On the Road in Rajasthan

I’ve given up coffee; can’t drink the tasteless dark vapid liquid—Nescafe—they call coffee in the north of India. Instead, I drink masala chai, good black tea brewed with water, milk, ginger, cardamom, pepper, and sugar, presumably boiled three times. Impossible to omit the sugar so I take it the way they give it to me.

Coffee withdrawal took a few days; French croissant withdrawal still goes on, but I confess I’m now addicted to masala chai and the white wonder toast with butter and sweet red stuff that comes with it each morning for breakfast.

Farooq, my excellent driver who looks like Yasser Arafat but is much sweeter, looks after me and takes me everywhere. By journey’s end we will have covered 3000 kilometers, crossing plains, valleys, deserts, visiting most major sites in Rajasthan. He has a four cylinder Maruti Suzuki car with air conditioning and a good supply of Indian Bollywood movie music, without either of which I can’t imagine this long, hot, dusty road trip.

The roads are excellent, newly built. Along the way we stop at small villages and roadside dhabas for steaming cups of chai tea and simple meals of spicy vegetables, baked parathas and fresh curds. Farooq, who comes from Kashmir and has never left India, asks me if Madonna has had plastic surgery.

We began our journey in Delhi, driving five hours to Jaipur, a pink stone city at the foot of the Aravalli Mountains. The massive Amber palace is my first taste of the fabulous architecture and extraordinary opulence of Rajput and Mughal princes, the forts, palaces and haveli, houses of nobles, that adorn Rajasthan, and there is more to come.

The artistry of the carving, details of tiles, ornate gold and silver, painting, stained glass, woods beats the great palaces of Europe. Stone, marble, ivory and wood are carved into delicate lace patterns for walls, balconies, and doors that allow light and air to enter but shield the perfumed women who hide behind them.

“It can’t get any better,” I say, but Farooq, who spends his idle time fiddling with his cell phone, says it will.
We push on to Bikaner, a small bustling town with another mind-boggling, intricately carved, spectacular palace-fort built in the desert. The architecture is fabulous, fairy tale fantasy. By contrast, the desert is bare; a straight road cuts through it; traffic is sparse but impressive and fascinating: big trucks decorated with colorful paintings and tassels, jeeps crammed with people and wares, overloaded busses with passengers sitting on the roof, army convoys going to tent camps in the desert, flocks of sheep and goats kept in tow by turbaned shepherds, camels pulling wagons, groups of colorfully dressed, bejeweled women walking along the roadside with bundles of twigs on their heads, and, of course, cows who go where ever they want.

The beauty of the Fort that dominates the old town of Jaisalmer takes my breath away. The walls of the old houses in the bazaar are built of the same filigree stonework with balconies overlooking narrow cobbled alleys. This town is a busy bazaar from end to end. Walking through it, like every other market in India is a challenge: shopkeepers implore you to enter and look at their wares. “Looking is free,” they say, offering spicy cups of tea while displaying their goods and haggling over prices. I’m certain the merchants I bought from got the better of me.

We drive through the Thar desert in Northwest Rajasthan to Jodpur, where the massive fortress of Mehrangarh, carved from a hilltop like Mount Rushmore, makes a startling appearance. The interior is straight out of Arabian nights. In the ladies chambers I admire beautiful artifacts of daily life including ivory combs and a pair of free weights shaped like baseball bats with handles, carved of wood, inlaid with silver and ivory. Not only did the ladies wear beautiful clothing and jewelry but they worked out!

Miniature paintings depicting palace life show the raja on a throne in the midst of his magnificent possessions, smoking opium from his hookah, gazing dreamy-eyed at the many beautiful women who dance, and, no doubt, do everything else for his pleasure.

Before I leave the palace I visit a palm-reader who tells me I will sell my book but my publisher will not be generous. Outside in the bustling marketplace I eat the best lassi I ever tasted; sweet and unctuous, flavored with lemon, saffron and cardamom, topped with a dollop of stiff whipped cream. I want to open a branch in West Hollywood. I stop into the most famous spice shop in Rajasthan and buy a packet of spice for masala chai—my new addiction which I’ll continue when I return home.

Still ahead are visits to Ranakpur, Udaipur, and Pushkar before returning to Delhi. This has been a trip of a lifetime. I’m exhausted from the many hours of dust and heat on the road, encouraged by Farooq, revived by hot showers and simple good food, invigorated by people I meet, re-energized by astonishing sights, and exhilarated by the magnificent palaces of Rajasthan.

letter from kashmir

At LAX they took away my small water bottle but let me carry on my manicure kit with a nail scissor. I knew it would be OK because I checked on the TSA website. In Paris, however, en route to India, they took away the scissors. To my protests the agent replied, "Each country has different requirements." I recognized the sneaky smile as she admired my fine scissors; I knew it would be in her purse as soon as I turned my back. I thought of speaking to a supervisor but the prospect of messing with French security agents seemed worse than losing my precious scissors. In India, flying to Kashmir on a local airline, I carried on two liters of water & the remainders of my manicure kit, and no one cared.

India is different.

Let me save you a lot of time and money. Turn your car motor on, stick something on the horn so it honks very loud, non-stop; wrap your lips around the exhaust pipe, breath in deep, close your eyes―you're in Delhi.

Like all big Indian cities it's pure torture. You haven't seen traffic until you've been assaulted by this incessant surge of horn-blowing trucks, buses, motorcycle rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws, human rickshaws, motor cycles, bicycles, cows, dogs, runaway goats, pushcarts, wheelbarrows, beggars with every form of infirmity… did I leave anything out? The odor of garbage and excrement; a swarm of humanity.

Next day I took the first plane out to Srinagar in Kashmir, the northernmost part of India, disputed territory between India and Pakistan, 90% Muslim. Kashmir is bordered by India, Tibet, China, Afghanistan and Pakistan, which probably explains all the soldiers carrying AK-47's and Kalashnikovs. Iwas the only non-Indian in the arrival area, and even though it was a domestic flight they required me to fill out forms with all my information.

Abdul was waiting for me outside the gate. We
drove past heavily guarded, barbed-wired
checkpoints to the lakeshore, also heavily guarded, where a shikara, a small wooden gondola, waited to paddle us to the houseboat, "The New Alzira," a floating mansion on Dal Lake, 2000 meters high in the Himalaya Mountains that will be my home for a week in Kashmir.

Serene beauty; Moghul Emperors called this place Paradise on Earth. Reports of violence keep most foreign tourists away but, "it's all media hype," according to Shafi, my travel agent in Delhi, cousin of Abdul, son of houseboat owner, brother of houseboat manager, who guarantees my safety. Shafi's family is taking care of me; they don't let me out of their sight.

Pure clean air, peace, quiet; daytime is warm and sunny; tee-shirt weather, but cold at night. I feel like the Queen of Sheba in my carved wooden filigree, huge four-poster bed with piles of blankets and quilts plus two hot water bottles tucked under the covers, in a stateroom whose walls and vaulted ceilings are hand-carved cedar wood, with crystal chandeliers, stained glass windows covered with embroidery and lace, thick Kashmiri carpets on the floor... plenty of hot water too.

They've loaned me a Kashmir wool full-length cloak, warm as feathers, which I put on when the sun goes down. Lassa, the houseman, sees to my every need: serves my breakfast on the sunny terrace overlooking the lake and mountains, lunch and dinner in the luxurious dining room, and pots of fragrant green Himalayan tea twice a day.

The water is shallow on the houseboat side of the lake, filled with greenery below the surface, lily pads, lotus flowers, water plants I can't identify. It's gorgeous. The lakeside is undeveloped, no tourist hotels or noisy motor boats. Canopied gondolas glide by carrying people from houseboats to the shore, merchants selling flowers, saffron, fruit, anything you want.

Lassa paddles me and Abdul to shore. We visit Moghul Gardens and the crowded bazaar in the old town of Srinagar. Abdul enters the Mosque to pray. I take pictures outside in the garden; nobody minds. Armed soldiers everywhere. Sometimes our car is stopped and searched. Abdul says it's to keep the soldiers busy who have nothing else to do.

We stop at brother-in-law Gulzar's shop, Cottage Emporium, to look at carpets and shawls. Since I already announced I have no intention to buy I've asked to see their finest examples. Gulzar shows me a small dark blue silk Ardible carpet that shimmers like jewels; it took ten years to weave; the price $30,000. He says the weaver's family will get all but 10% of the money. Gulzar's business maintains 250 families that have been weaving carpets generation after generation.

Uninterested in ubiquitous Pashmina, I asked to see the infamous Shotoosh shawls, made from super-fine chin-hairs of mountain goats that are sacrificed for the purpose. Gulzar spreads a carpet on the floor and opens a small case filled with shawls. "These were made before they were declared illegal," he explains, displaying them one by one. We both pretend I believe this story as I finger unbelievable softness and admire exquisite embroidery. About $2000 for a shawl―so hard to resist but I manage.

(Hey! The chicken I ate for dinner was killed for my pleasure too.)

They're celebrating Ramadan now, fasting, praying, going twice daily to the Mosque which emits a broadcast with loudspeakers calling the faithful to prayer, reminding them five times a day that Allah is great. The prayers resound over the lake and echo through the Himalayas. Tomorrow is Eid, marking the end of Ramadan; I'm invited to attend the family feast, which I shall not miss.

farewell meynes

The weather has changed; last week the temperature dropped like a ton of bricks; the wind, that infernal Mistral, returned with a vengeance. It penetrates the walls of the house, comes up through the floors and blows through rickety windows and doors. I live in a charming, furnished refrigerator; no heat, no insulation; the stones are blocks of ice; my nose is cold, my fingertips blue.

I hung a blanket over the front door but the wind blows through the gaps. Then came the rain—cold and piercing. Last Wednesday I got into my car and drove for three hours around the grim countryside just for the comfort of the car's excellent heater. I had planned a farewell party for my French friends but had to cancel because a refrigerator is no place to entertain good people.

Where is my sun-drenched countryside? The dandelions in the garden, so full of golden optimism, turn to grey fluff and disappear. Overnight summer has changed to fall; like my aging body and face, the transformation, once started, is merciless. It beats its path of destruction without a second thought to past glory or the beauty that once was. Destruction is the rule. Creation and destruction. Vishnu Shiva. I'm thinking about India.

If bad weather isn't reason enough to leave this place, since the time of my arrival the cost of a Euro, already painfully expensive, has climbed from $1.34 to $1.42. Prices are shocking and what's worse, my waistline expands like bread in the oven; I struggle to zip up my jeans.

Here's the last straw: the church bells have gone mad. They don't chime every hour anymore but at seven in the morning and seven at night when they chime three sets of three. Nine chimes to tell us it's seven o'clock! What can this mean? And why haven't they fixed it?

I leave Meynes on October 8th., train to Paris, and fly to Bombay. I'm about ready to leave although there are many things I will miss: among them food, the great inimitable bread, pastry, cheese, and French talk radio to which I've become addicted, especially the " France Culture" stations where intelligent people converse all day long about politics, social issues, cinema, books, psychology, art, religion, all sorts of serious stuff.

And people: my handsome swain who has done his best to make my stay exciting and entertaining, and lovely Gudu, who reminds me of Simone Signoret and became my friend within minutes of our meeting. When we sit in her kitchen and talk I feel as though we've been friends for years. An ex-hippie, staunch 60's feminist, tender mother, fine artist, she teaches pottery and is a social activist who works on behalf of the immigrants whom she believes are treated unfairly in this country. She and her husband, a botanist, have invited me to a fine restaurant on Friday to celebrate our friendship.

Nicole and Lucien, retired hotel owners whose daughter lives in L.A., loaned me the radio which is a great luxury in my simple house. They took me into their hearts and gave me needed advice to help my life; we'll celebrate my departure with champagne and oysters on Saturday.

Marie and Stephan, with their sons Mathieu and Theo, are my surrogate family. I drop by their home every Wednesday after the farmer's market in Uzes and on Saturdays too. I call Steph whenever I need help, advice, information, train tickets off the internet… He loaned me his free-weights, helps me solve problems—practical and other. Marie is a dear friend; she listens to my tales, gives me fresh eggs from their hens, gives great dinner parties, and inspires me with her culinary skills. (See recipe below.) They are intelligent, lively, and still madly in love with each other, which is such a pleasure to see.

Pierre lets me use his internet and has loaned me a warm sweater; Kim and his wife Marie Claude have wined and dined me in their majestic home in Arpaillarges; and there are others too who have added to the fun and fascination of my fabulous (fattening) visit to France.
How lucky I am. I haven't forgotten the gratitude that filled me when I arrived in Meynes seven weeks ago, that thrives in me now, and will surely flood my heart when I leave.

But wait! What's this? The sun has come out, the sky is blue, the air is warm, a butterfly flutters through the garden; the luminous countryside of Provence beckons once more. I will visit Arles today to take pleasure in the light that inspired Vincent to paint his masterpieces. It's not over yet, but soon, too soon, t'will be farewell Meynes, au revoir la France.

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RECIPE

Marie blew my mind with this dish which she served with roast pork tenderloin stuffed with sage leaves. I dare you to try it. (I've translated the words but you must do a bit of research to get the weights & measures right – American style.)
Purée de Pommes de Terre à la Vanille (Mashed potatoes with Vanilla)

For 4 persons
1 kilo of potatoes (bintje or other variety for a purée)
1 stick of vanilla
20 centiliters of cream
100 grams of butter
Salt & pepper

-Brush & wash potatoes, boil in salted water 25 – 30 minutes until done.
-Drain, peel, pass through a strainer (or puree with a blender)
-Split the vanilla bean, scrape out the seeds & add to the puree.
-Heat the cream with the vanilla bean. Don't boil.

Remove from heat & let rest for a few minutes. Remove the bean.
-Beat the potato puree with a spatula adding the butter in small pieces

& the vanilla cream.
-Add salt & pepper & serve immediately.