Day 10 - Amber Nectar

Wednesday 9 November

I must be reverting to type - my father always had porridge for breakfast too.

The way up to Amber, with Babu and tuk-tuk

We meet up with our tuk-tuk driver from yesterday, but alas, his clutch is still under repair, so we head off with his friend Babu instead. Babu is a good driver, not fast, and says that driving in India is "undisciplined". The word brings back almost fond memories of the notorious 4C about 30 years ago, but they were models of decorum by comparison, even when they locked me in a cupboard. A huge bus steams up towards us on a blind bend and all-but nudges our poor little auto-rickshaw into the gutter; the de facto rule is the bigger the vehicle the higher up the pecking order. So buses and lorries are kings of the road. Pedestrians are, of course, right at the bottom below camel-carts, barrow-boys and bicycles. Crossing the road requires some nerve and swivelling chameleon-eyes to watch what's coming from all sides. Basically, you just step out and let the vehicles swerve round you as best they can. Some tourists are said to take rickshaws just to get from one side of the road to the other.

Today's destination is Amber Fort, the old palace perched on a hill above Jaipur city. This was the Rajastan rulers' residence until Maharajah Jai Singh II opted for the low life and relocated his capital in 1727. If we were true tourists, we would ascend to the ramparts by elephant; but this involves a lot of waiting and a lot of Rupees, so we opt for the walk. Our route crosses the elephant trail about half way up, where we encounter a slow-moving elephantine traffic jam. Needs a zebra crossing, RB remarks.

Amber Palace fort, mostly 17th century as it stands, is an unfurnished shell, but in pretty good nick. It comprises three majestic courtyards (centre one with historic water garden feature) and a real rabbit warren of walkways, dark passages, narrow stairs and interconnecting rooms. Some, like the little floral chamber for ladies in purdah, have beautifully painted plasterwork. I turn a corner and when I look back RB is gone. The best part of an hour later, having explored every nook and cranny and run into the same perplexed broom-walla several times, I spot him by a fountain, nose in book, and we go off together to share some reflections in the hall of mirrors.

We fail to persuade the guard allow us into the island knot garden (similar to aristocratic Engish gardens of the same period) on the way back down, and return to the car park to wake up Babu and get the rickshaw rolling. He is amazed that we have taken so long. "Why so long? What you do?" he asks. He has his own idea of a proper pace, and is determined to get us back to Jaipur asap. We have other plans, and explain very carefully that we wish to visit the temples in Amber town first. Notwithstanding, we find ourselves chuntering downhill, and he tries to fob us off with a small temple ("Sorry sir, is closed") on the way. We insist that he turn back (he's not ungracious and apologises for the "misunderstanding") and we chug back up the hill again to Amber. There are allegedly 365 temples in Amber. Maybe Babu feared we might want to see them all.

In the event we only visit one, Jagat Shiromani Temple (date c.1595), noted for its thousands of exquisitely detailed sculptured figures, original frescoes, and (upstairs) piles of bat droppings which crunch between our toes (we are of course barefoot). The bats hang from the ceiling like clusters of big black dates, then take off and swoop down the stair wells. A priest dressed in sackcloth marks our foreheads with yellow sandalwood paste, but otherwise this feels more like a listed monument (which it is) than a place of worship. 

After this, a wander in the town street. Babu objects: "Why you go here? This not interesting!" he protests. But it is. There's a market for one, and a steady stream of people coming to fill jerrycans from a public water pump. Spotting another temple, I enter a courtyard only to find it's a secondary school. Before long I'm mobbed by kids in blue uniforms, introduced to the "second monitor" (a girl with a white sash), and photographed in the classroom. This is 4C, Indian style. No sign of the teacher. Perhaps he's locked in the cupboard. But there is no cupboard, just a chipped blackboard and not enough desks for them all to sit down.

From the hotel, I make a return to Raisa Plaza to see my man Dev about a 'phone; it is an inconclusive meeting. Dev's mate asks me my age, and before I have a chance to answer "fifty", Dev blurts out loudly "he's sixty-one" (lost a year), at which everyone except me creases up with laughter. Dev then says, "Excuse sir, but what is your salary?" I do a quick mental calculation and give him a more-or-less honest answer based on pre-tax annual income. He converts it into Rupees on his calculator, then "Oh, sir, that is too too much," he says. Only then does it become apparent that he thinks I meant monthly salary, so out comes the calculator again and the sums are divided by 12. No wonder he is surprised I have no i-Phone.

Dinner at the Mediterraneo Pizzeria, on a rooftop next to the hotel. We ask if, by any remote chance they can please get us a beer. Yes, they can. "But sorry sir, we must bring it in teapot." We laugh about this (even the waiter finds it funny), even more so when he brings the two frothing white china tea pots and coffee mugs for us to drink it out of.