Dear Family and Friends,
Jai Ho!
As you would expect, Slum Dog Millionaire has hit India like a tsunami. The signature song by A. R. Rahman can be heard playing everywhere, and around the time of the Oscars, newspapers were full of stories praising Director Danny Boyle and the cast which featured real residents of Mumbai’s slums.
But it hasn’t escaped some criticism. Amitabh Bachchan, one of India’s foremost names in Bollywood, and secure in his billionaire rupee lifestyle, has criticized the movie as ‘poverty porn’, gross and distasteful, like breaking wind at the dining table. He and others of his view acknowledge that yes, poverty and misery do exist in India, but depictions of them in movies intended for foreign audiences are like washing one’s dirty laundry in public. Judging by the immense public fascination for the movie, I do believe Bachchan and company have lost their argument.
So, after six days in Delhi, I caught an overnight train to Jaisalmer in western Rajasthan. India Rail is a great way to travel. I booked my ticket at the special foreign tourist office in the New Delhi Train Station, and hey, because I am over 60 I qualify for the 25% senior’s discount.
India Rail, with 1.6 million employees making it the largest employer in the world, offers eight different classes of seating, but on long hauls generally only 1st class AC, 2AC (two tier berths), 3AC (three tier berths), and Sleeper Class are available. Aside from amenities like a sink, first class can have either two or four bunks to a compartment. The ‘2’ in 2AC refers to the two ‘tiers of bunks’ on each side of a compartment. Similarly, 3AC has three tiers of bunks on each side. In all these classes bedding is provided, sometimes food. Sleeper Class enjoys none of those luxuries and although in theory there are supposed to only be six persons to a compartment (three seats, three bunks each side), one can regularly expect many more than that in your compartment, and not infrequently someone may try to share your berth at night. For that reason, upper berths are much preferred if you are traveling Sleeper Class.
Train stations in India can be chaotic with travelers, people sprawled out sleeping, coolies, vendors, bales on pushcarts, dogs, and yes, cows on the platforms. But they are generally kept much cleaner than the outside (cleaner, not clean) and at major stations there are First Class Waiting Rooms available to tourists regardless of which class they are traveling. And they are always interesting scenes of activity, vendors hawking fruit, peanuts, pakoras, water and all manner of treats. Did I mention cows? There is often a community well on the platform where people gather around bathing and cooling off.
I arrived at the Old Delhi Train Station and made my way to Platform 4, Car B1, and found my name posted on the side of it confirming my Seat 28. I can tell you it is very comforting to find that piece of paper stuck on the outside of your rail car. I was traveling 3AC and after some considerable confusion as to who was also assigned seats in my compartment, I ended up sharing with three American guys and an American woman with her French husband. The companionship was great and the trip for me was easy. As always, my natural talent for sleeping anywhere at anytime stood me in good stead as an elderly woman across the aisle from my compartment suffered from terminal sleep apnea, her noises, sufficient to keep everyone else awake all night, only cause me to roll over.
There are a couple of downsides to traveling India Rail. They don’t have Swiss Rail punctuality and a 6 hour journey will usually be 7½ hours, 12 hours will usually end up as 14 hours. Generally I think it wise to add about 20% to 25% to the scheduled travel times. One also has to share the ride with thousands of cockroaches. These critters are everywhere. They obviously come in on luggage etc. and they skitter around the floors, on the windows, on the bunks. Even being on a top bunk is no protection. All rail cars have a metal tag riveted near their doorways giving the date they came into service, and I noted even recently new cars had these interlopers. Mice are also often seen, and I am pretty sure you would always see one if you went looking. And, of course, the odd rat can make its way on board. I suggest you don’t look.
Jaisalmer, a small city of some 50,000 people, is the most westerly of Indian cities sitting well into the Great Thar Desert which India shares with Pakistan. The city has been called the ‘Golden City’ because of the honey gold colour that it reflects in the rising and setting sun. For centuries it was on the fabled camel train route between India and Central Asia and that strategic position brought it great wealth trading in spices, silver and opium. With the opening of sea trade from cities like Goa, Jaisalmer lost its importance. But with the outbreak of tensions between India and Pakistan, the Indian military now competes for importance with the many tourists who flock here to go on camel safaris. Traditionally dressed locals, the women with huge nose rings, offer all manner of souvenirs to the tourists, antiques, stonework, fabrics, and miniature paintings.
On the way through the desert into Jaisalmer camels are to be seen everywhere, wild ones, and domesticated ones hitched to carts, they shamble along, their loopy heads bobbling, their long necks stretched out as if to break a finish line tape first. Safaris are offered by every hotel and many were offered to me. I declined. I have seen star lit skies and sleeping on a cot out in the sand might have appealed to me many years ago, but not now.
The city is dominated by the Jaisalmer Fort which sit atop the 80m high Trikuta Hill. It was built in 1156 and is a very impressive sight today. About 25% of the population still lives inside the fort’s walls which also houses many restaurants and hotels. I checked into the Paradise Hotel inside the walls surrounding the fort, just off the courtyard of the main gate. The hotel was contained within the fort’s walls itself; and I very much liked my digs, basic but clean, a real friendly staff, and the views from the rooftop restaurant were as good as anywhere in the city.
Inside the fort is a rabbit warren of tiny streets which twist around and across between the outer walls. Many are too narrow to accommodate any kind of vehicle, but cows find them sufficient and there are literally hundreds of them inside the fort. The streets are generally quite clean of litter, but cow pies are everywhere.
In its heyday many successful merchants built magnificent mansions called havelis, some dating back 300 years and I took a walk to view the major ones. They are quite beautiful with their fabulous carved stone latticework windows, called jatris, which can readily be seen through from the inside, but screen views from anyone looking in. An interesting feature of Havelis is the size of their doors; they are quite small, less than five feet high. I was told this served two purposes, it would slow down any intruders, but probably more importantly, it would cause anyone entering to bow their head in apparent deference.
One evening in the courtyard in front of my hotel I was treated to a pre-wedding celebration. The groom was astride a brightly festooned horse (the bride was nowhere to be seen; not invited I guess). A band was playing and everyone was dancing, Bollywood style, arms in the air, hands flapping. It was all quite entertaining.
After two nights in Jaisalmer I settled into seat number 9 on the State bus that was to take me to Jodhupur, one of the other regularly visited Rajisthani fort cities on the tourist trail. Sometimes train service is not available to where I want to go, or the schedule doesn’t suit, or for shorter distances, public buses end up as my travel mode choice whereby I continue to resolutely inflict the discomfort of local travel on myself.
Bus service comes in many forms. Super luxury, air conditioned, modern buses do sometimes glide by, like mirages in the desert or a sailing ship off in the mist. But these buses are never available to independent travelers like me, they are reserved for escorted group tours, so I can only envy. Instead for me the choice is either a private bus company or one of the State bus companies. All these buses are wrecks, but State buses are usually preferred, because I like to think their maintenance records will be better. Probably not, but I like to think that. When you buy a ticket, a seat number is assigned, implying that the tickets sold will equal the number of seats. Not so. Every bus I was on had the aisle jammed with other passengers, and most had riders in the ‘upper class’, that is, on the roof.
Bus schedules are even less reliable than train schedules and the stated four-hour journey to Jodhpur took more than seven hours. Drivers never miss picking up a possible fare, so there are many unscheduled stops. And of course there is the chaotic traffic, poor roads, and cows, those cows with their stupid, bovine, blank eyes with so little sense of self preservation they will not move even with a bus hurtling down on them with a crazed driver leaning on the horn. (In truth, except for the eyes, much the same can be said about the people.) I actually quite like riding buses; you meet lots of people and see things up close when stopping in villages. But sometimes, after a long days ride in a hot cramped bus, I think donating a kidney would be more pleasurable. However bus fares are cheap. An eight hour trip will cost about 140 Rupees ($3.50Cdn.), the same as the large bottle of Kingfisher beer you will desperately need when you arrive.
The people I meet tend to be very friendly and most inquisitive. Many conversations are the same.
“From which country you are living?”
“Canada.”
“Ah, Canada. Canada good country”, as if the person asking had personal knowledge. Then, to show the full extent of their familiarity, they will often add,
“Ottawa capital.”
This exchange is often followed with “I have brother (cousin, uncle, friend) lives in Toronto (Vancouver, Montreal)”.
The women in India are constantly sweeping up garbage into piles with little twig brooms. At one rest stop I watched two women sweeping, sweeping, and sweeping all the garbage beside our bus into little piles. Just as they were about finished, a number of my fellow passengers arrived to re-board. With casual disregard they threw all their litter down where the women had just swept, not even walking 10 feet to drop it onto one of the piles.
In the end we arrived in Jodhpur just as it was getting dark. (And yes, it is after this city that the RCMP puffy-tight riding pants are named.) A fellow traveler had recommended the Ratan Vilas Hotel as a place to stay, and it really was inviting, meticulously kept, and with a nice garden in front. It was converted from a private manor previously occupied (maybe still owned) by a polo playing family – there were pictures and artifacts attesting to their passion throughout the hotel.
When I checked in I was asked, as I often was, “What is your good name sir?”
I did consider giving them my bad name, but thought better of it when all I could think of was “Fightin’ and Trouble”, from the song Sixteen Tons.
On the edge of the stark Thar Desert, Jodhpur with its population of 800,000 is called the Blue City as many houses in the old city are indigo tinged. (It is also called the Sun City as it enjoys sun year round.) This soft blue colouring, and the opportunity to visit Meherangarh, its Majestic Fort, which fully occupies a massive 125m high rock hill, is what draws tourists here. Jodhpur was founded in 1459 but the fort, although started then, was not substantially completed until the late 17th century. It is generally regarded, and doubtless is, the most magnificent fort in all India. Although I only spent one night in Jodhpur, I am very glad I did, and I’m glad that I took the walking tour through Meherangarh to view a truly magical and formidable fort.
From Jodhpur I caught another bus to Udaipur. Out of the desert now, the terrain changed to low hills and winding, sometimes very rough, highway. What with grinding up those hills our 4 ½ hour ride became 7 ½ hours and we arrived in the city quite late. Udaipur has been called the Venice of the East, filled with twisting streets, temples, palaces, and havelis, it is probably most famous for the Lake Palace which fully occupies Jagniwas Island in Lake Pichola and which was the summer palace for the Maharanas (as Maharajas are called here) of Udaipur. The city itself is dominated by the City Palace, the main palace of the Maharanas, and the largest palace complex in all Rajasthan. Although the current Maharana still lives there, most of it is now a museum operated by a Trust, while another portion has been converted to a five star hotel. It is all beautifully preserved and quite breathtaking.
I stayed the first two nights in a nondescript hotel then moved to the Rangniwas Palace Hotel, a converted manor house with a lovely garden, stately palm trees, a lounge with the requisite stuffed tigers, photographs, and old weapons from an earlier era. There was a most welcome, but surprising cold swimming pool. My room was basic but spotless, the bath fixtures Kelly green and a bit creaky. All the staff wears white slacks and jackets and a team of them seem to do nothing but sweep the courtyard all day. It was all just perfect, I thought. When I checked in I was greeted by Mr. Arjun Singh, the owner, eighty years old, ramrod straight, a full head of white hair, perfect English and a welcoming smile. As he showed me around he said a bit jokingly “I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth”. Whatever, he seemed to take genuine interest in looking after me; several times a day he would seek me out and inquire, making sure I was comfortable and happy.
Later I was to learn from him that he had, in fact, been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He was a Maharaj, the brother of the last Maharana; he had been born in the City Palace. He periodically attends functions in the palace as the guest of his nephew the current Maharana. He is in fact royalty, able to trace his roots back over the 1,200 years of the Mewar dynasty, the longest dynasty in the world. As told to me by Mr. Singh, the Rangniwas Palace started out as a reviewing stand for festivals some 150 years ago and was later converted to a manor house. In 1955 his brother the Maharana gifted it to him, and in 1975 he converted it to a hotel expanding on it with a new wing in the style of the original.
Mr. Singh could be seen every morning quietly worshipping at a small temple in his garden. He seems to be quite revered by his staff. Several times I noted they would bend down, straight legged, and touch his shoe on greeting him. Oddly, on one occasion I was talking to a young staff member. When I offered to shake his hand, he became quite flustered and bent over and touched my shoe! He blurted something like, “Oh no, you are friend of Mr. Singh”. I have no idea what to make of it.
I spent six nights in Udaipur and then it was time to move on. I did not check out until 9:00PM so Mr. Singh stayed a bit late and then came to say goodbye, leaving me with a last bit of advice, “Now this is India, you must be careful”. He was the most courteous, gracious man I have met in India, maybe in all my travels.
So, Jai Ho (Victory to Thee) my friends. I hope you are all well.
Merv.
But it hasn’t escaped some criticism. Amitabh Bachchan, one of India’s foremost names in Bollywood, and secure in his billionaire rupee lifestyle, has criticized the movie as ‘poverty porn’, gross and distasteful, like breaking wind at the dining table. He and others of his view acknowledge that yes, poverty and misery do exist in India, but depictions of them in movies intended for foreign audiences are like washing one’s dirty laundry in public. Judging by the immense public fascination for the movie, I do believe Bachchan and company have lost their argument.
So, after six days in Delhi, I caught an overnight train to Jaisalmer in western Rajasthan. India Rail is a great way to travel. I booked my ticket at the special foreign tourist office in the New Delhi Train Station, and hey, because I am over 60 I qualify for the 25% senior’s discount.
India Rail, with 1.6 million employees making it the largest employer in the world, offers eight different classes of seating, but on long hauls generally only 1st class AC, 2AC (two tier berths), 3AC (three tier berths), and Sleeper Class are available. Aside from amenities like a sink, first class can have either two or four bunks to a compartment. The ‘2’ in 2AC refers to the two ‘tiers of bunks’ on each side of a compartment. Similarly, 3AC has three tiers of bunks on each side. In all these classes bedding is provided, sometimes food. Sleeper Class enjoys none of those luxuries and although in theory there are supposed to only be six persons to a compartment (three seats, three bunks each side), one can regularly expect many more than that in your compartment, and not infrequently someone may try to share your berth at night. For that reason, upper berths are much preferred if you are traveling Sleeper Class.
Train stations in India can be chaotic with travelers, people sprawled out sleeping, coolies, vendors, bales on pushcarts, dogs, and yes, cows on the platforms. But they are generally kept much cleaner than the outside (cleaner, not clean) and at major stations there are First Class Waiting Rooms available to tourists regardless of which class they are traveling. And they are always interesting scenes of activity, vendors hawking fruit, peanuts, pakoras, water and all manner of treats. Did I mention cows? There is often a community well on the platform where people gather around bathing and cooling off.
I arrived at the Old Delhi Train Station and made my way to Platform 4, Car B1, and found my name posted on the side of it confirming my Seat 28. I can tell you it is very comforting to find that piece of paper stuck on the outside of your rail car. I was traveling 3AC and after some considerable confusion as to who was also assigned seats in my compartment, I ended up sharing with three American guys and an American woman with her French husband. The companionship was great and the trip for me was easy. As always, my natural talent for sleeping anywhere at anytime stood me in good stead as an elderly woman across the aisle from my compartment suffered from terminal sleep apnea, her noises, sufficient to keep everyone else awake all night, only cause me to roll over.
There are a couple of downsides to traveling India Rail. They don’t have Swiss Rail punctuality and a 6 hour journey will usually be 7½ hours, 12 hours will usually end up as 14 hours. Generally I think it wise to add about 20% to 25% to the scheduled travel times. One also has to share the ride with thousands of cockroaches. These critters are everywhere. They obviously come in on luggage etc. and they skitter around the floors, on the windows, on the bunks. Even being on a top bunk is no protection. All rail cars have a metal tag riveted near their doorways giving the date they came into service, and I noted even recently new cars had these interlopers. Mice are also often seen, and I am pretty sure you would always see one if you went looking. And, of course, the odd rat can make its way on board. I suggest you don’t look.
Jaisalmer, a small city of some 50,000 people, is the most westerly of Indian cities sitting well into the Great Thar Desert which India shares with Pakistan. The city has been called the ‘Golden City’ because of the honey gold colour that it reflects in the rising and setting sun. For centuries it was on the fabled camel train route between India and Central Asia and that strategic position brought it great wealth trading in spices, silver and opium. With the opening of sea trade from cities like Goa, Jaisalmer lost its importance. But with the outbreak of tensions between India and Pakistan, the Indian military now competes for importance with the many tourists who flock here to go on camel safaris. Traditionally dressed locals, the women with huge nose rings, offer all manner of souvenirs to the tourists, antiques, stonework, fabrics, and miniature paintings.
On the way through the desert into Jaisalmer camels are to be seen everywhere, wild ones, and domesticated ones hitched to carts, they shamble along, their loopy heads bobbling, their long necks stretched out as if to break a finish line tape first. Safaris are offered by every hotel and many were offered to me. I declined. I have seen star lit skies and sleeping on a cot out in the sand might have appealed to me many years ago, but not now.
The city is dominated by the Jaisalmer Fort which sit atop the 80m high Trikuta Hill. It was built in 1156 and is a very impressive sight today. About 25% of the population still lives inside the fort’s walls which also houses many restaurants and hotels. I checked into the Paradise Hotel inside the walls surrounding the fort, just off the courtyard of the main gate. The hotel was contained within the fort’s walls itself; and I very much liked my digs, basic but clean, a real friendly staff, and the views from the rooftop restaurant were as good as anywhere in the city.
Inside the fort is a rabbit warren of tiny streets which twist around and across between the outer walls. Many are too narrow to accommodate any kind of vehicle, but cows find them sufficient and there are literally hundreds of them inside the fort. The streets are generally quite clean of litter, but cow pies are everywhere.
In its heyday many successful merchants built magnificent mansions called havelis, some dating back 300 years and I took a walk to view the major ones. They are quite beautiful with their fabulous carved stone latticework windows, called jatris, which can readily be seen through from the inside, but screen views from anyone looking in. An interesting feature of Havelis is the size of their doors; they are quite small, less than five feet high. I was told this served two purposes, it would slow down any intruders, but probably more importantly, it would cause anyone entering to bow their head in apparent deference.
One evening in the courtyard in front of my hotel I was treated to a pre-wedding celebration. The groom was astride a brightly festooned horse (the bride was nowhere to be seen; not invited I guess). A band was playing and everyone was dancing, Bollywood style, arms in the air, hands flapping. It was all quite entertaining.
After two nights in Jaisalmer I settled into seat number 9 on the State bus that was to take me to Jodhupur, one of the other regularly visited Rajisthani fort cities on the tourist trail. Sometimes train service is not available to where I want to go, or the schedule doesn’t suit, or for shorter distances, public buses end up as my travel mode choice whereby I continue to resolutely inflict the discomfort of local travel on myself.
Bus service comes in many forms. Super luxury, air conditioned, modern buses do sometimes glide by, like mirages in the desert or a sailing ship off in the mist. But these buses are never available to independent travelers like me, they are reserved for escorted group tours, so I can only envy. Instead for me the choice is either a private bus company or one of the State bus companies. All these buses are wrecks, but State buses are usually preferred, because I like to think their maintenance records will be better. Probably not, but I like to think that. When you buy a ticket, a seat number is assigned, implying that the tickets sold will equal the number of seats. Not so. Every bus I was on had the aisle jammed with other passengers, and most had riders in the ‘upper class’, that is, on the roof.
Bus schedules are even less reliable than train schedules and the stated four-hour journey to Jodhpur took more than seven hours. Drivers never miss picking up a possible fare, so there are many unscheduled stops. And of course there is the chaotic traffic, poor roads, and cows, those cows with their stupid, bovine, blank eyes with so little sense of self preservation they will not move even with a bus hurtling down on them with a crazed driver leaning on the horn. (In truth, except for the eyes, much the same can be said about the people.) I actually quite like riding buses; you meet lots of people and see things up close when stopping in villages. But sometimes, after a long days ride in a hot cramped bus, I think donating a kidney would be more pleasurable. However bus fares are cheap. An eight hour trip will cost about 140 Rupees ($3.50Cdn.), the same as the large bottle of Kingfisher beer you will desperately need when you arrive.
The people I meet tend to be very friendly and most inquisitive. Many conversations are the same.
“From which country you are living?”
“Canada.”
“Ah, Canada. Canada good country”, as if the person asking had personal knowledge. Then, to show the full extent of their familiarity, they will often add,
“Ottawa capital.”
This exchange is often followed with “I have brother (cousin, uncle, friend) lives in Toronto (Vancouver, Montreal)”.
The women in India are constantly sweeping up garbage into piles with little twig brooms. At one rest stop I watched two women sweeping, sweeping, and sweeping all the garbage beside our bus into little piles. Just as they were about finished, a number of my fellow passengers arrived to re-board. With casual disregard they threw all their litter down where the women had just swept, not even walking 10 feet to drop it onto one of the piles.
In the end we arrived in Jodhpur just as it was getting dark. (And yes, it is after this city that the RCMP puffy-tight riding pants are named.) A fellow traveler had recommended the Ratan Vilas Hotel as a place to stay, and it really was inviting, meticulously kept, and with a nice garden in front. It was converted from a private manor previously occupied (maybe still owned) by a polo playing family – there were pictures and artifacts attesting to their passion throughout the hotel.
When I checked in I was asked, as I often was, “What is your good name sir?”
I did consider giving them my bad name, but thought better of it when all I could think of was “Fightin’ and Trouble”, from the song Sixteen Tons.
On the edge of the stark Thar Desert, Jodhpur with its population of 800,000 is called the Blue City as many houses in the old city are indigo tinged. (It is also called the Sun City as it enjoys sun year round.) This soft blue colouring, and the opportunity to visit Meherangarh, its Majestic Fort, which fully occupies a massive 125m high rock hill, is what draws tourists here. Jodhpur was founded in 1459 but the fort, although started then, was not substantially completed until the late 17th century. It is generally regarded, and doubtless is, the most magnificent fort in all India. Although I only spent one night in Jodhpur, I am very glad I did, and I’m glad that I took the walking tour through Meherangarh to view a truly magical and formidable fort.
From Jodhpur I caught another bus to Udaipur. Out of the desert now, the terrain changed to low hills and winding, sometimes very rough, highway. What with grinding up those hills our 4 ½ hour ride became 7 ½ hours and we arrived in the city quite late. Udaipur has been called the Venice of the East, filled with twisting streets, temples, palaces, and havelis, it is probably most famous for the Lake Palace which fully occupies Jagniwas Island in Lake Pichola and which was the summer palace for the Maharanas (as Maharajas are called here) of Udaipur. The city itself is dominated by the City Palace, the main palace of the Maharanas, and the largest palace complex in all Rajasthan. Although the current Maharana still lives there, most of it is now a museum operated by a Trust, while another portion has been converted to a five star hotel. It is all beautifully preserved and quite breathtaking.
I stayed the first two nights in a nondescript hotel then moved to the Rangniwas Palace Hotel, a converted manor house with a lovely garden, stately palm trees, a lounge with the requisite stuffed tigers, photographs, and old weapons from an earlier era. There was a most welcome, but surprising cold swimming pool. My room was basic but spotless, the bath fixtures Kelly green and a bit creaky. All the staff wears white slacks and jackets and a team of them seem to do nothing but sweep the courtyard all day. It was all just perfect, I thought. When I checked in I was greeted by Mr. Arjun Singh, the owner, eighty years old, ramrod straight, a full head of white hair, perfect English and a welcoming smile. As he showed me around he said a bit jokingly “I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth”. Whatever, he seemed to take genuine interest in looking after me; several times a day he would seek me out and inquire, making sure I was comfortable and happy.
Later I was to learn from him that he had, in fact, been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He was a Maharaj, the brother of the last Maharana; he had been born in the City Palace. He periodically attends functions in the palace as the guest of his nephew the current Maharana. He is in fact royalty, able to trace his roots back over the 1,200 years of the Mewar dynasty, the longest dynasty in the world. As told to me by Mr. Singh, the Rangniwas Palace started out as a reviewing stand for festivals some 150 years ago and was later converted to a manor house. In 1955 his brother the Maharana gifted it to him, and in 1975 he converted it to a hotel expanding on it with a new wing in the style of the original.
Mr. Singh could be seen every morning quietly worshipping at a small temple in his garden. He seems to be quite revered by his staff. Several times I noted they would bend down, straight legged, and touch his shoe on greeting him. Oddly, on one occasion I was talking to a young staff member. When I offered to shake his hand, he became quite flustered and bent over and touched my shoe! He blurted something like, “Oh no, you are friend of Mr. Singh”. I have no idea what to make of it.
I spent six nights in Udaipur and then it was time to move on. I did not check out until 9:00PM so Mr. Singh stayed a bit late and then came to say goodbye, leaving me with a last bit of advice, “Now this is India, you must be careful”. He was the most courteous, gracious man I have met in India, maybe in all my travels.
So, Jai Ho (Victory to Thee) my friends. I hope you are all well.
Merv.
Jaisalmer - the Golden City
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| Haveli Windows |
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| Rooms at Hotel Paradise, Jaisalmer |
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| My Room, Paradise Hotel |
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| View From My Room, Hotel Paradise |
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| Jaisalmer Street Scene |
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| Jaisalmer Street |
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| Haveli Door, Jaisalmer |
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| Jaisalmer Locals |
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| Jaisalmer Ladies |
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| Jaisalmer Fort Main Gate |
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| Jaisalmer Jewellery Vendor |
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| Jaisalmer Haveli |
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| Approaching Jaisalmer Fort |
Jodhpur - the Blue City
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| Garden at Ratan Vilas Hotel, Jodhpur |
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| Meherangarh, Jodhpur |
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| Entrance to Meherangarh, Jodhpur |
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| Jodhpur, the Blue City |
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| Wrapping a Turban, Meherangarh |
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| Just One of the Spectacular Meherangarh Rooms |
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| Main Gate Into Meherangarh |
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| Camel Power |
Udaipur - Venice of the East
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| Lake Palace, Udaipur |
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| Rangniwas Palace Hotel Garden, Udaipur |
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| Mr. Arjun Singh, Rangniwas Palace Hotel |
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| My Basic Room, Rangniwas Palace Hotel, Udaipur |
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| Garden, Rangniwas Palace Hotel |
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| Flower Vendor, Udaipur |
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| Udaipur Sadhu |
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| A Flash of Beauty |
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| Gate Inside City Palace, Udaipur |
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| Waiting for Their Train, Udaipur |
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| Communal Pump at Train Station, Udaipur |
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| Vendors at Train Station |
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