the king of Udaipur
The following is slightly out of order, occurring before the previous post, obviously, and of course, is entirely fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincedental.
Stumbling off the 19 hr train ride from my beloved mumbai/revolting ahmedabad bleary-eyed after 5-ish hours sleep in second-class (then the last couple of hrs sitting in the doorway of the traincar watching the rajasthani mountains go by in the misty dawn, my jandals dangling in the slipstream above nameless viaducts, smoking my hong-kong duty-free dunhills and drinking endless cups of chai proffered by kids at the trackside whenever we slowed to go through a country station) comma, I am met by an equally bleary (”too much of the beer, and of the whisky last night, sir”) rickshaw driver (a rickshaw being the chief method of transport in india; an ancient Bajaj, or Vespa scooter, with a wide, roofed backseat). UNLIKE every other fkn tout in India, i take one look at Manu with his beedie hangin out of his mouth, badly in need of a shave, and Immediately trust his judgement, and as we get into his vehicle for our madcap, cow-dodging careen through Udaipur’s narrow alleys, he thrusts a book at me, filled with backpacker’s (hisssss) glowing recommendations of his proud self. On finding out I’m from New Zealand, he snatches the book, and hands me a dog-eared copy of our glorious NZ Listener, and points me at some travel writer’s glowing recommendations of his proud self. OK OK OK. I get it, i’m in ‘the most romantic city in India’. We screech to a halt somewhere and sit down on a step for 7am chai and beedis and more chai on Manu’s tab. “relax, relax, you’re in udaipur”, he keeps telling me, and believe me, I am relaxed, after 3 days of Mumbai’s overcrowded glorious hectic insanity.
My hotel, the panorama (octopussy screening every day 7pm!) is utterly brilliant, my third-floor corner rooms overlooking the lake, city palace and ghats, looooong warm shower, and enormous bed which I lie on feeling exhausted under the fan for all of about 5 minutes before taking off to get a load of this place. Breakfast at ‘edelwiess german bakery’ (ha!) where I have my first espresso in India (shit), then spend an hour talking to the indian baristaabout his machine and coffee in general, him very keen to learn how to improve his, well, shit coffee. A ramshackle brass band inexplicably marches by followed by a hundred women in really fancy saris balancing things on their heads. It’s just like octopussy. After shitty tourist shops I wander down to the last ghat on the lowtown lake edge (visible in photo above), and meet this guy Zep who introduces me to his friends; silent no-english guy, and some street dude who proudly tells me he hasn’t taken a shower in 5 years, and looks like it (smells like it too, but everything smells here). We sit in the shade sweating and smoking charras and Zep and I talk for hours, punctuated by him leaving me to talk w/ silent guy while he takes off to get some opium. Zep is from udaipur, but has been living in germany, for a while, so has a german/hindi accent and says ja instead of ha. Monkeys fang around in the trees above us and untouchables dig around for shellfish with their feet in basically what amounts to raw sewage below us (the lake level is very low, owing to a drought) Suddenly! it’s 5, and I have to get back to my hotel to meet ‘the greatest rickshaw driver in all of India’ for our trip up to the mountain palace high above to watch the sun set over the whole of Rajasthan in 360 degree cinemascopic octopussyvision. Yah yah beautiful etc, then I hustle across the (semi) dry part of the lake bed beneath the bridge, trying not to think about what I’m stepping in, on my way to meet Zep again. I’m very late, but silent guy has been posted there to take me on a vespa ride through narrow alleys to a street full of shiva temples and drug dealers. Zep’s there, and he hands me a squishy brown pellet, saying “chew this, its the cocaine cocaines” I watch him eat his, before following suit. We sit on a doorstep and watch the street go by, and the guy who does’t wash appears. He and I perform an impromptu duet, me beatboxing, and him singing and dancing a weird marathi version of jingle bells. I notice that everyone on the street comes up to Zep and greets him or complains at him, in hindi, of course, while he argues with his girlfriend in german on his mobile and continues his philosophical conversation with me in english, all at once. Money is changing hands constantly, I notice. I am genuinely beginning to like this guy. Did I mention octopussy?
Zep tells me to give this kid some money, who disappears on a vespa, to return with a bottle of whiskey, paneer masala, limea lemon drink and bottled water, whereupon a few of us cross the road to a tall building, enter, and begin climbing stairs to the roof. We’re passing through offices, with computers, and when we stop in one for opium, I ask Zep what the deal is, does he live here? He laughs “No, this is a government building, this is our place. We’re safe here”, before indicating silent guy and himself and proudly telling me “Mafia, we are mafia”.
We sit on the roof of the building with the best view in udaipur, the whole city twinkling below us ocasionally lit up by fireworks celebrating the indian premier league finals at that moment being contested between Rajasthan and Chennai (Rajasthan’s captain? Shane Warne). We drink whiskey and laugh and talk late into the night. At some point silent guy stretches out against the parapet, indicates udaipur, and says “Mine. This is mine. I am King”.
“you’re the fuckin maharajah”, I say, and seriously he turns and says “No no no no no. I am not Maharajah. I am Don”.
*(p.s. Large sections of the James Bond film Octopussy were filmed in udaipur, and the whole city seems obsessed with this claim to fame. many of the guest houses and restaurants screen it EVERY NIGHT at 7pm)
casio :: Jun.07.2008 :: 'journalism', india :: No Comments »
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