Jodhpur: Nancy Reagan May Have Been On To Something

(Two posts today - trying to catch up)

The drive from Jaisalmer to Jodpur was unremarkable, mostly because it retraced much of the same ground we covered already.  Jaisalmer was as far west as we will go.  Now we start headed east back toward New Delhi. 

We checked into the Taj Hari Mahal, a replica of a Mughal palace.  It was a very luxurious hotel . . . about 30 years ago.  Unfortunately, nothing’s really been fixed or updated since then.  It’s a far step below the Taj Group’s other hotel in town, the Umaid Bhatwan Palace.  But at a $500 a night difference, we took the run-down replica.

After having lunch, our driver suggested that we go check out Sadar Bazaar, the famous outdoor market of Jodhpur.  Regrettably, we went.  This is where I will start my rant about the outdoor bazaars of India.  They are disgusting and there is no reason on earth to visit them.  It truly is an insult to all of the senses. 

There are no sidewalks, so you constantly have to watch out laterally to dodge cars, bicycles (one fell on me and cut my leg), autorickshaws, dogs, cows, people carrying buckets of water or cement on their heads, etc.  Then, you have to constantly look down because there’s cow shit everywhere (yes, this is a food market too – yum yum).  And this isn’t you’re ordinary Nebraska cow shit.  Nebraska cows eat grass and have fairly mild-grass-filled shit.  Here the cows eat garbage, so their shit is a runny green mess that covers the streets and is smeared about by the cars and people.  The smell of cow shit mixes with the constant smell of burning garbage and diesel exhaust to thoroughly overwhelm you nose so that you begin to taste the smell.  Then you constantly hear the honking of cars, motorcycles, and auto-rickshaws.  It’s not quite enough to just be one steady stream of honks, so it’s a constant thumping of HONK, HONK, HONK.  Not only that, but every person you pass either proposes that you follow them to their uncle’s shop, or asks you “Where from?”  Then you have the beggars, usually at waist height, poking you to get your attention.  And why you would want to buy anything here is beyond me.  They’re selling textiles and garments that have been sitting out in the dust, grime, and shit for days.  (Yes, I wrote this after being thoroughly disgruntled with the whole outdoor bazaar experience.  But I think it pretty well captures the frustration we felt whenever trying to venture outd

oors.)

We escaped the outdoor bazaar mostly unscathed (aside from the cut on my leg) and, after a good night sleep, went to the city’s main attraction, Meherangarh Fort.  Of all the places we have visited so far, this was the best.  This 13^th century fort has been beautifully restored.  It has opulently painted rooms where the Maharaja would make appearances.  Each Maharaja left his own stamp on the place, one with a high ceiling owing to his 7-foot and 350 pound body. One Maharaja’s bedroom contained a mix of European and Indian styles, complete with the original ceramic tiles that he ordered from Europe in the 1600s.  The skill with which they built this, and the care that went into restoring it, were amazing. 

The Fort had a resident astrologist, and a reading was only four bucks, so Brian L. decided to kill a little time and get a reading.  Expecting a smarmy tourist trap, we were instead greeted by a very serious, professorial looking man, probably in his sixties.  After asking Brian his date, time, and place of birth, the astrologer examined Brian’s palms and fingernails.  He then proceeded to describe in great detail Brian’s personality, health status, love life, work life, and f

uture.  His level of detail and accuracy became a little creepy at times.  He also nailed the exact ages at which Brian made significant career changes (going to law school and leaving the law for politics).  

Surprised by the accuracy of Brian’s reading, I decided that I’d give it a go.  My reading was not quite as accurate as Brian.  He stumbled around a little and got a few details very wrong.  But being the undying skeptic that I am, it still was much better than I had expected. 

The good news is that Brian and I will not have many health difficulties and we both will live into our eighties. 

Emerging from the astrologer’s small office, we returned to the audio tour of the fort.  Many of these forts have such audio tours, which are surprisingly good.  They have a number of benefits, but the biggest is that the supposed “government approved guides” generally leave you alone when they see you with the headphones.  The device itself is basically an MP3 pl

ayer that lets you choose which features you want to learn about.  We generally tried to stay on the suggested course of these things, but some were of more interest to us than others, and we usually ended up skipping some of the finer details on the textiles and the guns.

Until 1979, Nergengarh fort was locked-up, dilapidated and covered in bat droppings.  But the current Maharaja, Gaj Singh, started a foundation to save the fort, and it has since been beautifully restored. Gaj Siingh was born in the year of Independence (1947) and was only four years old when his father died in a plane crashand he assumed the (now only ceremonial) title of Maharaja.  In addition to the title, he also inherited wealth, and he lived a life of privilege.  He was educated in Oxford and now lives the life of old-money.  He has a financial stake in several businesses and he has started and funded many charitable organizations (such as the project to restore the fort) that are doing great work. 

Gaj Singh resides at Umaid Bhawan palace, which was the next stop on our tour.  This palace was built by Gaj’s grandfather in 1930 as a famine relief project.  It kept 3,000 peopl

e employed for 16 years, and the end result is a beautiful art-deco palace that has been impeccably maintained.  Gaj Singh resides in one-third, a small part is devoted to a museum, and the remainder is an opulent luxury hotel (that you have to pay $60 just to visit; we didn’t visit!).

The morning that we left Jodhpur, both Brian and I questioned the accuracy of the astrologer’s prediction that we would be healthy and live to age 80.  We both felt like we were going to die.  In Mexico, they call it Montezuma’s revenge.  Here, the call it Delhi Belly.  You get the idea.  We both groaned and held our stomachs as we started the bumpy drive eastward.

Jaisalmer: Honeymoon Near Pakistan

(Another week with no internet. We're now on our way home, but we're determined to get the city summaries up.)

Just over 40 miles from the India/Pakistan border, Jaisalmer is about as close as you can get to Pakistan without risking prisontime. India takes border protection very seriously here, especially after the Mumbai bombings. India's border control would make Rush Limbaugh proud. They have closed a perimeter of about 20 miles from the border and have installed flood lights to make sure nobody sneaks across. To enter this perimeter zone, you need to get a special permit from the Border Protection Department. It is impossible to drive toward the border, much less cross it. They have also closed all rail crossings.

Driving from Manvar to Jaisalmer, we encountered the full force of the Indian military. Over the course of about 100 kilometers, we passed a continuous military convoy headed in the opposite direction. Apparently India rotates its military personnel from the mountains to the desert twice a year. These were the luck guys who got to spend the winter in the desert and the summer in the mountains. Must suck to be the other guys. Anyway, the trucks carried everything from men (by the thousands) to huge tanks. Meanwhile, helicopters buzzed overhead, either on training missions or patrolling the borderlands. Really made us feel like we were in a war zone.

Aside from the military presence, the drive was beautiful. The desert reminded me of my childhood home in Palm Springs. The desert scrub, the dry desert air, and the cragged mountains rising from the desert all looked comfortably familiar. But in Palm Springs, it was slightly more rare to see camels and elephants walking down the street. And the cows all ended up at the Chart House steakhouse and didn’t have the luxury of roaming around town.

When we got into Jaisalmer, our driver showed us a couple hotels, but we passed on them. The rooms had no windows, the beds were rocks, and the showers were mounted directly above the toilet. But the third try was a charm. We ended up in the Nachana Haveli, a former royal palace that is run by the cousin to the current Maharaja. And as luck would have it, we ended up in the Honeymoon Suite.

The suite really was over the top. All of the walls were the original stone from the palace. It had stained-glass windows and the windows that are carved out of stone into a mesh, which are common in the palaces in Rajasthan. The parlor had a sitting area enshrouded in lace, and fit for a king or queen. The bedroom was the best. A red satin veil hung from the ceiling and flowed all around the bed. The bed was covered by a velvet-and-sequin bed spread. Above the bed hung six Moroccan lanterns, each a different color. Our huge bathroom had the only 24-hour hot water in the hotel (the rest only got hot water for a few hours in the morning.) All this for only $60 a night!

For some reason (that probably can only be explained by India’s strange relationship with electricity) our room had about 463 light switches. Each controlled only one tiny light, or the air conditioner, or the refrigerator, or the hot water heater. Many switches controlled nothing at all. Or perhaps we were turning on and off the lights in the restaurant or someone else’s room, who knows. And the switches were in no particular order. So turning the lights on or off involved a time consuming yet comical routine of trial and error.

The most awkward thing about our room (other than us being two guys checking into the Honeymoon Suite) was that it was right in the middle of the rooftop restaurant. When we walked out our door, we were about 3 feet from people dining. Being as self-conscious as I am, I was convinced that the paparazzi was waiting outside to see what celebrities would emerging from the Honeymoon Suite, only to be severely disappointed by two shabbily-dressed and unkempt men.

When we looked in the guide book, we learned that the best restaurant in Jaisalmer was the one right outside the door of our room. We had a great lunch overlooking the streets below (which were best seen from a safe distance) and then set off to the city’s main attraction, Jaisalmer Fort.

Built in 1156, Jaisalmer Fort is the only fort in India that still contains a living city. It is built out of sandstone, which makes it blend into the surrounding desert. Unfortunately, the sandstone is deteriorating and some say that a large sandstorm could be the end of Jaisalmer Fort. The destruction of the Fort is being hastened by the hotels and restaurants inside the Fort that compete to profit off tourism. Without a modern sewar system in the Fort, the restaurants and hotels pump the used water into the ground. This had caused the ground to rise, and inevitably will result in the Fort collapsing. This is the main reason we decided to not stay at a hotel located in the Fort.

The main gate of the Fort serves as an instant reminder to the brutality of medieval times. After each battle, a huge fire would be built in this area. The wives and children of each of the men who died in battle would jump (they say “jump,” but really??) into the fire. They apparently believed that it was worse to live with the shame than to die in the fire. India has come a long way since the days of sati, but it still has a long, long way to go.

We took a very nice tour of the five-story Palace of the Maharawal which is being impeccably restored by Jaisalmer in Jeopardy, a non-profit foundation dedicated to saving Jaisalmer Fort. The views over the city from the Palace were amazing and they are doing a great job of restoring this beautiful palace. .

After finishing the tour of the Palace, we wandered around the winding streets of the Fort. It was relatively less hectic than many of the other street markets we had navigated. While there were still cows, autorickshaws, motorcycles, cars, and bicycles, it was much more quiet than other areas.

At dinner (again on our rooftop restaurant), we were treated to traditional Rajasthani music and dance, performed by what looked like a family (ranging in age from a 10-year old kid to a very old man).. Another large school group-this time an Australian college group-was dining at the next table. They had all gone out an bought saris and were dressed to the nines. The dancer would bring the group up to join her in dance, so that added to the entertainment. The musicians were set up with their drums right next to our table, so the music was deafening, but it was enjoyable nonetheless.

The next day we visited Bada Bagh, a cluster of once-grand marble memorials built to honor the former rulers of Jaisalmer. Sadly, the government has let the memorials crumble and they now stand in a barren field of dirt and surrounded by huge wind turbines and cell-phone towers. Like everywhere in India, the ground was covered in trash. It may sound cynical and jaded, but nothing is sacred here. It is really depressing to see that people who live among all of these beautiful and historic monuments have such little regard for simple aesthetics like picking up garbage. If you ask someone to point you to a garbage can to throw something away, they point to the ground. Here, everywhere is a garbage can. Like so many of India’s problems, this is a result of dire poverty. It’s hard to worry about the luxury of aesthetics when you can’t even satisfy the basic necessities of life.

After two nights in Jaisalmer, we left our Honeymoon Suite and made our way away from the Pakistan border.

Holi!!

Tomorrow morning is Holi - the festival of COLOR!! From what I've heard (and seen in the movie Outsourced), this festival is pretty crazy. All the street vendors have been selling powdered color since we got here. Armed with this powder, people try to covered every square inch of the city (including all the people) with color.



We can't wait!!

The Brians Do Bollywood

(This is a real-time post. We're still catching up on our city summaries.)

Tonight was movie night. We strolled over to our local movie house and plopped down the two bucks to see one of the latest Bollywood hits, Dhoondte Reh Jaoge. First a few comments about the moviegoing experience, then about the movie.

The theater was nearly empty, there were only about 20 people in total, yet not a single woman. And almost everyone was seated right next to us. They assign seat numbers and there are four guards standing by to make sure that everyone stays in their assigned seats. You’d think that they might think to spread out the people a little, but apparently the computer spits out the seats in order, so we sat in a cluster of people with the rest of the theater entirely empty.

I didn’t expect that having loud and long conversations on your cell phone during the movie is entirely appropriate in India. In fact, I think we were the only ones who didn’t have a few conversations during the movie. This wasn’t all that surprising since the use of cell phone is ubiquitous here. You’ll often see someone weaving between chaotic traffic on a motorcycle while casually talking on his cell phone. So checking in with your peeps while watching a movie obviously is just natural. Movietime also is apparently the time to remove one’s shoes and let your stanky feet air out. Remember that we’re all clustered together . . . you get the point.

Now a little about the movie. Bollywood movies are about the music. In fact, unlike in the US, Bollywood releases the soundtrack long before the film is released. This is part of the marketing. People get to know the music and then, when the film is released, they want to go see the it, sort of as an extended music video. So we did the same. We went to a music store, bought the CD, and learned the music before going to the movie.

The music was good (not great), and the movie itself was very funny. Although it was in Hindi, we were able to follow the plot pretty closely. Because it was the same exact plot as The Producers. Instead of a Broadway show, they are the producers of a Bollywood film, but otherwise the story was exactly the same. Since we understood what was going on with the plot, we were able to appreciate some of the no-so-subtleties. For example, when the producers were on the phone lining up Japanese investors, the dialogue consisted of “King Kong, Ding Dong, King Kong, Ding Dong, King Kong.” Oh, culturally demeaning humor, I love you!

The best part of the movie (for me anyway) was its portrayal of Pakistan’s former President, Pervez Musharraf. To make sure the film they were making was a flop, the producers enlisted Musharraf as its director and one of its stars. In the movie that was designed to flop, Musharraf was supposed to lead Pakistan’s cricket team in a victory over India’s team. When the producers went to Pakistan to get Musharraf on board, he was living with his discheveled mother in a slum. And he was portrayed as being a diminutive and crazy man who was holding a hand grenade and obviously ranting incomprehensibly. Definitely a sign of how India wants to view Pakistan.

You really can’t experience modern Indian culture without seeing a Bollywood film. The movie was entertaining and I’m glad we went.

Manvar: The Sweet Smell of Soap in the Desert

A few hours drive from Ranakpur, we made our way to Manvar, a small resort and tent-camp built in the middle of the Thar desert. After checking in, we were told that our Jeep would leave for the camp in about four hours, at 4:30 pm, and we should enjoy lunch and then relax by the pool.

As we made our way into the small dining room, we instantly were accosted by the raucous noise. The shouting emanating from the room sounded like a thousand people. Or a few Americans. Teenaged Americans. And then it hit us . . . dear god, we’ve become part of an American high school’s senior trip. As this reality sunk in, we finished lunch and made our way to the pool. By this time, the teenagers had thoroughly infested the pool and the boys were playing a game of “throw the water bottle across the pool” and the girls looked on shyly, occasionally (and very awkwardly) making conversation with the boys.

We sat by the pool watching the mayhem ensue and the staff look on in as much disgust as us. Ever the optimist, I told Brian “they’re not coming with us.” You see, this hotel has two parts: a resort with standard hotel rooms (where we were) and tents located about 7 kilometers away. We were going to be staying in the tents. The teenagers, I had convinced myself, must be staying here at the resort. We only have to suffer them for another three hours and then we’ll be in the tranquil desert. Seven kilometers would be just barely enough to muffle their shouts.

But then I heard it. The words that sent shivers to my spine. The teenager’s tour guide said “We’ll be leaving at 4:30 to go to the camp.” Oh. Hell. No.

When 4:30 arrived, we set off for the Jeeps that would take us to the tent camp. As I was making my way away from the now quiet pool, I passed another couple who looked as bewildered as us. Upon making eye contact, it was clear that they shared in my knowledge of our impending fate.

Fortunately, the other adults could not have been more fabulous. Patti and Maurice Flynn are organic soap makers who live on a five-acre farm near Cairns, Australia. They quit their daily-grind jobs to pursue their dream of living sustainable and running an organic soap company. Needless to say, we became fast friends. Not because we were the only adults in the place, but because they are really great people. They’re doing what they love and they maintain a travel schedule that would make any wanderlust (like me) extremely jealous. We shared stories of where we’d been so far and where we’re headed after Manvar.

The Jeep trip through the desert was exhilarating. We seemed to defy gravity when we drove down sand dunes that looked like vertical black-diamond ski slopes. I was convinced that the Jeep would roll down the hill, but we hung on for dear life and survived. We stopped by a small village and watched a man and woman milling metalwork using only their hands and a small fire. Actually, the woman did most of the hard work (fanning the flames to get it really hot and then pounding the hot metal). Meanwhile, the man sat there and smoked opium and every once in a while would turn the metal in the flame.

One of the villages was a group of four mud buildings built around a mangosteen tree. The tree gives the family much of what they needed to survive. It provides shade from the sun, it naturally deterres insects, and the leaves can be ground up and used to sooth skin irritations and serve as a natural antibiotic for cuts. It also provides edible fruit to feed the family. The family is Bishnoi, a very small religious sect found mostly in this part of Rajastan. The Bishnoi, like the Jains (which I wrote about earlier) believe that all living things are sacred and should be protected. Their beliefs go back to a severe drought that occurred in 1489. Convinced that the drought was caused by deforestation, the guru Jambeshwar Bhagavan created 29 rules for living well, most of which are about protecting the environment and living things. This was the beginning of the Bishnoi (which means "29" in the Marwari language) sect. The Bishnoi people are probably the world’s first environmentalists.

We finished visiting the villages and made it to our tents just before sunset. The staff showed us to our tent and told us that our camels were ready. The tent was beautifully decorated and the ceiling and walls were painted in traditional Rajastani colors and patterns.

We set off on an hour-long camel ride into the desert where we stopped to watch the sun set over the beautiful sand dunes as a local musician played traditional music for us. After getting back to camp, we headed over to the main camp for dinner. Turns out the teenagers were staying in a block of tents that were a welcome distance away from ours. We were seated on very comfortable beds that had been placed outside in rings around a main stage and campfire. They passed delicious appetizers and drinks while we enjoyed the traditional Rajastani dance and music show. After the show was over, we joined Patti and Maurice and finished our meal in the main tent.

Sleep that night was met with the soothing sound of the desert. We heard various nocturnal animals making the noises that let you know that something was going to be fed and something was going to be food. The circle of life in stereo. We had a restful night of sleep (sans the fireworks or other explosions from our previous night) and woke to the sounds of birds chirping and the beautiful sunrise. They even brought tea to us in our tent, and we sat on our front porch drinking our tea while the goats fed on the flowers that had fallen onto our porch.

Brian L. ventured out into the desert to make friends with the kids who live in the villages nearby. He was writing his name in the sand when one of the kids apparently wanted to put the milk from a flower on his forehead. He missed, and the milk went into Brian’s eye. This later resulted in a minor crisis when Brian’s eye swelled up and started throbbing in excruciating pain the next night and we contemplated a trip to the hospital at 1 in the morning. But fortunately all is well and Brian’s eye has completely healed.

While we were eating breakfast, Patti and Maurice told us that the staff had asked them about the nature of Brian & I’s relationship. Homosexuality, of course, is taboo (criminal, even) in India. The staff had asked our new friends “Are they brothers? Or are they . . . .” They responded coyly and amusingly with “They are Americans.” And that seemed to satisfy the inquiry.

We bid Patti and Maurice farewell and headed to our next stop, Jaisalmer. They graciously left us with two bars of soap from the private stash they brought with them. And I must admit, I am in love. I keep the two bars in my suitcase so that their great scent rubs off on my clothes. And when I get especially down with the smell of cow dung, car exhaust, and burning rubbish, I smell the soap and it takes me to a better place. I’m saving the soap for my first shower back home!

Happy Women's Day!

(Being without reliable internet access in the last few cities, we’re still catching up with our diaries of each city. Jumping out of order, this is a real-time post.)

Today is Women’s Day in India. It is the day to celebrate the contributions women make to Indian society. The front pages of all the morning papers we read over breakfast this morning were devoted entirely to women’s issues. It's great to see this discussed, but some of the information was shocking to western senses.

Theoretically, India is very protective of women. Its Constitution guarantees women equality, no discrimination by the State, equal opportunity, and equal pay. There are also special provisions renouncing practices derogatory to the dignity of women. India also has had one female Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi (no relation to Mahatma Gandhi) - which is more than we can say for the United States. Its current President, although a ceremonial position without much real power, is a woman, Pratiibha Devisingh Patil. The President of the Indian National Congress, the chief member of the ruling coalition, is Sonia Gandhi, who was born in Italy and educated in England.

But underlying societal norms have painted a much different reality for most women. A survey of single and married women (half working and half not working) published in today’s paper found that:

* 53 percent believe that the woman’s parents or husband should be the ones to decide what a woman can or can’t do for evening entertainment. Three percent thought this should be the job of the “moral police” and only 42 percent thought that the woman herself should choose.

* 54 percent believe that the woman’s parents or husband should decide how she spends her own money. Only 46 percent believe the woman herself should decide.

As shocking as these numbers are, they include responses from women only. It is likely that the overall sentiment of the population--with men’s views included--would be much more skewed toward taking power away from women. This is not surprising in a country where societal norms cause about 45 percent of all women to be married by the age of 18.

Selective abortions and female infanticide are also big problems. The ratio of women to men is steadily declining, more so in lower caste groups and in rural areas. In some areas, the number of women to men has fallen below 8:10. This is a sad state of affairs indicative of a society that does not value women.

About 26 percent of Indian women work outside the home. One of the newspapers (the dna) devoted its entire front page to the issues of working women. After reading the first few paragraphs, it became apparent that this was propaganda to try to convince women not to work. For example, they claim that:

Long hours and strict deadline cause 75% of working women to suffer from depression or general anxiety disorder.

68% of working women surveyed in the age bracket of 21-2 years were found to be suffering from lifestyle ailments such as obesity, depression, chronic backache, diabetes, and hypertension.

77% of women surveyed avoided regular check-ups.

While it’s great to see these issues discussed in the open, they don’t tell you how many men suffer similar problems. Long hours, strenuous work, and low pay likely cause both men and women to suffer from physical and psychological ailments. It seems that the underlying problems (such as extreme poverty, the lack of labor protections, and the lack of unions) is ignored and they are instead portraying women as lacking the ability to cope in a male-dominated working world.

The extreme poverty here is seen in the wages women laborers earn. In rural areas, women earn an average of Rs. 29 (about 60 cents) per day. It’s only slightly higher (Rs. 37.7 – about 75 cents per day) in the urban areas.

Another social issue that directly affects women is how Indian culture treats gay men. Indian law criminalizes homosexuality. Rather than overt homophobia, many Indians simply pretend that homosexuality does not exist. For example, when Brian and I check into a hotel and I ask for a king-sized bed, I am asked several times (and with strange looks) to confirm that we do, indeed, want only one bed. So far, our request has been honored without any harassment, but it is clearly seen as being unusual. At one hotel, the staff asked our neighbors (a straight couple who we had befriend) about the nature of our relationship. He asked “are they brothers, or are they . . . .” They responded “They’re Americans.”

While this was amsuing for us (because we get to go home to our bubble in San Francisco), it is a symptom of a much more pernicious problem. A survey in today’s paper shows that this taboo causes 70 percent of gay men to marry a woman by the age of 30. Outside of major metropolitan areas, this number rises to 82 percent. Unfortunately, the man does not tell the innocent woman he married about the ruse. Tragically, many men participate in unprotected sex with men and bring STD’s back to his wife. Sooner or later, many women realize that their husband is gay. A large number of these marriage breakdown in a bitter divorce, often leaving children in the middle and leaving the woman single and shamed, often destined to live in even more extreme poverty. Under Indian law, homosexuality is not a legitimate ground for a divorce. But impotence is, so many a gay man is designated by the courts as “impotent.”

I'll end on an amusing note. One of the newspaper's above-the-fold headline was a list of tips for men about celebrating Women's Day. I think all of us men can learn something, so I'll post all the tips:

Here's how you can make Women's Day memorable for the woman in your life:

* Cook and serve her breakfast in bed

* Talk less and listen more

* Gift her a session at the spa

* Fold you shirts yourself and put them in the cupboard, neatly

* Keep towels where they're meant to be

* Take her on a shopping trip with no specified end-time

* If you're too lazy to do the above, at least wish her a Happy Women's Day

Happy Women's Day!!

Pakistan Attacks!

(After being without internet access for a while, we're still catching up on our posts.)

We set off on our two-week road trip through northwestern India today and quickly learned that Indian drivers don’t use their vision. In fact, many drivers pull in their side mirrors and use their rearview mirror to check their hair.

In India, people drive by ear. As in horns. As in constant, incessant, mind-numbing horn blowing. If you’re going to pass someone, you blow you horn twice. If you see another car on the road coming in your direction, you honk. If you see on the road a dog, a cow, a goat, an elephant, a camel, an ostrich, a razor-sharp lizard, you honk at least 18 times, just to be sure. (We saw several of each of those things on our short two-hour drive.) I think there’s a rule that if at least 5 seconds has passed without any honking, you must honk.

After driving for two hours through the beautiful Aravalli mountains, we arrived at Kumbalgarh. This massive hilltop fort was built in the 15th century. It withstood countless sieges and only fell once – and that was because the enemy, Akbar, poisoned the water supply. The fort was impressive and had commanding views of the entire valley.

After lunch, we drove for about an hour to Ranakpur, the site of one of the most important Jain temples in the world. The temple is the most impressive religious monument I have ever seen. Built in 1439, the carved domed ceilings are held up by 1,440 individually-carved stone pillars. The skill and craftsmanship of the stone artists is amazing.

Jainism is an admirable religion. Similar to Hinduism, Jains believe in the karmic wheel of life. The only way to purify the soul, they believe, is to live a good life. And a “good life” means to do no harm to any living substance – humans, animals, plants, water, fire, earth, and air. They believe strictly in non-violence. In fact, the more orthodox Jains wear cloth over their mouth and nose to make sure that they don’t accidentally breathe in and harm any insects.

I tested the non-violence of Jains when I unknowingly pointed my camera at a part of the temple that was so sacred that photography was not allowed. I think the guy was about to convert to Cheneyism to put me in my place, but I got the message from the horrified look on his face. You’d think I was munching kitten jerkey.

After visiting the Jain temple, we made our way to our hotel, the Fateh Bagh. Owned by the Maharaja of Mewar state, this 200-year old palace was disassembled piece-by-piece, moved about 50 kilometers and rebuilt here in 2002. Unfortunately, they forgot to move hotel guests to fill the rooms. If there is any testament to the falsity of the saying “If you build it, they will come,” this is it. We were one of three couples staying at this massive and grand hotel. And it was so secluded that there was nothing – absolutely NOTHING to do. So we sat there watching the groundskeeper water a 10’ x 10’ strip of grass. For FOUR HOURS. This made the “Conserve Water” signs all around the hotel a more than a little ironic, and it was a hard to watch given that we are in a desert that is suffering from a severe water shortage.

We commiserated in our boredom with another couple. Originally from Mumbai (the woman) and the Botswana (the man), they now live in Brisbane, Australia. Somehow, their tour organizer had scheduled them for three nights here. Three nights! It was no surprise that they were DESPERATE for conversation. My friendly but aloof “hello” was the only trigger they needed to grab me into a never-ending conversation. At times, I felt like I was talking to Frank Chu (San Francisco’s “12 Galaxies Guy”), such as when the guy started telling me how he's trying to contact Australia's Prime Minister to sell him on an elaborate plan to save Australia from the financial meltdown. But in the end, I understood that he was as desperate as we were to pass the time. And the lawn-watering show was becoming a bit old, so what better did I have to do?

The sunset was amazing as we watched the light fade over the desolate desert around us. We then had an uncomfortable dinner where we were the only guests in a huge dining hall with several servers standing around. No music or any other sounds, not even crickets chirping.

The upside to all this was that when we went to sleep, we were met by utter silence. A welcome change from the horn-honking and urban chaos we’ve had so far.

But that all changed. At 12:20 a.m., to be precise. Because that’s when Pakistan dropped the nuclear bomb on our hotel. Well, that was what happened in my mind as I sprang out of bed to the sound of huge explosions. We scurried to the window where we saw a full-fledged fireworks display more elaborate than some Fourth of July shows. They were shooting off the fireworks toward our hotel so they went off right in front of our window.

You’d think that someone might have mentioned to us that our sleepy little palace would be at the center of a massive fireworks show in the middle of the night. But we shrugged this off and groggily went back to sleep, safe in knowing that Pakistan had not attacked. Yet.