Held Hostage in Jaipur

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Almost as soon as I stepped out of my hotel in Jaipur, I was pounced upon by a lurking auto rickshaw driver. I forgot his name only seconds after he told it to me, so I'll call him Musa for the purposes of this story. (No doubt he similarly forgot my name, "Brandon" being as unpronounceable to his tongue as his true name was to mine.)

"Rickshaw today, sir?" Musa asked. "All day only 100 rupees." That's about two dollars, and a low price for a day's transport. I was intrigued, but of course, there had to be a catch. Musa elaborated. "I take you Wind Palace, City Palace, Cenotaph, Amber Fort, Water Palace. We stay as long as you like." It was everywhere I had planned to go, plus a few bonus stops. "Then after, we go to factory, where you see textiles, handicrafts. You buy, you not buy, it's okay." And so the catch emerged. I would be up against the hard sell, and essentially at my driver's mercy to return me to my hotel. He would be paid a commission for every purchase I made, or maybe even just for taking me to shop. But I was willing to play his game. It would be a sort of perverse challenge, to match wits with the city's salesmen and escape without serious damage to my budget. I had previously subjected myself to hours of haggling in a Turkish rug shop over a carpet I didn't want, just to see what the experience would be like. Jaipur is reputedly an excellent place for shopping, so why not have another go round with the local merchants? A handshake, and the deal was struck.

I had come to Jaipur not expecting to be overly impressed. It is the bustling capital of the state of Rajasthan, and along with Delhi and Agra, it forms the "golden triangle" of India's three most touristed cities. By the time I arrived in Jaipur, I had come to fear that all Indian cities must stink of urine and sewage. That Jaipur did not prove as septic as Delhi, Jodhpur, and Jaisalmer made me quickly come to like the place. (My standards have apparently fallen quite low.)

Throughout the morning, palaces were visited, entertaining sights happened upon. Snake charmers sat on a sidewalk, piping their reedy tune as cobras rose from baskets. Around a tiny shrine to a monkey-like god, an actual family of monkeys climbed and scavenged for food. Musa waited patiently as I wandered, ready to take me to the next stop at my leisure.

By midday, we were heading north out of town to the Amber Fort. The rickshaw sputtered, died, coasted . . . and stopped. When some tinkering and repeated yanks on the starter handle did nothing to resuscitate the vehicle, it became clear that we had run out of gas. Musa began to puch the vehicle down the road, with me in it.

Although I've probably lost some 10-20 pounds since I've been away, I am still considerably meatier than many Indians, Musa included. I quickly began to feel self-conscious as my driver labored, so I hopped out to lend a hand. Maybe I imagined it, but more than one Indian sitting alongside the road had a chuckle at the white sahib pushing his rickshaw in the heat of the afternoon. But it was no trouble for me to walk for a bit. Plus, this was a golden opportunity to ingratiate myself to Musa, who could perhaps be made into an ally for my battle against the salesmen later that afternoon. At a gas station down the road, I bought Musa a cold drink, thinking again that I might engender some friendliness that would otherwise be lacking from the driver-passenger relationship. But in the back of my mind, really I knew that, lemon soda or not, when my tour was over I would be thrown to the wolves.

The Amber Fort is an imposing structure, set majestically atop a rocky outcrop overlooking a kade and the town of Amber below. Many tourists ride up the hill on elephants. I, however, elected to use my own two legs. As I wandered the courtyard, a devious thought entered my mind: I could spend the whole afternoon here. Shops would close, and Musa would have no choice but to take me straight back to the hotel . . . But no, I couldn't do that to my faithful driver. I'd be a sport, and uphold my end of the bargain. I climbed back down the hill, ready to face the fate I had chosen for myself.

The surest way to escape a shop--where you are seated comfortably on pillows, offered innumerable cups of tea, presented with a selection of goods, and continually sweet talked by a seasoned salesman--is simply to buy something. Anything. I had agreed to Musa's deal with only minor reservations because there were, in fact, a few items I wanted to pick up. At the textile factory showroom, countless varieties of linens and tablecloths were whipped off shelves and spread on the floor in front of me. I explained to the salesman that I had no interest in such things, but he assured me, "Sir, it is my duty to show you, either way." My duty for the rest of the afternoon was to look thoughtfully at things I didn't want to buy, until I could think of something I did want, and with a purchase thus pay the necessary exit fee. I changed the subject from bed sheets to trousers. I selected a fabric, was measured, paid a few dollars, and that night had a custom made pair of pants delivered to my hotel. It was a purchase I had for some time been planning to make, so I didn't mind the required shopping stop at all.

But the ride wasn't over yet. I was taken, in spite of protestations, to a jewelry shop. "You buy, you not buy. It's okay," Musa assured me. Easy for him to say. I was ushered in and seated in front of a glass showcase. Quickly I had to think of something I could ask to be shown, before the salesman decided for me what I would be pressured into buying. Earrings! Jaipur is famous for semi-precious stones. I could find something nice to give to the girlfriend as a Christmas gift. I picked through a pile of earrings, but despite my potential willingness to buy, could find nothing that appealed to me. (Sorry, Megan, but the stuff was junk.) I made up my mind that I would not purchase anything, and waited until the time was right to make a move. When I had seen all the earrings the store had to offer, I felt that my moment was at hand. If I didn't leave now, I would soon be looking at bracelets. Or worse--necklaces! "Nothing really grabs me. I think I'll look somewhere else," I blurted out, and fled before anyone could stop me.

I escaped without the loss of a single rupee. I had won, it seemed, but I was tiring. My defenses were weakening. And the ride wasn't over yet. Musa, thinking maybe I would like to go to a different jewelry shop suggested just that. No, no, no, no, NO! No more jewelry shops! It had taken me almost an hour just to not buy something at the first one. I offered an alternative destination. "Take me to a shoe shop," I said. "I need to buy some sandals."

So I bought some sandals. But really, I think I just added to Musa's predetermined list of stops. The ride wasn't over yet.

"Do we have to go to more shops?" I pleaded.

"Yes," came the unequivocal reply. "You buy, you not buy. It's okay." Two more shops only, he promised me.

The first was an art studio and gallery. I was seated first in the artists' workshop, to watch master (father) and apprentice (son) at work. The father, it seemed, had attained some officially recognized level of competence. He directed my attention to framed photos on the wall of himself, robed in white, being presented with some sort of medallion by Rajasthani government ministers. So he was a genuine art guru, for whatever that's worth. Meanwhile, his son wrote my name in block letters on a grain of rice, using a paintbrush of a single hair. The prelude to the sales pitch was intense. I was at first resolute that wallet would remain firmly in pocket. But I crumbled before the onslaught. I agreed to buy a small painting on a piece of silk of a tiger, camel, elephant, and peacock. With my exit fee paid, I was free to go.

One final stop remained--a carpet store. Triumph! This was a battle I could not lose. All the rug merchants in Istanbul had been unable to sell me a carpet; what chance did India have?

I was greeted at the entrance by my slick-haired foe. "Quickly," I told him. "I don't have much time." He tried to explain to me about the quality of his carpets, but I was faster. "This one is nice," I said, looking at the back side. "It has very tight knots." Seeing one that appeared to change colors when viewed from different angles, I further revealed my knowledge. "And this one here, it's a silk and cotton mix, right?" I was an expert, but to be fair, I did learn something new about carpet making. As I watched one man at the loom, his fingers flying over the strings like a harpist, I noticed that he was working from a pattern. It takes one weaver 2-3 months to produce a single, medium sized carpet. What's more, a given weaver works from the same pattern his entire carpet making lifetime so that he doesn't waste time learning new designs. So a year's output for a single carpet weaver is five or six nearly identical rugs. For hand-made traditional goods, what standardized, mind-numbing monotony.

When it was clear that I would not be sold a carpet, I was taken upstairs and shown another round of textiles. I doubted that I could muster the energy for another no purchase getaway, but couldn't think of anything to buy. And then, in a stroke of genius, I asked for a handkerchief. It was perhaps my most useful purchase of the day given my dwindling stock of tissues, which must be conserved for more important purposes. Because I carry around a stock of kleenex with me at all times, necessity has not yet driven me to try the traditional Asian use of the left hand.

"Again tomorrow?" Musa asked when we got back to the hotel. No, thankyouverymuchgoodbye! The next morning as I was leaving, Musa was again lurking, awaiting his next hostage to be.

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Photos

Snake Charmers
Yes, you really can see this sort of thing in India.

Checking the Time
I'm sitting on top of a 90 foot tall sundial that can calculate local Jaipur time to two seconds of accuracy. The timepiece is part of a huge royal observatory complex. All the instruments are ugly enough to be modern art masterpieces.

Comments

[birdy]

oh my
good on you, i've it all to come in september and am totally rubbish at avoiding the hard sell. I wonder how many rugs i can carry? birdy