Ellen Besso Coaching

Jaipur, the Pink City, is our introduction to the semi-desert state of Rajasthan. A beautiful, colourful and geographically varied area, it is also one of the poorest, and consequently most backward states in India. Women and children suffer the most from this.

It’s Friday now; since it’s our only full day in Jaipur, we decide to check out the Old Jaipur market downtown and buy some books for the next leg of the trip. Our driver, one of the regulars who hang about outside Madhuban waiting for fares, is an anomaly…a good driver, he’s friendly too. Today I wear a surgical mask, purchased in Paharganj for city travel, it helps with the dust problem.

The driver knows the downtown core and locates the English language bookstore easily. The tiny store has an excellent variety of both fiction and non-fiction reading. After purchasing a couple of books, we begin walking to the main market, forgetting once again the difficulty posed by long walks in the heat and the tumult. Those who can afford transportation for relatively short distances, either by auto rickshaw or in their own vehicle, know what they’re doing, they’re not being lazy.

It takes a while to locate the market entrance and it’s getting warmer by the moment. We’re on the wide, noisy main street of the bazaar whenI realize I’ve forgotten my ear plugs, an aid that can make a significant difference to one’s level of relaxation. We try to purchase some at one of the medical kiosks along the street, but are told no one uses them here. The Jaipur market is enormous and has some interesting stalls, but it seems less organized than others we visit. Some areas are designated for particular products, but for the most part goods are jumbled together, with bicycles and tricycles alongside fabrics and saris. A young man approaches as we inquire about earplugs, asking in perfect English if he can be of help, and we stop and chat with him for a while. He’s a college student, studying Spanish so he can work in his family’s gem company; this industry is big business in Spain and Italy.

As we stand on the street corner, I happen to glance down the lane and notice a number of men urinating against the wall of the building,into a cement trough running alongside and out to the street. I avert my eyes; I can get by without seeing this sight. What is it about all this male public urination? It’s not as if there are no toilets, (though I suppose this is considered a toilet). In her hilarious book, Holy Cow, Sarah MacDonald jokes that many men have weak bladders and urinary problems in India! We bid the student good day and locate a quieter side street, where we explore for a while.

My word for Jaipur is erratic; the city has its own unique brand of chaos; it’s hotter and noisier here than in Paharganj and vehicles go much faster, even in the market. Motorcycles and cars speed by pedestrians as they move into the roadway to avoid broken, garbagestrewn, kiosk-filled sidewalks. By the time my body says “enough” we’re deep in the market, and the temperature is thirty-two degrees. I love to walk, but don’t tolerate the heat and noise well. It’s no fun for Don either when I crash, or declare “I’m not doing this anymore, let’s go back to the hotel”, as happens on rare occasion. At that point he usually comes up with a workable plan.

As we leave the bazaar, I get a flash from the past, suddenly understanding how I walked out of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, Turkey in 1975, hot, hungry, on automatic pilot, and made the mistake of eating chicken from a street rotisserie, making myself extremely ill. After several failed attempts to secure an auto rickshaw, we walk the rest of the way, finally spying the restaurant we want on the far side of the road. All bets are off when crossing busy roads in India; traffic patterns are different from those in the west and rules not enforced. Drivers are not trying to hit you, although it sometimes seems that way. The best plan for reaching the other side without mishap is to cross when the Indians walk, staying as close to them as possible.

By the time we start back to the hotel the traffic is even heavier, and it takes a while to cover the 2.5 kilometre distance. We have an opportunity to people watch as our auto rickshaw crawls slowly along the street. A motorcycle rider makes a phone call at a traffic light, shoving the phone under his helmet, something we never see at home! Two teens, a boy and girl, run along the road, each carrying a crutch that serves as a begging prop, reminding me of our acquaintance in McLeod Ganj with the bandaged, but uninjured hand. There are fewer beggars in Jaipur than we expected in a big city, but the ubiquitous “mothers” with babies are present. We see a few child beggars and I notice an entire family of sidewalk dwellers, with an apparently able bodied man sitting with them. In large cities beggars are usually organized by mafia bosses and must give the greater part of their earnings over to these men. All the NGOs say “Don’t give them anything, it’s a scam, the money donated goes to liquor and drugs for the pimp bosses.” Additionally the beggars are often supported by charities.

Today, when our vehicle stops at a red light, a beggar approaches, appearing suddenly from her position on the centre island of the roadway, holding her “rental baby”. As the woman nears our auto rickshaw, I pull the canvas blind over the open back window, forcing her to remain at the front. This aggressive beggar stands with her hand out, staring at me, for what feels like several long minutes, trying to wear me down. ..