Monsoon Honeymoon:Part VI: Risking it All on an Indian Bus Ride Deeper into Rajasthan

Saturday, June 22: Jaipur to Jodhpur

Our beloved rickshaw driver Sham awaited us dutifully in the morning as we ventured out to capture a few more city sights before our departure.  His wisdom of the day for me today was: "Happy wife!  Happy life!". I'm taking notes.

Sham drove us through the pink gates of the old city, a frenetic and bustling ten block by ten block urban core with a festive bazaar atmosphere of some 500 stalls.  Sham dropped us first at the Hindu Temple, but after watching the faithful sit and chant and pray for a few moments, we were content.  On the way out, we ducked into an arts emporium, and I emerged with a white, blue, and purple kurtah, a flowing open-necked shirt that resembles an artist's smock, featuring the "Om" symbol.  I looked stunning in my new shirt.

We jumped quickly over to Hawa Mahal, a five story Mughal-Raj palace in the center of the old city.  This palace boasted an especially stunning street-front facade of painted windows, where Muslim ladies could hide away yet still watch the hustle of the male-dominated world below.  We trekked through the courtyards, staircases, and corridors of the Hawa Mahal, enjoying the red-standstone, airy courtyards, and private spaces we had come to recognize as hallmarks of Indian architecture.

Sham delivered us finally to a tapestry wholesaler, where the polished host served us Chai Tea and showcased tablecloths, wallhangings, uncut fabric, and pashminas.  We walked with two purchases, including a white and blue tapestry adorned with royal blue elephants.

Now began the most harrowing experience of our journey so far.  We taxied to the bus station for a 12:30 departure for Jodhpur.  Our trip would consume anywhere between 5 and 8 hours.  There were just too many variables involved to be more precise than that.  Our air-conditioned volvo deluxe bus arrived a half hour late, but we were grateful not to be riding one of economy class carnivals on wheels with Indians packed like sardines in rusted steel compartments.

Our driver was apparently new, as one passenger noted.  He was honk happy, sounding off every 26 seconds at whatever animal, human, or vehicle happened to be in his way.  The two lane road was the only major thoroughfare between cities, and every living creature in Rajasthan had decided to travel on this road today.  We hurtled forward at the speed of insanity, brushing within inches of oil tankers, mac trucks, rickshaws, pedestrians, cows, other buses.  Our driver was apparently a failed extra for "The Fast and the Furious," and he was taking his vengeance out on everyone else on the road.  He pretended our hulking bus was a Ferrari, and zipped between lines and around vehicles like a teenage drag racer.  Leigh and I could only stomach the ride by turning our noses into our books and denying what was happening.  My nose happened to be deeply ensconced in Salman Rushdie's "Midnight's Children," the sweeping 1981 magical fictional epic of the birth of India in 1947, as told through the life of a boy born at the stroke of midnight, the very moment modern modern India began.

Four hours in we stopped off at a roadside station.  Leigh and I skeptically consumed deep fried veggie pakora, I said a surprising hello to fish in an aquarium (here?), and we discouragingly learned how much more time remained (a lot!).

We finally pulled into Jodhpur, an historic city of one million just on the edge of the most densely populated desert in the world, the Thar Desert.  A brilliant waxing moon tracked vertiginously above the imposing cliff top fortress in the center of town, as we traveled by auto rickshaw to a leafy suburb near a military base.  (Sidebar: Indian military bases are generally green, spacious, and located in appealing areas.  Stay nearby if possible).

Once again, Leigh had navigated the jungle of TripAdvisor recommendations to discover a sanctuary.  This hotel boasted a lush, fountain-blessed, inner courtyard, surrounded by pod-houses of wood and stucco.  Plush red swinging chairs dotted the grounds, and a candle-lit patio restaurant awaited us.  We washed the grime and stress of the day off in the clean and shallow swimming pool, where we met a jovial French couple washing away their day as well. 

Rising moon, candle-lit courtyard, attentive waiters bringing us Naan, biryani, and masala.  For this evening, we were transported briefly to the opulent luxuriance of the British raj under Queen Victoria.  We relished the moment. . .