taken to a small and seemingly-nondescript inlet. The guide came to the front of the boat and pointed to the top of a hill about 500 feet away. We obediently looked at the spot where he had pointed, but found ourselves staring at only shrubbery. Just as we were questioning the guide’s mental fitness, our angle shifted just slightly and out from the foliage emerged four wild elephants chewing tree leaves for breakfast. It was, without a doubt, the highlight of the excursion. In time, we also saw scattered wild boars, a herd of Indian bison and one or two cormorants. Despite Periyar being a well-advertised reserve for big cats, there were no tigers to be seen anywhere, save for the shivering and not-so-shy Royal Bengal tigress seated at Vik’s right.

On our return trip, we stopped briefly to walk the green-shrubbed maze of a tea plantation and tour its old-fashioned-but-still-operational tea factory. Despite it being the low season for tea harvests, the tour was fascinating, and we reveled in the scent of freshly-cut tea leaves. Upon our return to the coast, we pursued more laid-back activities for the duration, including touring the NTPC Kerala power plant’s control center (where we learned that 30% of electricity sent to north India is stolen, often with the blessing of senior government officials), viewing the sunset from the power plant’s roof (not exactly something that we expected to do on this trip) and having dinner with our host Mr. Sood and his family.

On our last day in Kerala, we drove south on a crystal clear afternoon to the red cliff-fringed Varkala Beach. We wandered down the soft sands and were easily coaxed into the water. Kaberi ignored the numerous leering Indian men, but was a little uncomfortable to be the only Indian woman on the beach sporting a bikini in lieu of a sari. After a thorough saltwater drenching, we dried off quickly and headed to the airport. On the way, we passed a government research facility that was once home to Vik’s namesake, Vikram Sarabhai, the father of Indian space research.

We then continued on to Trivandrum, a slowly-emerging tech hub and the capital of the state, to catch a 40-minute Indian Airlines flight to Bangalore. Ironically, we ended up spending nearly four times as long in Trivandrum Airport (150 minutes) waiting for a delayed plane than on the flight itself. Earlier in the day, government-owned Indian Airlines had agreed to merge with government-owned Air India in a move that will undoubtedly revolutionize the Indian airline industry. Well, maybe not.

Not A Kerala In The World

The evening of Sunday the 18th took us from cool, temperate Delhi to subtropical Kerala, a thin, long shard of a state on India’s southwestern coast. The most densely-populated state in India, Kerala boasts the country’s highest literacy rate (a reputed 100%), the lowest infant mortality rate and an especially diverse and peacefully-coexisting populace (roughly 40% Hindu, 25% Catholic and 25% Muslim).

All three statistics stem, at least in part, from Kerala’s geographic serendipity as a port of entry for Catholic missionaries and spice traders alike. The state also boasts a well-earned reputation as a friendly and laid-back vacation destination with beachside resorts, Ayurvedic spas and lush foliage serving as calling cards. Despite its strengths, Kerala suffers from one of the highest unemployment rates in India, potentially as a result of its electing a Communist government (along with West Bengal) whose platform has scared off potential employers.

Given Indian Airlines’ longstanding reputation for mediocrity, we were surprised that our 3-hour flight (which cost roughly $65 per head) went as marvelously as it did; the flight departed on time, all passengers were handed roses upon entering and exiting the plane and the onboard food service was outstanding. Only upon arrival did we learn that we were on the maiden voyage Delhi-to-Cochin non-stop flight, which just so happened to boast a certain Indian Airlines’ CEO as a passenger. Suffice it to say that our next Indian Airlines flight – sans CEO – wouldn’t go quite as flawlessly.

After touching down in Cochin’s gleaming international airport (a gateway to the Gulf Coast Countries where many young Keralans seek their fortunes and a glittering example of public-private collaboration), we were whisked two hours south to the small town of Kayamkulam. Through Kaberi’s Mejomama and Mejomaima's kindness, we were being graciously hosted in Kerala by the National Thermal Power Corporation (NTPC), an Indian utility. Our hosts – Mr. Chandon, a family friend of the Mejos at NTPC headquarters in Delhi and Mr. Sood, the GM of NTPC Kerala – had arranged for us to stay at the company guesthouse with a car and driver at our disposal and a personal guide, Mr. SreeKumar, to accompany us throughout Kerala.

When we reached the guesthouse, we were struck by the lingering signs commemorating the visit of the shaggy-haired India's president, Abdul A. P. J. Kalam, a few days earlier (in a former life, Kalam mastermindeded the secret 1998 nuclear tests in the Rajasthan desert, earning him great admiration from resident and non-resident Indians alike for defying the satellite reconnaisance of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency).

The next morning took us to the town of Alleppey, a prime departure point for Kerala’s famed backwaters boat tours. Mr. SreeKumar had arranged for our reservation and even went so far as to argue on our behalf when the first boat we were shown proved unsatisfactory (Kaberi’s nose wrinkled immediately at the ubiquitous carpet stains and the stifling, musty odor). When the 30-year-old, 5-foot-10 inch boat captain started verbally abusing the 5-foot-no-inch, 44-year-old Mr. SreeKumar, 5-foot-6-inch Vik (5-foot-7 with bedhead) was ready to drop the gloves, but Mr. SreeKumar held his own, giving said boat captain the Heisman and marching us back onto the pier. Minutes later, he found us a three-month old vessel with a gleaming deck and a much more respectful crew.

Our vessel was one of seemingly hundreds of wooden barges called kettu vallams, or “tied boats,” plying the backwaters. It boasted a façade of individual bamboo pieces, several of which we saw being hammered on the shoreline, that were attached without the use of nails. While our kettu vallam was a modest air-conditioned, one bedroom affair, we saw several that boasted five or more bedrooms, sundecks and lavish entertainment systems.

After setting off at noon, we were immediately beguiled by the beauty and serenity of our surroundings. Drifting along the backwaters, which comprised canals, lakes and rivers, was immediately relaxing, a welcome change from the hustle and bustle of the cities previously seen on our itinerary. As we floated in the midst of rice paddies, grasslands and tropical vegetation, we also caught a glimpse into the rural life of those who live alongside and incorporate the backwaters into a multitude of daily tasks, like bathing, clothes-washing and cooking.

Peeking into the private moments of others felt a bit voyeuristic to Kaberi, and a tad intrusive to Vik, so we contented ourselves instead with a good book and some not-quite-real-time blogging, respectively. The hours passed quickly; before we knew it, we were sipping sumptuous chai (heavy on the cardamum) while watching the sunset. As the sun faded, we docked and enjoyed the solitude of our surroundings as our crew prepared a traditional South Indian meal for us. It was a bit surreal, but still very enjoyable, to eat dinner in complete and total darkness. After turning in for the night, we were quickly coaxed to sleep by the lapping waves against our boat.