I plan to move pretty quickly through Rajasthan so that I can reach Sri Lanka in time for the cricket tour but also because it's very hot here and the tourists are pretty easy targets for the local merchants. I have heard that people are less persistent in the South so that ideal is driving me to see what I want in Rajasthan quickly and escape towards Tamil Nadu. After only one night in Agra I caught a bus further East to the capital of Rajasthan, Jaipur - the Pink City. In 1876 Maharaja Ram Singh had the entire old city painted pink, traditionally a colour associated with hospitality, to welcome the then Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII). I haven't seen it yet as I rushed straight to the guesthouse when I got off the bus. I decided to stay at the Diggi Palace about 1km south of the old city in the former residence of the Thakur (Nobleman) of Diggi with a lovely quiet lawn area and rambling palace-like courtyards. It's very refreshing to be able to sit on a beautiful lawn surrounded by trees and read the paper without any distractions.
WAR IN INDIA
While war was ripping through the heart of Baghdad, I fought my own private war on the streets of Jaipur. Beginning with an aerial assault courtesy of an extra spicy Chicken Biryani last night, using tactics my Father-in-Law would describe as 'walking the horses', I approached the old city from the west and quickly took the Chandpol gate before encountering any real resistance.
Bravely fending off the advances of the merchants and rickshaw wallahs I began late in the morning to make small advances into the heart of the old city before retreating to safety. Jostling for position with cows, pigs, camel drawn carts, games of street cricket, men on motorcycles and small boys on big bicycles, I fought my way around the narrow streets until I was able to move around the old city at will with only occasional bursts of hostile fire from the rickshaw wallahs. Much of the time I was able to fend them off using the classic line 'You think I'm a tourist? My Mother is from Calcutta.'
I saw a man on the back of a cycle rickshaw dressed in white sitting like a king on his throne while the rider struggled to pedal up a small incline. I saw small boys with stick legs and potbellies, fat women in brightly coloured saris, turbaned Sikhs with perfectly groomed beards and waxed moustaches all trying to live the Indian dream. Had I liberated them? I didn't know, but I believed I had control of their city. All day I saw no other tourists.
Everywhere I turned people were peeing on the side of the street - small girls, teenage boys and grown men. Especially grown men. One even squatted across the street and looked me in the eye as he deposited a large turd in the open sewer canal. I was powerless to stop them and I certainly didn't want to join them so I carefully retreated back to the safety of my guesthouse.
As in any war you learn some important lessons. By far the most valuable one learned today was that the most dangerous end of a cow is the back end. Not only did I almost get pooped on in a narrow alleyway but I saw with my own eyes a cow drop a watery pie on a vacant bicycle saddle seconds before the owner sat in it. It's tactics like that that confirmed my belief that today was no ordinary battle.
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